2 


THE  WORKS 

OF 

GABORIAU 


One    Volume    Edition 


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FOUR  COMPLETE  NOVELS 


.  W.   •     ►*'     orr 


WALTER  J.  BLACK,  INC. 
171  Madison  Avenue 


NEW  YORK,  N.  Y. 


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Copyright,   1908, 
Bt  P.  F.  COLLIER  &  SON 


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PRINTED  IN  THE  UNITED  STATES  OF  AMERICA 


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MONSIEUR    LECOQ^ 


PR EF ACE 

rHREE  names  stand  otd  above  all  others  in  the  Held 
of  detective  stories:  Edgar  Allan  Foe,  an  American; 
Cona?i  Doyle,  an  Englishman  who  was  a  close  student 
of  Foe's  tales,  and  Emile  Gaboriau,  a  Frenchman.  The 
names  of  the  detectives  whose  characters  they  created  are 
almost  better  known,  if  anything,  than  the  names  of  the 
writers  themselves,  and  for  the  general  public,  at  the  word 
"detective"  three  figures  appear  before  the  mind's  eye, 
Monsieur  Dupin,  Monsieur  Lecoq,  a?id  Sherlock  Holmes. 
Gaboriau  was  born  at  Saujon,  in  the  Departme?it  of  Charente- 
Inferieure,  November  9,  1835.  To  show  his  chro?w logical 
connection  in  this  famous  trio  of  ?iames  it  will  suffice  to  say 
that  Foe's  "Murders  in  the  Fue  Morgue"  was  first  published 
in  English  in  184-5.  Charles  Baudelaire,  the  French  poet, 
translated  Foe's  tales  into  French  in  1857 ,  at  which  time 
Gaboriau,  a  young  lawyer  s  clerk,  was  thinking  of  becoming 
a  writer.  Later  while  a  member  of  a  cavalry  regiment  he 
made  his  literary  debut  with  two  volumes  of  hiimorous 
observations  in  no  wise  remarkable.  These  were  succeeded 
by  several  novels,  none  of  which  gave  indication  of  the  strong 
dramatic  quality  that  was  afterward  to  make  his  name  so 
well  known  wherever  French  or  English  is  read. 

About  this  time  he  became  a  member  of  the  staff  of  one  of 
the  well-known  Parisian  papers,  Le  Pays,"  and  it  was  in 
this  paper,  in  1866,  that  he  published  " ' L  'Affaire  Lerouge"  as 
a  serial.  Thus  we  see  that  nine  years  after  the  appeararice  of 
a  French  translation  of  Foe's  "Murders  in  the  Rue  Morgue," 
the  first  notable  American  detective  story,  the  first  notable 

\ — Vol.  I— Gab.  I 


2  PREFACE 

detective  story  by  a  Frenchman  was  published  in  Paris.  Seven 
years  before  the  latter  appeared,  Conan  Doyle  was  born,  and 
his  first  conspicuous  achievement  as  a  writer  of  detective 
stories,  "A  Shidy  i?i  Scarlet,"  was  published  in  1887. 

It  has  been  pointed  out  by  more  than  one  writer  that, 
tmdeniably  clever  and  fascinating  as  they  are,  Conan  Doyle 's 
stories  show  rtnmistakable  Poe  influence,  as  though  the  writer 
had  been  a  close  student  of  Poe 's  zvork.  Gaboriau' s  method  of 
work  is  quite  unlike  that  of  either  Poe  or  Doyle.  By  closely 
following  the  exact  form  of  judicial  procedure  i?i  France,  and 
by  making  the  reader  a  sharer,  step  by  step,  in  the  investiga- 
tion of  a  mysterious  cri7ne,  he  succeeded  by  the  very  novelty 
and  relent less?iess  of  the  method  in  considerably  stimulating 
interest  in  a  story  the  details  of  which  were  already  highly 
dramatic. 

"Young  man,''  said  the  late  Mr.  Justice  Willes  to  the  Ho?i. 
A.  E.  Gat  home  Hardy,  '  you  mean  to  practise  at  the  Bar, 
a?id  you  will  find  it  2iseful  to  know  the  French  criminal 
practise;  you  had  better  read  Gaboriau  s  ?wvels,  and  they  will 
give  you  a  thorough  insight  into  it." 


MONSIEUR      LECOQ 


AT  about  eleven  o'clock  in  the  evening  of  the  20th  of  Feb- 
/"A  ruary,  186—,  which  chanced  to  be  Shrove  Sunday,  a 
party  of  detectives  left  the  police  station  near  the  old 
Barriere  d'ltalie  to  the  direct  south  of  Paris.  Their  mission 
was  to  explore  the  district  extending  on  the  one  hand  between 
the  highroad  to  Fontainebleau  and  the  Seine,  and  on  the  other 
between  the  outer  boulevards  and  the  fortifications. 

This  quarter  of  the  city  had  at  that  time  anything  but  an  en- 
viable reputation.  To  venture  there  at  night  was  considered 
so  dangerous  that  the  soldiers  from  the  outlying  forts  who 
came  in  to  Paris  with  permission  to  go  to  the  theatre,  were 
ordered  to  halt  at  the  barriere,  and  not  to  pass  through  the 
perilous  district  excepting  in  parties  of  three  or  four. 

After  midnight,  these  gloomy,  narrow  streets  became  the 
haunt  of  numerous  homeless  vagabonds,  and  escaped  criminals 
and  malefactors,  moreover,  made  the  quarter  their  rendezvous. 
If  the  day  had  been  a  lucky  one,  they  made  merry  over  their 
spoils,  and  when  sleep  overtook  them,  hid  in  doorways  or 
among  the  rubbish  in  deserted  houses.  Every  effort  had  been 
made  to  dislodge  these  dangerous  guests,  but  the  most  ener- 
getic measures  had  failed  to  prove  successful.  Watched, 
hunted,  and  in  imminent  danger  of  arrest  though  they  were, 
they  always  returned  with  idiotic  obstinacy,  obeying,  as  one 
might  suppose,  some  mysterious  law  of  attraction.  Hence,  the 
district  was  for  the  police  an  immense  trap,  constantly  baited, 
and  to  which  the  game  came  of  their  own  accord  to  be  caught 

The  result  of  a  tour  of  inspection  of  this  locality  was  so 
certain,  that  the  officer  in  charge  of  the  police  post  called  to 
the  squad  as  they  departed:  "I  will  prepare  lodgings  for  our 
guests.    Good  luck  to  you  and  much  pleasure  I" 

This  last  wish  was  pure  irony,  for  the  weather  was  the  most 
disagreeable  that  could  be  imagined.  A  very  heavy  snow  storm 
had  prevailed  for  several  days.    It  was  now  beginning  to  thaw, 

3 


4  MONSIEUR   LECOQ 

and  on  all  the  frequented  thoroughfares  the  slush  was  ankle- 
deep.  It  was  still  cold,  however;  a  damp  chill  filled  the  air, 
and  penetrated  to  the  very  marrow  of  one's  bones.  Besides, 
there  was  a  dense  fog,  so  dense  that  one  could  not  see  one's 
hands  before  one's  face. 

"What  a  beastly  job !"  growled  one  of  the  agents. 

"Yes,"  replied  the  inspector  who  commanded  the  squad ;  "if 
you  had  an  income  of  thirty  thousand  francs,  I  don't  suppose 
you'd  be  here."  The  laugh  that  greeted  this  common-place  joke 
was  not  so  much  flattery  as  homage  to  a  recognized  and  estab- 
lished superiority. 

The  inspector  was,  in  fact,  one  of  the  most  esteemed  members 
of  the  force,  a  man  who  had  proved  his  worth.  His  powers  of 
penetration  were  not,  perhaps,  very  great;  but  he  thoroughly 
understood  his  profession,  its  resources,  its  labyrinths,  and  its 
artifices.  Long  practise  had  given  him  imperturbable  cool- 
ness, a  great  confidence  in  himself,  and  a  sort  of  coarse  diplo- 
macy that  supplied  the  place  of  shrewdness.  To  his  failings 
and  his  virtues  he  added  incontestable  courage,  and  he  would 
lay  his  hand  upon  the  collar  of  the  most  dangerous  criminal 
as  tranquilly  as  a  devotee  dips  his  fingers  in  a  basin  of  holy 
water. 

He  was  a  man  about  forty-six  years  of  age,  strongly  built, 
with  rugged  features,  a  heavy  mustache,  and  rather  small,  gray 
eyes,  hidden  by  bushy  eyebrows.  His  name  was  Gevrol,  but  he 
was  universally  known  as  "the  General."  This  sobriquet  was 
pleasing  to  his  vanity,  which  was  not  slight,  as  his  subordinates 
well  knew ;  and,  doubtless,  he  felt  that  he  ought  to  receive  from 
them  the  same  consideration  as  was  due  to  a  person  of  that  ex- 
alted rank. 

"If  you  begin  to  complain  already,"  he  added,  gruffly,  what 
will  you  do  by  and  by?" 

In  fact,  it  was  too  soon  to  complain.  The  little  party  were 
then  passing  along  the  Rue  de  Choisy.  The  people  on  the 
footways  were  orderly ;  and  the  lights  of  the  wine-shops  illu- 
minated the  street.  All  these  places  were  open.  There  is 
no  fog  or  thaw  that  is  potent  enough  to  dismay  lovers  of 
pleasure.  And  a  boisterous  crowd  of  maskers  filled  each 
tavern,  and  public  ballroom.  Through  the  open  windows  came 
alternately  the  sounds  of  loud  voices  and  bursts  of  noisy  music. 
Occasionally,  a  drunken  man  staggered  along  the  pavement,  or 
a  masked  figure  crept  by  in  the  shadow  cast  by  the  houses. 


MONSIEUR    LECOQ  5 

Before  certain  establishments  Gevrol  commanded  a  halt.  He 
gave  a  peculiar  whistle,  and  almost  immediately  a  man  came 
out.  This  was  another  member  of  the  force.  His  report  was 
listened  to.  and  then  the  squad  passed  on. 

"To  the  left,  boys !"  ordered  Gevrol ;  "we  will  take  the  Rue 
d'lvry,  and  then  cut  through  the  shortest  way  to  the  Rue  de 
Chevaleret." 

From  this  point  the  expedition  became  really  disagreeable. 
The  way  led  through  an  unfinished,  unnamed  street,  full  of 
puddles  and  deep  holes,  and  obstructed  with  all  sorts  of  rubbish. 
There  were  no  longer  any  lights  or  crowded  wine-shops.  No 
footsteps,  no  voices  were  heard;  solitude,  gloom,  and  an  almost 
perfect  silence  prevailed ;  and  one  might  have  supposed  one- 
self a  hundred  leagues  from  Paris,  had  it  not  been  for  the  deep 
and  continuous  murmur  that  always  arises  from  a  large  city, 
resembling  the  hollow  roar  of  a  torrent  in  some  cavern  depth. 

All  the  men  had  turned  up  their  trousers  and  were  advancing 
slowly,  picking  their  way  as  carefully  as  an  Indian  when  he  is 
stealing  upon  his  prey.  They  had  just  passed  the  Rue  du 
Chateau-des-Rentiers  when  suddenly  a  wild  shriek  rent  the  air. 
At  this  place,  and  at  this  hour,  such  a  cry  was  so  frightfully 
significant,  that  all  the  men  paused  as  if  by  common  impulse. 

"Did  you  hear  that,  General?"  asked  one  of  the  detectives, 
in  a  low  voice. 

"Yes,  there  is  murder  going  on  not  far  from  here — but 
where?    Silence!  let  us  listen." 

They  all  stood  motionless,  holding  their  breath,  and  anxiously 
listening.    Soon  a  second  cry,  or  rather  a  wild  howl,  resounded. 

"Ah !"  exclaimed  the  inspector,  "it  is  at  the  Poivriere." 

This  peculiar  appellation  "Poivriere"  or  "pepper-box"  was 
derived  from  the  term  "peppered"  which  in  French  slang  is 
applied  to  a  man  who  has  left  his  good  sense  at  the  bottom  of 
his  glass.  Hence,  also,  the  sobriquet  of  "pepper  thieves"  given 
to  the  rascals  whose  specialty  it  is  to  plunder  helpless,  inoffen- 
sive drunkards. 

"What!"  added  Gevrol  to  his  companions,  "don't  you  know 
Mother  Chupin's  drinking-shop  there  on  the  right.    Run." 

And,  setting  the  example,  he  dashed  off  in  the  direction  in- 
dicated. His  men  followed,  and  in  less  than  a  minute  they 
reached  a  hovel  of  sinister  aspect,  standing  alone,  in  a  tract  of 
waste  ground.  It  was  indeed  from  this  den  that  the  cries  had 
proceeded.     They  were  now  repeated,   and  were   immediately 


6  MONSIEUR    LECOQ 

followed  by  two  pistol  shots.  The  house  was  hermetically 
closed,  but  through  the  cracks  in  the  window-shutters,  gleamed 
a  reddish  light  like  that  of  a  fire.  One  of  the  police  agents 
darted  to  one  of  these  windows,  and  raising  himself  up  by 
clinging  to  the  shutters  with  his  hands,  endeavored  to  peer 
through  the  cracks,  and  to  see  what  was  passing  within. 

Gevrol  himself  ran  to  the  door.  "Open!"  he  commanded, 
striking  it  heavily.  No  response  came.  But  they  could  hear 
plainly  enough  the  sound  of  a  terrible  struggle — of  fierce  im- 
precations, hollow  groans,  and  occasionally  the  sobs  of  a 
woman. 

"Horrible !"  cried  the  police  agent,  who  was  peering  through 
the  shutters;  "it  is  horrible!" 

This  exclamation  decided  Gevrol.  "Open,  in  the  name  of 
the  law !"  he  cried  a  third  time. 

And  no  one  responding,  with  a  blow  of  the  shoulder  that  was 
as  violent  as  a  blow  from  a  battering-ram,  he  dashed  open  the 
door.  Then  the  horror-stricken  accent  of  the  man  who  had 
been  peering  through  the  shutters  was  explained.  The  room 
presented  such  a  spectacle  that  all  the  agents,  and  even  Gevrol 
himself,  remained  for  a  moment  rooted  to  the  threshold,  shud- 
dering with  unspeakable  horror. 

Everything  denoted  that  the  house  had  been  the  scene  of  a 
terrible  struggle,  of  one  of  those  savage  conflicts  which  only 
too  often  stain  the  barriere  drinking  dens  with  blood.  The 
lights  had  been  extinguished  at  the  beginning  of  the  strife,  but 
a  blazing  fire  of  pine  logs  illuminated  even  the  furthest  corners 
of  the  room.  Tables,  glasses,  decanters,  household  utensils, 
and  stools  had  been  overturned,  thrown  in  every  direction, 
trodden  upon,  shivered  into  fragments.  Near  the  fireplace 
two  men  lay  stretched  upon  the  floor.  They  were  lying  motion- 
less upon  their  backs,  with  their  arms  crossed.  A  third  was 
extended  in  the  middle  of  the  room.  A  woman  crouched  upon 
the  lower  steps  of  a  staircase  leading  to  the  floor  above.  She 
had  thrown  her  apron  over  her  head,  and  was  uttering  inarticu- 
late moans.  Finally,  facing  the  police,  and  with  his  back 
turned  to  an  open  door  leading  into  an  adjoining  room,  stood 
a  young  man,  in  front  of  whom  a  heavy  oaken  table  formed, 
as  it  were,  a  rampart. 

He  was  of  medium  stature,  and  wore  a  full  beard.  His 
clothes,  not  unlike  those  of  a  railway  porter,  were  torn  to  frag- 
ments, and  soiled  with  dust  and  wine  and  blood.    This  certainly 


MONSIEUR    LECOQ  7 

was  the  murderer.  The  expression  on  his  face  was  terrible.  A 
mad  fury  blazed  in  his  eyes,  and  a  convulsive  sneer  distorted  his 
features.  On  his  neck  and  cheek  were  two  wounds  which  bled 
profusely.  In  his  right  hand,  covered  with  a  handkerchief,  he 
held  a  pistol,  which  he  aimed  at  the  intruders. 

"Surrender !"  cried  Gevrol. 

The  man's  lips  moved,  but  in  spite  of  a  visible  effort  he 
could   not  articulate  a  syllable. 

"Don't  do  any  mischief,"  continued  the  inspector,  "we  are 
in  force,  you  can  not  escape ;  so  lay  down  your  arms." 

"I  am  innocent,"  exclaimed  the  man,  in  a  hoarse,  strained 
voice. 

"Naturally,  but  we  do  not  see  it." 

"I  have  been  attacked ;  ask  that  old  woman.  I  defended 
myself;  I  have  killed — I  had  a  right  to  do  so;  it  was  in  self- 
defense  !" 

The  gesture  with  which  he  enforced  these  words  was  so 
menacing  that  one  of  the  agents  drew  Gevrol  violently  aside, 
saying,  as  he  did  so;  "Take  care,  General,  take  care!  The  re- 
volver has  five  barrels,  and  we  have  heard  but  two  shots." 

But  the  inspector  was  inaccessible  to  fear;  he  freed  himself 
from  the  grasp  of  his  subordinate  and  again  stepped  forward, 
speaking  in  a  still  calmer  tone.  "No  foolishness,  my  lad;  if 
your  case  is  a  good  one,  which  is  possible,  after  all,  don't 
spoil  it." 

A  frightful  indecision  betrayed  itself  on  the  young  man's 
features.  He  held  Gevrol's  life  at  the  end  of  his  finger,  was 
he  about  to  press  the  trigger?  No,  he  suddenly  threw  his 
weapon  to  the  floor,  exclaiming:  "Come  and  take  me!"  And 
turning  as  he  spoke  he  darted  into  the  adjoining  room,  hop- 
ing doubtless  to  escape  by  some  means  of  egress  which  he 
knew  of. 

Gevrol  had  expected  this  movement.  He  sprang  after  him 
with  outstretched  arms,  but  the  table  retarded  his  pursuit. 
"Ah !"  he  exclaimed,  "the  wretch  escapes  us !" 

But  the  fate  of  the  fugitive  was  already  decided.  While 
Gevrol  parleyed,  one  of  the  agents — he  who  had  peered  through 
the  shutters — had  gone  to  the  rear  of  the  house  and  effected  an 
entrance  through  the  back  door.  As  the  murderer  darted  out, 
this  man  sprang  upon  him,  seized  him,  and  with  surprising 
strength  and  agility  dragged  him  back.  The  murderer  tried 
to  resist ;  but  in  vain.     He  had  lost  his  strength :  he  tottered 


8  MONSIEUR   LECOQ 

and  fell  upon  the  table  that  had  momentarily  protected  him, 
murmuring  loud  enough  for  every  one  to  hear:  "Lost!  It  is 
the  Prussians  who  are  coming!" 

This  simple  and  decisive  maneuvre  on  the  part  of  the  sub- 
ordinate had  won  the  victory,  and  at  first  it  greatly  delighted 
the  inspector.  "Good,  my  boy,"  said  he,  "very  good !  Ah ! 
you  have  a  talent  for  your  business,  and  you  will  do  well  if 
ever  an  opportunity — " 

But  he  checked  himself;  all  his  followers  so  evidently  shared 
his  enthusiasm  that  a  feeling  of  jealousy  overcame  him.  He 
felt  his  prestige  diminishing,  and  hastened  to  add:  "The  idea 
had  occurred  to  me;  but  I  could  not  give  the  order  without 
warning  the  scoundrel  himself." 

This  remark  was  superfluous.  All  the  police  agents  had  now 
gathered  around  the  murderer.  They  began  by  binding  his  feet 
and  hands,  and  then  fastened  him  securely  to  a  chair.  He 
offered  no  resistance.  His  wild  excitement  had  given  place 
to  that  gloomy  prostration  that  follows  all  unnatural  efforts, 
either  of  mind  or  body.  Evidently  he  had  abandoned  himself 
to   his   fate. 

When  Gevrol  saw  that  the  men  had  finished  their  task,  he 
called  on  them  to  attend  to  the  other  inmates  of  the  den,  and 
in  addition  ordered  the  lamps  to  be  lit  for  the  fire  was  going 
out.  The  inspector  began  his  examination  with  the  two  men 
lying  near  the  fireplace.  He  laid  his  hand  on  their  hearts,  but 
no  pulsations  were  to  be  detected.  He  then  held  the  face  of  his 
watch  close  to  their  lips,  but  the  glass  remained  quite  clear. 
"Useless,"  he  murmured,  after  several  trials,  "useless;  they  are 
dead  !  They  will  never  see  morning  again.  Leave  them  in  the 
same  position  until  the  arrival  of  the  public  prosecutor,  and 
let  us  look  at  the  other  one." 

The  third  man  still  breathed.  He  was  a  young  fellow,  wear- 
ing the  uniform  of  a  common  soldier  of  the  line.  He  was 
unarmed,  and  his  large  bluish  gray  cloak  was  partly  open, 
revealing  his  bare  chest.  The  agents  lifted  him  very  carefully — 
for  he  groaned  piteously  at  the  slightest  movement — and  placed 
him  in  an  upright  position,  with  his  back  leaning  against  the 
wall.  He  soon  opened  his  eyes,  and  in  a  faint  voice  asked  for 
something  to  drink.  They  brought  him  a  glass  of  water,  which 
he  drank  with  evident  satisfaction.  lie  then  drew  a  long  breath, 
and  seemed  to  regain  some  little  strength. 

"Where  are  you  wounded?"  asked  Gevrol. 


MONSIEUR   LECOQ  9 

"In  the  head,  there,"  he  responded,  trying  to  raise  one  of 
his  arms.     "Oh !  how  I  suffer." 

The  police  agent,  who  had  cut  off  the  murderer's  retreat 
now  approached,  and  with  a  dexterity  that  an  old  surgeon 
might  have  envied,  made  an  examination  of  the  gaping  wound 
which  the  young  man  had  received  in  the  back  of  the  neck. 
"It  is  nothing,"  declared  the  police  agent,  but  as  he  spoke  there 
was  no  mistaking  the  movement  of  his  lower  lip.  It  was  evident 
that  he  considered  the  wound  very  dangerous,  probably  mortal. 

"It  will  be  nothing,"  affirmed  Gevrol  in  his  turn;  "wounds 
in  the  head,  when  they  do  not  kill  at  once,  are  cured  in  a  month." 

The  wounded  man  smiled  sadly.  "I  have  received  my  death 
blow,"  he  murmured. 

"Nonsense !" 

"Oh !  it  is  useless  to  say  anything ;  I  feel  it,  but  I  do  not 
complain.     I  have  only  received  my  just  deserts." 

All  the  police  agents  turned  toward  the  murderer  on  hearing 
these  words,  presuming  that  he  would  take  advantage  of  this 
opportunity  to  repeat  his  protestations  of  innocence.  But  their 
expectations  were  disappointed ;  he  did  not  speak,  although  he 
must  certainly  have  heard  the  words.  • 

"It  was  that  brigand,  Lacheneur,  who  enticed  me  here," 
continued  the  wounded  man,  in  a  voice  that  was  growing  fainter. 

"Lacheneur?" 

"Yes,  Jean  Lacheneur,  a  former  actor,  who  knew  me  when 
I  was  rich — for  I  had  a  fortune,  but  I  spent  it  all ;  I  wished  to 
amuse  myself.  He,  knowing  I  was  without  a  single  sou  in  the 
world,  came  and  promised  me  money  enough  to  begin  life  over 
again.  Fool  that  I  was  to  believe  him,  for  he  brought  me  to 
die  here  like  a  dog!  Oh!  I  will  have  my  revenge  on  him!" 
At  this  thought  the  wounded  man  clenched  his  hands  threaten- 
ingly. "I  will  have  my  revenge,"  he  resumed.  "I  know  much 
more  than  he  believes.     I  will  reveal  everything." 

But  he  had  presumed  too  much  upon  his  strength.  Anger 
had  given  him  a  moment's  energy,  but  at  the  cost  of  his  life 
which  was  ebbing  away.  When  he  again  tried  to  speak,  he 
could  not.  Twice  did  he  open  his  lips,  but  only  a  choking  cry 
of  impotent  rage  escaped  them.  This  was  his  last  manifesta- 
tion of  intelligence.  A  bloody  foam  gathered  upon  his  lips,  his 
eyes  rolled  back  in  their  sockets,  his  body  stiffened,  and  he 
fell  face  downward  in  a  terrible  convulsion. 

"It  is  over,"  murmured  Gevrol, 


10  MONSIEUR   LECOQ 

"Not  yet,"  replied  the  young  police  agent,  who  had  shown 
himself  so  proficient ;  "but  he  can  not  live  more  than  two 
minutes.     Poor  devil !  he  will  say  nothing." 

The  inspector  of  police  had  risen  from  the  floor  as  if  he  had 
just  witnessed  the  commonest  incident  in  the  world,  and  was 
carefully  dusting  the  knees  of  his  trousers.  "Oh,  well,"  he 
responded,  "we  shall  know  all  we  need  to  know.  This  fellow 
is  a  soldier,  and  the  number  of  his  regiment  will  be  given  on  the 
buttons  of  his  cloak." 

A  slight  smile  curved  the  lips  of  the  subordinate.  "I  think 
you  are  mistaken,  General,"  said  he. 

"How—" 

"Yes,  I  understand.  Seeing  him  attired  in  a  military  coat, 
you  supposed — But  no ;  this  poor  wretch  was  no  soldier.  Do 
you  wish  for  an  immediate  proof?  Is  his  hair  the  regulation 
cut?  Where  did  you  ever  see  soldiers  with  their  hair  falling 
over  their  shoulders?" 

This  objection  silenced  the  General  for  a  moment;  but  he 
replied  bruskly:  "Do  you  think  that  I  keep  my  eyes  in  my 
pocket  ?  What  you  have  remarked  did  not  escape  my  notice ; 
only  I  said  to  myself,  here  is  a  young  man  who  has  profited  by 
leave  of  absence  to  visit  the  wig  maker." 

"At  least—" 

But  Gevrol  would  permit  no  more  interruptions.  "Enough 
talk,"  he  declared.  "We  will  now  hear  what  has  happened. 
Mother  Chupin,  the  old  hussy,  is  not  dead !" 

As  he  spoke,  he  advanced  toward  the  old  woman,  who  was 
still  crouching  upon  the  stairs.  She  had  not  moved  nor  ven- 
tured so  much  as  a  look  since  the  entrance  of  the  police,  but  her 
moans  had  not  been  discontinued.  With  a  sudden  movement, 
Gevrol  tore  off  the  apron  which  she  had  thrown  over  her  head, 
and  there  she  stood,  such  as  years,  vice,  poverty,  and  drink  had 
made  her;  wrinkled,  shriveled,  toothless,  and  haggard,  her  skin 
as  yellow  and  as  dry  as  parchment  and  drawn  tightly  over  her 
bones. 

"Come,  stand  up!"  ordered  the  inspector.  "Your  lamenta- 
tions don't  affect  me.  You  ought  to  be  sent  to  prison  for  putting 
such  vile  drugs  into  your  liquors  thus  breeding  madness  in  the 
brains  of  your  customers." 

The  old  woman's  little  red  eyes  traveled  slowly  round  the 
room,  and  then  in  tearful  tones  she  exclaimed:  "What  a  mis- 
fortune !  what  will  become  of  me  ?    Everything  is  broken — I  am 


MONSIEUR    LECOQ  11 

ruined !"  She  only  seemed  impressed  by  the  loss  of  her  table 
utensils. 

"Now  tell  us  how  this  trouble  began,"  said  Gevrol. 

"Alas !  I  know  nothing  about  it.  I  was  upstairs  mending 
my  son's  clothes,  when  I  heard  a  dispute." 

"And  after  that?" 

"Of  course  I  came  down,  and  I  saw  those  three  men  that 
are  lying  there  picking  a  quarrel  with  the  young  man  you  have 
arrested:  the  poor  innocent!  For  he  is  innocent,  as  truly  as 
I  am  an  honest  woman.  If  my  son  Polyte  had  been  here  he 
would  have  separated  them ;  but  I.  a  poor  widow,  what  could  1 
do!     I  cried  'Police!'  with  all  my  might." 

After  giving  this  testimony  she  resumed  her  seat,  thinking 
she  had  said  enough.  But  Gevrol  rudely  ordered  her  to  stand 
up  again.  "Oh  !  we  have  not  done,"  said  he.  "I  wish  for  other 
particulars." 

"What  particulars,  dear  Monsieur  Gevrol.  since  I  saw- 
nothing  ?" 

Anger  crimsoned  the  inspector's  ears.  "What  would  you 
say,  old  woman,  if  I  arrested  you?" 

"It  would  be  a  great  piece  of  injustice." 

"Nevertheless,  it  is  what  will  happen  if  you  persist  in  re- 
maining silent.  I  have  an  idea  that  a  fortnight  in  Saint  Lazare 
would  untie  your  tongue." 

These  words  produced  the  effect  of  an  electric  shock  on  the 
Widow  Chupin.  She  suddenly  ceased  her  hypocritical  lamenta- 
tions, rose,  placed  her  hands  defiantly  on  her  hips,  and  poured 
forth  a  torrent  of  invective  upon  Gevrol  and  his  agents,  accusing 
them  of  persecuting  her  family  ever  since  they  had  previously 
arrested  her  son.  a  good-for-nothing  fellow.  Finally,  she  swore 
that  she  was  not  afraid  of  prison,  and  would  be  only  too  glad 
to  end  her  days  in  jail  beyond  the  reach  of  want. 

At  first  the  General  tried  to  impose  silence  upon  the  terrible 
termagant :  but  he  soon  discovered  that  he  was  powerless : 
besides,  all  his  subordinates  were  laughing.  Accordingly  he 
turned  his  back  upon  her,  and,  advancing  toward  the  murderer, 
he  said :  "You.  at  least,  will  not  refuse  an  explanation." 

The  man  hesitated  for  a  moment.  "I  have  already  said  all 
that  I  have  to  say,"  he  replied,  at  last.  "I  have  told  you  that 
I  am  innocent ;  and  this  woman  and  a  man  on  the  point  of 
death  who  was  struck  down  by  my  hand,  have  both  confirmed 
my  declaration.     What  more  do  you  desire?    When  the  judge 


12  MONSIEUR   LECOQ 

questions  me,  I  will,  perhaps,  reply;  until  then  do  not  expect 
another  word  from  me." 

It  was  easy  to  see  that  the  fellow's  resolution  was  irrevocable ; 
and  that  he  was  not  to  be  daunted  by  any  inspector  of  police. 
Criminals  frequently  preserve  an  absolute  silence,  from  the 
very  moment  they  are  captured.  These  men  are  experienced 
and  shrewd,  and  lawyers  and  judges  pass  many  sleepless 
nights  on  their  account.  They  have  learned  that  a  system  of 
defense  can  not  be  improvised  at  once ;  that  it  is,  on  the  con- 
trary, a  work  of  patience  and  meditation ;  and  knowing  what 
a  terrible  effect  an  apparently  insignificant  response  drawn  from 
them  at  the  moment  of  detection  may  produce  on  a  court  of 
justice,  they  remain  obstinately  silent.  So  as  to  see  whether 
the  present  culprit  wa°  an  old  hand  or  not,  Gevrol  was  about 
to  insist  on  a  full  explanation  when  some  one  announced  that 
the  soldier  had  just  breathed  his  last. 

"As  that  is  so,  my  boys,"  the  inspector  remarked,  "two  of 
you  will  remain  here,  and  I  will  leave  with  the  others.  I 
shall  go  and  arouse  the  commissary  of  police,  and  inform  him 
of  the  affair ;  he  will  take  the  matter  in  hand :  and  we  can 
then  do  whatever  he  commands.  My  responsibility  will  be 
over,  in  any  case.  So  untie  our  prisoner's  legs  and  bind  Mother 
Chupin's  hands,  and  we  will  drop  them  both  at  the  station- 
house  as  we  pass." 

The  men  hastened  to  obey,  with  the  exception  of  the  youngest 
among  them,  the  same  who  had  won  the  General's  passing  praise. 
He  approached  his  chief,  and  motioning  that  he  desired  to  speak 
with  him,  drew  him  outside  the  door.  When  they  were  a  few 
steps  from  the  house,  Gevrol  asked  him  what  he  wanted. 

"I  wish  to  know,  General,  what  you  think  of  this  affair." 

"I  think,  my  boy,  that  four  scoundrels  encountered  each 
other  in  this  vile  den.  They  began  to  quarrel ;  and  from  words 
they  came  to  blows.  One  of  them  had  a  revolver,  and  he  killed 
the  others.  It  is  as  clear  as  daylight.  According  to  his  ante- 
cedents, and  according  to  the  antecedents  of  the  victims,  the 
assassin  will  be  judged.  Perhaps  society  owes  him  some 
thanks." 

"And  you  think  that  any  investigation — any  further  search  is 
unnecessary." 

"Entirely  unnecessary." 

The  younger  man  appeared  to  deliberate  for  a  moment.  "It 
seems  to  me,  General,"  he  at  length  replied,  "that  this  affair 


MONSIEUR   LECOQ 


18 


is  not  perfectly  clear.  Have  you  noticed  the  murderer,  re- 
marked his  demeanor,  and  observed  his  look  ?  Have  you  been 
surprised  as  I  have  been — ?" 

"By  what?" 

"Ah,  well !  it  seems  to  me — I  may,  of  course,  be  mistaken — i 
but  I  fancy  that  appearances  are  deceitful,  and —  Yes,  I  sus- 
pect something." 

"Bah  ! — explain  yourself,  please." 

"How  can  you  explain  the  dog's  faculty  of  scent?" 

Gevrol  shrugged  his  shoulders.  "In  short,  he  replied,  "you 
scent  a  melodrama  here — a  rendezvous  of  gentlemen  in  disguise, 
here  at  the  Poivriere,  at  Mother  Chupin's  house.  Well,  hunt 
after  the  mystery,  my  boy;  search  all  you  like,  you  have  my 
permission." 

"What!  you  will  allow  me?" 

"I  not  only  allow  you,  I  order  you  to  do  it.  You  are  going 
to  remain  here  with  any  one  of  your  comrades  you  may  select. 
And  if  you  find  anything  that  I  have  not  seen,  I  will  allow  you 
to  buy  me  a  pair  of  spectacles." 


'T'HE  young  police  agent  to  whom  Gevrol  abandoned  what  he 
*■  thought  an  unnecessary  investigation  was  a  debutant  in  his 
profession.  His  name  was  Lecoq.  He  was  some  twenty-five 
or  twenty-six  years  of  age,  almost  beardless,  very  pale,  with 
red  lips,  and  an  abundance  of  wavy  black  hair.  He  was  rather 
short  but  well  proportioned;  and  each  of  his  movements  be- 
trayed unusual  energy.  There  was  nothing  remarkable  about 
his  appearance,  if  we  except  his  eyes,  which  sparkled  brilliantly 
or  grew  extremely  dull,  according  to  his  mood;  and  his  nose, 
the  large  full  nostrils  of  which  had  a  surprising  mobility. 

The  son  of  a  respectable,  well-to-do  Norman  family,  Lecoq 
had  received  a  good  and  solid  education.  He  was  prosecuting 
his  law  studies  in  Paris,  when  in  the  same  week,  blow  following 
blow,  he  learned  that  his  father  had  died,  financially  ruined, 
and  that  his  mother  had  survived  him  only  a  few  hours.     He 


x4  MONSIEUR    LECOQ 

was  left  alone  in  the  world,  destitute  of  resources,  obliged  to 
earn  his  living.  But  how?  He  had  an  opportunity  of  learning 
his  true  value,  and  found  that  it  amounted  to  nothing;  for  the 
university,  on  bestowing  its  diploma  of  bachelor,  does  not  give 
an  annuity  with  it.  Hence  of  what  use  is  a  college  education 
to  a  poor  orphan  boy?  He  envied  the  lot  of  those  who,  with  a 
trade  at  the  ends  of  their  fingers,  could  boldly  enter  the  office 
of  any  manufacturer,  and  say:  "I  would  like  to  work."  Such 
men  were  working  and  eating.  Lecoq  sought  bread  by  all 
the  methods  employed  by  people  who  are  in  reduced  circum- 
stances !  Fruitless  labor !  There  are  a  hundred  thousand  peo- 
ple in  Paris  who  have  seen  better  days.  No  matter !  He  gave 
proofs  of  undaunted  energy.  He  gave  lessons,  and  copied 
documents  for  a  lawyer.  He  made  his  appearance  in  a  new 
character  almost  every  day,  and  left  no  means  untried  to  earn 
an  honest  livelihood.  At  last  he  obtained  employment  from  a 
well-known  astronomer,  the  Baron  Moser,  and  spent  his  days 
in  solving  bewildering  and  intricate  problems,  at  the  rate  of  a 
hundred  francs  a  month. 

But  a  season  of  discouragement  came.  After  five  years  of 
constant  toil,  he  found  himself  at  the  same  point  from  which 
he  had  started.  He  was  nearly  crazed  with  rage  and  disappoint- 
ment when  he  recapitulated  his  blighted  hopes,  his  fruitless 
efforts,  and  the  insults  he  had  endured.  The  past  had  been 
sad,  the  present  was  intolerable,  the  future  threatened  to  be 
terrible.  Condemned  to  constant  privations,  he  tried  to  escape 
from  the  horrors  of  his  real  life  by  taking  refuge  in  dreams. 

Alone  in  his  garret,  after  a  day  of  unremitting  toil,  assailed 
by  the  thousand  longings  of  youth,  Lecoq  endeavored  to  devise 
some  means  of  suddenly  making  himself  rich.  All  reasonable 
methods  being  beyond  his  reach,  it  was  not  long  before  he 
was  engaged  in  devising  the  worst  expedients.  In  short,  this 
naturally  moral  and  honest  young  man  spent  much  of  his  time  in 
perpetrating — in  fancy — the  most  abominable  crimes.  Sometimes 
he  himself  was  frightened  by  the  work  of  his  imagination:  for 
an  hour  of  recklessness  might  suffice  to  make  him  pass  from  the 
idea  to  the  fact,  from  theory  to  practise.  This  is  the  case  with 
all  monomaniacs;  an  hour  comes  in  which  the  strange  concep- 
tions that  have  filled  their  brains  can  be  no  longer  held  in 
check. 

One  day  he  could  not  refrain  from  exposing  to  his  patron 
a  little  plan  he  had  conceived,  which  would  enable  him  to  obtain 


MONSIEUR    LECOQ  15 

five  or  six  hundred  francs  from  London.  Two  letters  and  a 
telegram  were  all  that  was  necessary,  and  the  game  was  won.  It 
was  impossible  to  fail,  and  there  was  no  danger  of  arousing 
suspicion. 

The  astronomer,  amazed  at  the  simplicity  of  the  plan,  could 
but  admire  it.  On  reflection,  however,  he  concluded  that  it 
would  not  be  prudent  for  him  to  retain  so  ingenious  a  secretary 
in  his  service.  This  was  why,  on  the  following  day,  he  gave 
him  a  month's  pay  in  advance,  and  dismissed  him,  saying: 
"When  one  has  your  disposition,  and  is  poor,  one  may  either 
become  a  famous  thief  or  a  great  detective.     Choose." 

Lecoq  retired  in  confusion ;  but  the  astronomer's  words  bore 
fruit  in  his  mind.  "Why  should  I  not  follow  good  advice?"  he 
asked  himself.  Police  service  did  not  inspire  him  with  re- 
pugnance— far  from  it.  He  had  often  admired  that  mysterious 
power  whose  hand  is  everywhere,  and  which,  although  unseen 
and  unheard,  still  manages  to  hear  and  see  everything.  He  was 
delighted  with  the  prospect  of  being  the  instrument  of  such  a 
power.  He  considered  that  the  profession  of  detective  would 
enable  him  to  employ  the  talents  with  which  he  had  been  en- 
dowed in  a  useful  and  honorable  fashion ;  besides  opening  out  a 
life  of  thrilling  adventure  with  fame  as  its  goal. 

In  short,  this  profession  had  a  wonderful  charm  for  him. 
So  much  so,  that  on  the  following  week,  thanks  to  a  letter 
from  Baron  Moser,  he  was  admitted  into  the  service.  A  cruel 
disenchantment  awaited  him.  He  had  seen  the  results,  but  not 
the  means.  His  surprise  was  like  that  of  a  simple-minded 
frequenter  of  the  theatre,  when  he  is  admitted  for  the  first 
time  behind  the  scenes,  and  is  able  to  pry  into  the  decorations 
and  tinsel  that  are  so  dazzling  at  a  distance. 

However,  the  opportunity  for  which  he  had  so  ardently 
longed,  for  which  he  had  been  waiting  during  many  weary 
months,  had  come,  he  thought,  at  last,  as  he  reached  the 
Poivriere  with  Gevrol  and  the  other  police  agents.  While  he 
was  clinging  to  the  window  shutters  he  saw  by  the  light  of 
his  ambition  a  pathway  to  success.  It  was  at  first  only  a 
presentiment,  but  it  soon  became  a  supposition,  and  then  a  con- 
viction based  upon  actual  facts,  which  had  escaped  his  com- 
panions, but  which  he  had  observed  and  carefully  noted.  He 
recognized  that  fortune  had,  at  last,  turned  in  his  favor  when  he 
saw  Gevrol  neglect  all  but  the  merest  formalities  of  examination, 
and  when  he  heard  him  declare  peremptorily  that  this  triple 


16  MONSIEUR   LECOQ 

murder  was  merely  the  result  of  one  of  those  ferocious  quarrels 
=;o  frequent  among  vagrants  in  the  outskirts  of  the  city. 

"Ah,  well!"  he  thought;  "have  it  your  own  way — trust  in 
appearances,  since  you  will  see  nothing  beneath  them !  But 
I  will  prove  to  you  that  my  youthful  theory  is  better  than  all 
your  experience." 

The  inspector's  carelessness  gave  Lecoq  a  perfect  right 
to  secretly  seek  information  on  his  own  account ;  but  by  warn- 
ing his  superior  officers  before  attempting  anything  on  his 
own  responsibility,  he  would  protect  himself  against  any  accusa- 
tion of  ambition  or  of  unduly  taking  advantage  of  his  comrade. 
Such  charges  might  prove  most  dangerous  for  his  future 
prospects  in  a  profession  where  so  much  rivalry  is  seen,  and 
where  wounded  vanity  has  so  many  opportunities  to  avenge 
itself  by  resorting  to  all  sorts  of  petty  treason.  Accordingly, 
he  spoke  to  his  superior  officer — saying  just  enough  to  be  able 
to  remark,  in  case  of  success:  "Ah!  I  warned  you!" — just 
enough  so  as  not  to  dispel  any  of  Gevrol's  doubts. 

The  permission  which  Lecoq  obtained  to  remain  in  charge 
of  the  bodies  was  his  first  triumph  of  the  best  possible  augury; 
but  he  knew  how  to  dissimulate,  and  it  was  in  a  tone  of  the 
utmost  indifference  that  he  requested  one  of  his  comrades  to 
remain  with  him.  Then,  while  the  others  were  making  ready 
to  depart,  he  seated  himself  upon  the  corner  of  the  table,  ap- 
parently oblivious  of  all  that  was  passing  around.  He  did  not 
dare  to  lift  his  head,  for  fear  of  betraying  his  joy,  so  much  did 
he  fear  that  his  companions  might  read  his  hopes  and  plans  in 
the  expression  of  his  face. 

Inwardly  he  was  wild  with  impatience.  Though  the  murderer 
submitted  with  good  grace  to  the  precautions  that  were  taken 
to  prevent  his  escape,  it  required  some  time  to  bind  the  hands 
of  the  Widow  Chupin,  who  fought  and  howled  as  if  they  were 
burning  her  alive.  "They  will  never  go !"  Lecoq  murmured 
to  himself. 

They  did  so  at  last,  however.  Gevrol  gave  the  order  to  start, 
and  left  the  house,  addressing  a  laughing  good-by  to  his  sub- 
ordinate. The  latter  made  no  reply.  He  followed  his  comrades 
as  far  as  the  threshold  to  make  sure  that  they  were  really  going, 
for  he  trembled  at  the  thought  that  Gevrol  might  reflect,  change 
his  mind,  and  return  to  solve  the  mystery,  as  was  his  right. 

His  anxiety  was  needless,  however.  The  squad  gradually 
faded  away  in  the  distance,  and  the  cries  of  Widow  Chupin 


MONSIEUR   LECOQ  17 

died  away  in  the  stillness  of  the  night.  It  was  only  then  that 
Lecoq  reentered  the  room.  He  could  no  longer  conceal  his 
delight;  his  eyes  sparkled  as  might  those  of  a  conqueror 
taking  possession  of  some  vast  empire :  he  stamped  his  foot 
upon  the  floor  and  exclaimed  with  exultation :  "Now  the  mys- 
tery belongs  to  us  two  alone !" 

Authorized  by  Gevrol  to  choose  one  of  his  comrades  to  remain 
with  him  at  the  Poivriere,  Lecoq  had  requested  the  least  intel- 
ligent of  the  party  to  keep  him  company.  He  was  not  influenced 
by  a  fear  of  being  obliged  to  share  the  fruits  of  success  with 
his  companion,  but  by  the  necessity  of  having  an  assistant  from 
whom  he  could,  in  case  of  need,  exact  implicit  obedience. 

The  comrade  Lecoq  selected  was  a  man  of  about  fifty,  who, 
after  a  term  of  cavalry  service,  had  become  an  agent  of  the 
prefecture.  In  the  humble  office  that  he  occupied  he  had  seen 
prefect  succeed  prefect,  and  might  probably  have  filled  an 
entire  prison  with  the  culprits  he  had  arrested  with  his  own 
hands.  Experience  had  not,  however,  made  him  any  the 
shrewder  or  any  the  more  zealous.  Still  he  had  this  merit, 
when  he  received  an  order  he  executed  it  with  military  exacti- 
tude, so  far  as  he  understood  it.  Of  course  if  he  had  failed  to 
understand  it,  so  much  the  worse.  It  might,  indeed,  be  said  of 
him,  that  he  discharged  his  duties  like  a  blind  man,  like  an 
old  horse  trained  for  a  riding  school. 

When  he  had  a  moment's  leisure,  and  a  little  money  in 
his  pocket,  he  invariably  got  drunk.  Indeed,  he  spent  his  life 
between  two  fits  of  intoxication,  without  ever  rising  above  a 
condition  of  semi-lucidity.  His  comrades  had  known,  but  had 
forgotten,  his  name,  and  his  partiality  for  a  certain  beverage 
had  accordingly  induced  them  to  call  him  "Father  Absinthe." 

With  his  limited  powers  of  observation,  he  naturally  did  not 
observe  the  tone  of  triumph  in  his  young  companion's  voice. 
"Upon  my  word,"  he  remarked,  when  they  were  alone,  "your 
idea  of  keeping  me  here  was  a  good  one,  and  I  thank  you  for 
it.  While  the  others  spend  the  night  paddling  about  in  the 
slush,  I  shall  get  a  good  sleep." 

Here  he  stood,  in  a  roo*m  that  was  splashed  with  blood, 
that  was  shuddering,  so  to  speak,  with  crime,  and  yet  face  to 
face  with  the  still  warm  bodies  of  three  murdered  men  he 
could  talk  of  sleep ! 

But,  after  all,  what  did  it  matter  to  him?  He  had  seen  so 
many  similar  scenes  in  his  time.    And  does  not  habit  infallibly 


18  MONSIEUR   LECOQ 

lead  to  professional  indifference,  making  the  soldier  cool  and 
composed  in  the  midst  of  conflict,  and  rendering  the  surgeon 
impassible  when  the  patient  shrieks  and  writhes  beneath  his 
operating  knife. 

"I  have  been  upstairs,  looking  about,"  pursued  Father 
Absinthe ;  "I  saw  a  bed  up  there,  and  we  can  mount  guard 
here,  by  turns." 

With  an  imperious  gesture,  Lecoq  interrupted  him.  "You 
must  give  up  that  idea.  Father  Absinthe,"  he  said,  "we  are  not 
here  to  sleep,  but  to  collect  information — to  make  the  most  care- 
ful researches,  and  to  note  all  the  probabilities.  In  a  few  hours 
the  commissary  of  police,  the  legal  physician,  and  the  public 
prosecutor  will  be  here.  I  wish  to  have  a  report  ready  for 
them." 

This  proposition  seemed  anything  but  pleasing  to  the  old  police 
agent.  "Eh!  what  is  the  use  of  that?"  he  exclaimed.  "I  know 
the  General.  When  he  goes  in  search  of  the  commissary,  as 
he  has  gone  this  evening,  there  is  nothing  more  to  be  done.  Do 
you  think  you  can  see  anything  that  he  didn't  see?" 

"I  think  that  Gevrol,  like  every  one  else,  is  liable  to  be  mis- 
taken. I  think  that  he  believes  too  implicitly  in  what  seems  to 
him  evidence.  I  could  swear  that  this  affair  is  not  what  it  seems 
to  be ;  and  I  am  sure  that  if  we  like  we  can  discover  the  mystery 
which  is  concealed  beneath  present  appearances." 

Although  Lecoq's  vehemence  was  intense,  he  did  not  succeed 
in  making  any  impression  upon  his  companion,  who  with  a  yawn 
that  threatened  to  dislocate  his  jaws  replied:  "Perhaps  you  are 
right;  but  I  am  going  to  bed.  This  need  not  prevent  you  from 
searching  around,  however;  and  if  you  find  anything  you  can 
wake  me." 

Lecoq  made  no  sign  of  impatience :  nor  in  reality  was  he  im- 
patient. These  words  afforded  him  the  opportunity  for  which 
he  was  longing.  "You  will  give  me  a  moment  first,"  he  re- 
marked. "In  five  minutes,  by  your  watch,  I  promise  to  let  you 
put  your  finger  on  the  mystery  that  I  suspect  here." 

"Well,  go  on  for  five  minutes." 

"After  that  you  shall  be  free,  Father  Absinthe.  Only  it  is 
clear  that  if  I  unravel  the  mystery  alone,  I  alone  ought  to  pocket 
the  reward  that  a  solution  will  certainly  bring." 

At  the  word  "reward"  the  old  police  agent  pricked  up  his 
ears.  He  was  dazzled  by  the  vision  of  an  infinite  number  of 
bottles  of  the  greenish  liquor  whose  name  he  bore.    "Convince 


MONSIEUR    LECOQ  19 

me,  then,"  said  he,  taking  a  seat  upon  a  stool,  which  he  had 
lifted  from  the  floor. 

Lecoq  remained  standing  in  front  of  him.  "To  begin  with," 
he  remarked,  "whom  do  you  suppose  the  person  we  have  just 
arrested  to  be?" 

"A  porter,  probably,  or  a  vagabond." 

"That  is  to  say,  a  man  belonging  to  the  lowest  class  of  society : 
consequently,  a  fellow  without  education." 

"Certainly." 

Lecoq  spoke  with  his  eyes  fixed  upon  those  of  his  companion. 
He  distrusted  his  own  powers,  as  is  usual  with  persons  of  real 
merit,  but  he  felt  that  if  he  could  succeed  in  making  his  convic- 
tions penetrate  his  comrade's  obtuse  mind,  their  exactitude  would 
be  virtually  proved. 

"And  now,"  he  continued,  "what  would  you  say  if  I  showed 
you  that  this  young  man  had  received  an  excellent,  even  refined, 
education  ?" 

"I  should  reply  that  it  was  very  extraordinary.  I  should 
reply  that — but  what  a  fool  I  am !  You  have  not  proved  it  to 
me  yet." 

"But  I  can  do  so  very  easily.  Do  you  remember  the  words 
that  he  uttered  as  he  fell?" 

"Yes,  I  remember  them  perfectly.  He  said:  'It  is  the  Prus- 
sians who  are  coming.'  " 

"What  do  you  suppose  he  meant  by  that?" 

"What  a  question !  I  should  suppose  that  he  did  not  like  the 
Prussians,  and  that  he  supposed  he  was  offering  us  a  terrible 
insult." 

Lecoq  was  waiting  anxiously  for  this  response.  "Ah,  well; 
Father  Absinthe,"  he  said  gravely,  "you  are  wrong,  quite 
wrong.  And  that  this  man  has  an  education  superior  to  his 
apparent  position  is  proved  by  the  fact  that  you  did  not  under- 
stand his  meaning,  nor  his  intention.  It  was  this  single  phrase 
that   enlightened    me." 

Father  Absinthe's  physiognomy  expressed  the  strange  and 
comical  perplexity  of  a  man  who  is  so  thoroughly  mystified 
that  he  knows  not  whether  to  laugh,  or  to  be  angry.  After 
reflecting  a  little,  he  decided  to  adopt  the  latter  course.  "You 
are  rather  too  young  to  impose  upon  an  old  fellow  like  me," 
he  remarked.     "I  don't  like  boasters — " 

"One  moment !"  interrupted  Lecoq ;  "allow  me  to  explain. 
You  have  certainly  heard  of  a  terrible  battle  which  resulted 


20  MONSIEUR   LECOQ 

in  one  of  the  greatest  defeats  that  ever  happened  to  France — 
the  battle  of  Waterloo?" 

"I  don't  see  the  connection — " 

"Answer,  if  you  please." 

"Yes — then  !  I  have  heard  of  it !" 

"Very  well ;  you  must  know  then  that  for  some  time  victory 
seemed  likely  to  rest  with  the  banners  of  France.  The  English 
began  to  fall  back,  and  the  emperor  already  exclaimed:  "We 
have  them  !"  when  suddenly  on  the  right,  a  little  in  the  rear, 
a  large  body  of  troops  was  seen  advancing.  It  was  the  Prussian 
army.    The  battle  of  Waterloo  was  lost." 

In  all  his  life,  worthy  Father  Absinthe  had  never  made 
such  a  strenuous  effort  to  understand  anything.  In  this  case  his 
perseverance  was  not  wholly  useless,  for,  springing  from  his 
stool,  and  probably  in  much  the  same  tone  that  Archimedes 
cried  "Eureka:"  he  exclaimed,  "I  understand.  The  man's 
words  were  only  an  illusion." 

"It  is  as  you  have  said,"  remarked  Lecoq,  approvingly.  "But 
I  had  not  finished.  If  the  emperor  was  thrown  into  conster- 
nation by  the  appearance  of  the  Prussians,  it  was  because  he 
was  momentarily  expecting  the  arrival  of  one  of  his  own  gen- 
erals from  the  same  direction — Grouchy — with  thirty-five 
thousand  men.  So  if  this  man's  allusion  was  exact  and 
complete,  he  was  not  expecting  an  enemy,  but  a  friend.  Now 
draw  your  own  conclusions." 

Father  Absinthe  was  amazed  but  convinced:  and  his  eyes, 
heavy  with  sleep  a  few  moments  before,  now  opened  to  their 
widest  extent.  "Good  heavens !"  he  murmured,  "if  you  put 
it  in  that  way !  But  I  forget ;  you  must  have  seen  something 
as  you  were  looking  through  the  shutters." 

The  young  man  shook  his  head.  "Upon  my  honor,"  he  re- 
clared,  "I  saw  nothing  save  the  struggle  between  the  murderer 
and  the  poor  devil  dressed  as  a  soldier.  It  was  that  sentence 
alone  that  aroused  my  attention." 

"Wonderful !  prodigious !"  exclaimed  the  astonished  old  man. 
"I   will  add  that  reflection  has  confirmed  my  suspicions.     I 
ask  myself  why  this  man,  instead  of  flying  at  once,  should  have 
waited  and  remained  there,  at  that  door,  to  parley  with  us." 

With  a  bound,  Father  Absinthe  sprang  again  to  his  feet. 
"Why?"  he  interrupted;  "because  he  had  accomplices,  and  he 
wished  to  give  them  time  to  escape.  Ah !  I  understand  it 
all  now." 


MONSIEUR   LECOQ 


21 


A  triumphant  smile  parted  Lecoq's  lips.  "That  is  what  I 
said  to  myself,"  he  replied,  "and  now  it  is  easy  to  verify  my 
suspicions.     There  is  snow  outside,  isn't  there?" 

It  was  not  necessary  to  say  any  more.  The  elder  officer 
seized  the  light,  and  followed  by  his  companion,  he  hastened  to 
the  back  door  of  the  house,  which  opened  into  a  small  garden. 
In  this  sheltered  enclosure  the  snow  had  not  melted,  and  upon 
its  white  surface  the  dark  stains  of  numerous  footprints  pre- 
sented themselves.  Without  hesitation,  Lecoq  threw  himself 
upon  his  knees  in  the  snow ;  he  rose  again  almost  immediately. 
"These  indentations  were  not  made  by  the  men's  feet,"  said 
he.     "There  have  been  women  here." 


/"OBSTINATE  men  of  Father  Absinthe's  stamp,  who  are  at 
^r  first  always  inclined  to  differ  from  other  people's  opinions, 
are  the  very  individuals  who  end  in  madly  adopting  them.  When 
an  idea  has  at  last  penetrated  their  empty  brains,  they  twist 
and  turn  it,  dwell  upon  it,  and  develop  it  until  it  exceeds  the 
the  bounds  of  reason. 

Hence,  the  police  veteran  was  now  much  more  strongly 
convinced  than  his  companion  that  the  usually  clever  Gevrol 
had  been  mistaken,  and  accordingly  he  laughed  the  inspector 
to  scorn.  On  hearing  Lecoq  affirm  that  women  had  taken  part 
in  the  horrible  scene  at  the  Poivriere,  his  joy  was  extreme — 
"A  fine  affair!"  he  exclaimed;  "an  excellent  case!"  And  sud- 
denly recollecting  a  maxim  that  has  been  handed  down  from  the 
time  of  Cicero,  he  added  in  sententious  tones:  "Who  holds 
the  woman  holds  the  cause !" 

Lecoq  did  not  deign  to  reply.  He  was  standing  upon  the 
threshold,  leaning  against  the  framework  of  the  door,  his  hand 
pressed  to  his  forehead,  as  motionless  as  a  statue.  The  dis- 
covery he  had  just  made,  and  which  so  delighted  Father  Ab- 
sinthe, filled  him  with  consternation.  It  was  the  death  of  his 
hopes,  the  annihilation  of  the  ingenious  structure  which  his 
imagination  had  built  upon  the  foundation  of  a  single  sentence. 


22  MONSIEUR   LECOQ 

There  was  no  longer  any  mystery — ,  so  celebrity  was  not  to 
be  gained  by  a  brilliant  stroke ! 

For  the  presence  of  two  women  in  this  vile  den  explained 
everything  in  the  most  natural  and  commonplace  fashion.  Their 
presence  explained  the  quarrel,  the  testimony  of  Widow  Chupin, 
the  dying  declaration  of  the  pretended  soldier.  The  behavior 
of  the  murderer  was  also  explained.  He  had  remained  to 
cover  the  retreat  of  the  two  women;  he  had  sacrificed  himself 
in  order  to  save  them,  an  act  of  gallantry  so  common  in  the 
French  character,  that  any  scoundrel  of  the  barrieres  might 
have  performed  it. 

Still,  the  strange  allusion  to  the  battle  of  Waterloo  remained 
unexplained.  But  what  did  that  prove  now?  Nothing,  simply 
nothing.  However,  who  could  say  how  low  an  unworthy  pas- 
sion might  cause  a  man  even  of  birth  and  breeding  to  descend  ? 
And  the  carnival  afforded  an  opportunity  for  the  parties  to 
disguise  themselves. 

But  while  Lecoq  was  turning  and  twisting  all  these  prob- 
abilities in  his  mind,  Father  Absinthe  became  impatient.  "Are 
we  going  to  remain  here  until  doomsday?"  he  asked.  "Are 
we  to  pause  just  at  the  moment  when  our  search  has  been  pro- 
ductive of  such  brilliant  results?" 

"Brilliant  results !"  These  words  stung  the  young  man  as 
deeply  as  the  keenest  irony  could  have  done.  "Leave  me  alone," 
he  replied  gruffly;  "and,  above  all,  don't  walk  about  the  garden, 
as  by  doing  so,  you'll  damage  any  footprints." 

His  companion  swore  a  little;  but  soon  became  silent  in 
his  turn.  He  was  constrained  to  submit  to  the  irresistible  as- 
cendency of  superior  will  and  intelligence. 

Lecoq  was  engaged  in  following  out  his  course  of  reasoning. 
"The  murderer,  leaving  the  ball  at  the  Rainbow,  a  dancing- 
house  not  far  from  here,  near  the  fortifications,  came  to  this 
wine-shop,  accompanied  by  two  women.  He  found  three  men 
drinking  here,  who  either  began  teasing  him,  or  who  displayed 
too  much  gallantry  toward  his  companions.  He  became  angry. 
The  others  threatened  him;  he  was  one  against  three;  he  was 
armed ;  he  became  wild  with  rage,  and  fired — " 

He  checked  himself,  and  an  instant  after  added,  aloud : 
"But  was  it  the  murderer  who  brought  these  women  here?  If 
he  is  tried,  this  will  be  the  important  point.  It  is  necessary  to 
obtain  information  regarding  it." 

He  immediately  went  back  into  the  house,  closely  followed 


MONSIEUR    LECOQ  23 

by  his  colleague,  and  began  an  examination  of  the  footprints 
round  about  the  door  that  Gevrol  had  forced  open.  Labor  lost. 
There  was  but  little  snow  on  the  ground  near  the  entrance  of 
the  hovel,  and  so  many  persons  had  passed  in  and  out  that 
Lecoq  could  discover  nothing.  What  a  disappointment  after 
his  patient  hopes !  Lecoq  could  have  cried  with  rage.  He  saw 
the  opportunity  for  which  he  had  sighed  so  long  indefinitely 
postponed.  He  fancied  he  could  hear  Gevrol's  coarse  sarcasms. 
"Enough  of  this,"  he  murmured,  under  his  breath.  "The 
General  was  right,  and  I  am  a  fool !" 

He  was  so  positively  convinced  that  one  could  do  no  more 
than  discover  the  circumstances  of  some  commonplace,  vulgar 
broil,  that  he  began  to  wonder  if  it  would  not  be  wise  to  re- 
nounce his  search  and  take  a  nap,  while  awaiting  the  coming 
of  the  commissary  of  police. 

But  Father  Absinthe  was  no  longer  of  this  opinion.  This 
worthy  man,  who  was  far  from  suspecting  the  nature  of  his 
companion's  reflections  could  not  explain  his  inaction.  "Come  ! 
my  boy,"  said  he,  "have  you  lost  your  wits?  This  is  losing 
time,  it  seems  to  me.  The  authorities  will  arrive  in  a  few 
hours,  and  what  report  shall  we  be  able  to  give  them  !  As  for 
me,  if  you  desire  to  go  to  sleep,  I  shall  pursue  the  investigation 
alone." 

Disappointed  as  he  was,  the  young  police  officer  could  not 
repress  a  smile.  He  recognized  his  own  exhortation  of  a  few 
moments  before.  It  was  the  old  man  who  had  suddenly  become 
intrepid.  "To  work,  then !"  he  sighed,  like  a  man  who,  while 
foreseeing  defeat,  wishes,  at  least,  to  have  no  cause  for  self- 
reproach. 

He  found  it,  however,  extremely  difficult  to  follow  the  foot- 
prints in  the  open  air  by  the  uncertain  light  of  a  candle,  which 
was  extinguished  by  the  least  breath  of  wind.  "I  wonder  if 
there  is  a  lantern  in  the  house,"  he  said.  "If  we  could  only 
lay  our  hands  upon  one !" 

They  searched  everywhere,  and,  at  last,  upstairs  in  the  Widow 
Chupin's  own  room,  they  found  a  well-trimmed  lantern,  so 
small  and  compact  that  it  certainly  had  never  been  intended  for 
honest  purposes. 

"A  regular  burglar's  implement,"  said  Father  Absinthe,  with 
a  coarse  laugh. 

The  implement  was  useful  in  any  case ;  as  both  men  agreed 
when  they  returned  to  the  garden  and  recommenced  their  in- 


24  MONSIEUR   LECOQ 

vestigations  systematically.  They  advanced  very  slowly  and 
with  extreme  caution.  The  old  man  carefully  held  the  lantern 
in  the  best  position,  while  Lecoq,  on  his  knees,  studied  each 
footprint  with  the  attention  of  a  chiromancer  professing  to 
read  the  future  in  the  hand  of  a  rich  client.  This  new  ex- 
amination assured  Lecoq  that  he  had  been  correct  in  his  first 
supposition.  It  was  plain  that  two  women  had  left  the  Poi- 
vriere  by  the  back  door.  They  had  started  off  running,  as  was 
proved  by  the  length  of  the  steps  and  the  shape  of  the  foot- 
prints. 

The  difference  in  the  tracks  left  by  the  two  fugitives  was 
so  remarkable  that  it  did  not  escape  Father  Absinthe's  eyes. 
"Sapristi !"  he  muttered;  "one  of  these  jades  can  boast  of 
having  a  pretty  foot  at  the  end  of  her  leg !" 

He  was  right.  One  of  the  tracks  betrayed  a  small,  coquet- 
tish, slender  foot,  clad  in  an  elegant  high-heeled  boot  with  a 
narrow  sole  and  an  arched  instep.  The  other  denoted  a  broad, 
short  foot  growing  wider  toward  the  end.  It  had  evidently 
been  incased  in  a  strong,  low  shoe. 

This  was  indeed  a  clue.  Lecoq's  hopes  at  once  revived ;  so 
eagerly  does  a  man  welcome  any  supposition  that  is  in  accord- 
ance with  his  desires.  Trembling  with  anxiety,  he  went  to 
examine  some  other  footprints  a  short  distance  from  these ; 
and  an  excited  exclamation  at  once  escaped  his  lips. 

"What  is  it?"  eagerly  inquired  the  other  agent:  "what  do 
you  see  ?" 

"Come  and  look  for  yourself,  see  there !"  cried  Lecoq. 

The  old  man  bent  down,  and  his  surprise  was  so  great  that 
he  almost  dropped  the  lantern.  "Oh !"  said  he  in  a  stifled 
voice,  "a  man's  footprint !" 

"Exactly.  And  this  fellow  wore  the  finest  of  boots.  See 
that  imprint,  how  clear,  how  neat  it  is !" 

Worthy  Father  Absinthe  was  scratching  his  ear  furiously, 
nis  usual  method  of  quickening  his  rather  slow  wits.  "But  it 
seems  to  me,"  he  ventured  to  say  at  last,  "that  this  individual 
was  not  coming  from  this  ill-fated  hovel." 

"Of  course  not ;  the  direction  of  the  foot  tells  you  that.  No, 
he  was  not  going  away,  he  was  coming  here.  But  he  did  not 
pass  beyond  the  spot  where  we  are  now  standing.  He  was 
standing  on  tiptoe  with  outstretched  neck  and  listening  ears, 
when,  on  reaching  this  spot,  he  heard  some  noise,  fear  seized 
him,  and  he  fled." 

1— Vol.  1— Gab. 


MONSIEUR   LECOQ  25 

"Or  rather,  the  women  were  going  out  as  he  was  coming, 
and—" 

"No,  the  women  were  outside  the  garden  when  he  entered  it." 

This  assertion  seemed  far  too  audacious  to  suit  Lecoq's  com- 
panion, who  remarked :  "One  can  not  be  sure  of  that." 

"I  am  sure  of  it,  however ;  and  can  prove  it  conclusively. 
If  you  doubt  it,  it  is  because  your  eyes  are  growing  old.  Bring 
your  lantern  a  little  nearer — yes,  here  it  is — our  man  placed  his 
large  foot  upon  one  of  the  marks  made  by  the  woman  with 
the  small  foot  and  almost  effaced  it."  This  unexceptionable 
piece  of  circumstantial  evidence  stupefied  the  old  police  agent. 

"Now,"  continued  Lecoq,  "could  this  man  have  been  the 
accomplice  whom  the  murderer  was  expecting?  Might  it  not 
have  been  some  strolling  vagrant  whose  attention  was  attracted 
by  the  two  pistol  shots?  This  is  what  we  must  ascertain.  And 
we  will  ascertain  it.     Come !" 

A  wooden  fence  of  lattice-work,  rather  more  than  three  feet 
high,  was  all  that  separated  the  Widow  Chupin's  garden  from 
the  waste  land  surrounding  it.  When  Lecoq  made  the  circuit 
of  the  house  to  cut  off  the  murderer's  escape  he  had  encoun- 
tered this  obstacle,  and,  fearing  lest  he  should  arrive  too  late, 
he  had  leaped  the  fence  to  the  great  detriment  of  his  panta- 
loons, without  even  asking  himself  if  there  was  a  gate  or  not. 
There  was  one,  however — a  light  gate  of  lattice-work  similar 
to  the  fence,  turning  upon  iron  hinges,  and  closed  by  a  wooden 
button.  Now  it  was  straight  toward  this  gate  that  these  foot- 
prints in  the  snow  led  the  two  police  agents.  Some  new 
thought  must  have  struck  the  younger  man,  for  he  suddenly 
paused.  "Ah !"  he  murmured,  "these  two  women  did  not  come 
to  the  Poivriere  this  evening  for  the  first  time." 

"Why  do  you  think  that,  my  boy?"  inquired  Father  Absinthe. 

"I  could  almost  swear  it.  How,  unless  they  were  in  the 
habit  of  coming  to  this  den,  could  they  have  been  aware  of  the 
existence  of  this  gate  ?  Could  they  have  discovered  it  on  such 
a  dark,  foggy  night?  No;  for  I,  who  can,  without  boasting, 
say  that  I  have  good  eyes — I  did  not  see  it." 

"Ah  !  yes,  that  is  true !" 

"These  two  women,  however,  came  here  without  hesitating, 
in  a  straight  line ;  and  note  that  to  do  this,  it  was  necessary  for 
them  to  cross  the  garden  diagonally." 

The  veteran  would  have  given  something  if  he  could  have 
found  some  objection  to  offer;  but  unfortunately  he  could  find 
z — Vol.  i — Gab. 


26  MONSIEUR    LECOQ 

none.  "Upon  my  word  !"  he  exclaimed,  "yours  is  a  droll  way 
of  proceeding.  You  are  only  a  conscript;  I  am  a  veteran  in 
the  service,  and  have  assisted  in  more  affairs  of  this  sort  than 
you  are  years  old,  but  never  have  I  seen — " 

"Nonsense !"  interrupted  Lecoq,  "you  will  see  much  more. 
For  example,  I  can  prove  to  you  that  although  the  women 
knew  the  exact  position  of  the  gate,  the  man  knew  it  only  by 
hearsay." 

"The  proof !" 

"The  fact  is  easily  demonstrated.  Study  the  man's  foot- 
prints, and  you,  who  are  very  sharp,  will  see  at  once  that  he 
deviated  greatly  from  the  straight  course.  He  was  in  such 
doubt  that  he  was  obliged  to  search  for  the  gate  with  his  hand 
stretched  out  before  him — and  his  fingers  have  left  their  imprint 
on  the  thin  covering  of  snow  that  lies  upon  the  upper  railing 
of  the  fence." 

The  old  man  would  have  been  glad  to  verify  this  statement 
for  himself,  as  he  said,  but  Lecoq  was  in  a  hurry.  "Let  us  go 
on,  let  us  go  on !"  said  he.  "You  can  verify  my  assertions 
some  other  time." 

They  left  the  garden  and  followed  the  footprints  which  led 
them  toward  the  outer  boulevards,  inclining  somewhat  in  the 
direction  of  the  Rue  de  Patay.  There  was  now  no  longer  any 
need  of  close  attention.  No  one  save  the  fugitives  had  crossed 
this  lonely  waste  since  the  last  fall  of  snow.  A  child  could 
have  followed  the  track,  so  clear  and  distinct  it  was.  Four 
series  of  footprints,  very  unlike  in  character,  formed  the  track ; 
two  of  these  had  evidently  been  left  by  the  women ;  the  other 
two,  one  going  and  one  returning,  had  been  made  by  the  man. 
On  several  occasions  the  latter  had  placed  his  foot  exactly  on 
the  footprints  left  by  the  two  women,  half  effacing  them,  thus 
dispelling  all  doubt  as  to  the  precise  moment  of  his  approach. 

About  a  hundred  yards  from  the  Poivriere,  Lecoq  suddenly 
seized  his  colleague's  arm.  "Halt !"  he  exclaimed,  "we  have 
reached  a  good  place ;  I  can  see  unmistakable  proofs." 

The  spot,  all  unenclosed  as  it  was,  was  evidently  utilized 
by  some  builder  for  the  storage  of  various  kinds  of  lumber. 
The  ground  was  strewn  with  large  blocks  of  granite,  some 
chiseled,  some  in  the  rough,  with  numerous  long  planks  and 
logs  of  wood  in  their  midst.  In  front  of  one  of  these  logs,  the 
surface  of  which  had  been  evidently  wiped,  all  the  various  foot- 
prints came  together,  mingling  confusedly. 


MONSIEUR   LECOQ  27 

"Here,"  declared  the  young  detective,  "our  fugitives  met  the 
man  and  took  counsel  with  him.  One  of  the  women,  the  one 
with  the  little  feet,  sat  down  upon  this  log." 

"We  ought  to  make  quite  sure  of  that,"  said  Father  Absinthe, 
in  an  oracular  tone. 

But  his  companion  cut  short  his  desire  for  verification. 
"You,  my  old  friend,"  said  he,  "are  going  to  do  me  the  kind- 
ness to  keep  perfectly  still :  pass  me  the  lantern  and  do  not 
move." 

Lecoq's  modest  tone  had  suddenly  become  so  imperious  that 
his  colleague  dared  offer  no  resistance.  Like  a  soldier  at  the 
command  to  halt,  he  remained  erect,  motionless,  and  mute,  fol- 
lowing his  colleague's  movements  with  an  inquisitive,  won- 
dering eye. 

Quick  in  his  motions,  and  understanding  how  to  maneuvre 
the  lantern  in  accordance  with  his  wishes,  the  young  police 
agent  explored  the  surroundings  in  a  very  short  space  of  time. 
A  bloodhound  in  pursuit  of  his  prey  would  have  been  less  alert, 
less  discerning,  less  agile.  He  came  and  went,  now  turning, 
now  pausing,  now  retreating,  now  hurrying  on  again  without 
any  apparent  reason ;  he  scrutinized,  he  questioned  every  sur- 
rounding object :  the  ground,  the  logs  of  wood,  the  blocks  of 
stone,  in  a  word,  nothing  escaped  his  glance.  For  a  moment 
he  would  remain  standing,  then  fall  upon  his  knees,  and  at 
times  lie  flat  upon  his  stomach  with  his  face  so  near  the  ground 
that  his  breath  must  have  melted  the  snow.  He  had  drawn  a 
tape-line  from  his  pocket,  and  using  it  with  a  carpenter's  dex- 
terity, he  measured,  measured,  and  measured. 

And  all  his  movements  were  accompanied  with  the  wild 
gestures  of  a  madman,  interspersed  with  oaths  or  short  laughs, 
with  exclamations  of  disappointment  or  delight.  After  a  quar- 
ter of  an  hour  of  this  strange  exercise,  he  turned  to  Father 
Absinthe,  placed  the  lantern  on  a  stone,  wiped  his  hands  with 
his  pocket-handkerchief,  and  said:  "Now  I  know  everything!" 

"Well,  that  is  saying  a  great  deal !" 

"When  I  say  everything,  I  mean  all  that  is  connected  with 
the  episode  of  the  drama  which  ended  in  that  bloody  bout  in 
the  hovel.  This  expanse  of  earth  covered  with  snow  is  a  white 
page  upon  which  the  people  we  are  in  search  of  have  written, 
not  only  their  movements,  their  goings,  and  comings,  but  also 
their  secret  thoughts,  their  alternate  hopes  and  anxieties.  What 
do  these  footprints  say  to  you,  Papa  Absinthe?     To  me  they 


28  MONSIEUR    LECOQ 

are  alive  like  the  persons  who  made  them;  they  breathe,  speak, 
accuse !" 

The  old  agent  was  saying  to  himself:  "Certainly,  this  fellow 
is  intelligent,  undeniably  shrewd;  but  he  is  very  disagreeable." 

"These  are  the  facts  as  I  have  read  them,"  pursued  Lecoq. 
"When  the  murderer  repaired  to  the  Poivriere  with  the  two 
women,  his  companion — I  should  say  his  accomplice — came  here 
to  wait.  He  was  a  tall  man  of  middle  age ;  he  wore  a  soft  hat 
and  a  shaggy  brown  overcoat ;  he  was,  moreover,  probably  mar- 
ried, or  had  been  so,  as  he  had  a  wedding-ring  on  the  little 
finger  of  his  right  hand — " 

His  companion's  despairing  gestures  obliged  the  speaker  to 
pause.  This  description  of  a  person  whose  existence  had  but 
just  now  been  demonstrated,  these  precise  details  given  in  a 
tone  of  absolute  certainty,  completely  upset  all  Father  Ab- 
sinthe's ideas,  increasing  his  perplexity  beyond  all  bounds. 

"This  is  not  right,"  he  growled,  "this  is  not  kind.  You  are 
poking  fun  at  me.  I  take  the  thing  seriously;  I  listen  to  you, 
I  obey  you  in  everything,  and  then  you  mock  me  in  this  way. 
We  find  a  clue,  and  instead  of  following  it  up,  you  stop  to 
relate  all  these  absurd  stories." 

"No,"  replied  his  companion,  "I  am  not  jesting,  and  I  have 
told  you  nothing  of  which  I  am  not  absolutely  sure,  nothing 
that  is  not  strictly  and  indisputably  true." 

"And  you  would  have  me  believe — " 

"Fear  nothing,  papa;  I  would  not  have  you  do  violence  to 
your  convictions.  When  I  have  told  you  my  reasons,  and  my 
means  of  information,  you  will  laugh  at  the  simplicity  of  the 
theory  that  seems  so  incomprehensible  to  you  now." 

"Go  on,  then,"  said  the  good  man,  in  a  tone  of  resignation. 

"We  had  decided,"  rejoined  Lecoq,  "that  the  accomplice 
mounted  guard  here.  The  time  seemed  long,  and,  growing  im- 
patient, he  paced  to  and  fro — the  length  of  this  log  of  wood — 
occasionally  pausing  to  listen.  Hearing  nothing,  he  stamped 
his  foot,  doubtless  exclaiming:  'What  the  deuce  has  happened 
to  him  down  there!  He  had  made  about  thirty  turns  (I  have 
counted  them),  when  a  sound  broke  the  stillness — the  two 
women  were  coming." 

On  hearing  Lecoq's  recital,  all  the  conflicting  sentiments  that 
are  awakened  in  a  child's  mind  by  a  fairy  tale — doubt,  faith, 
anxiety,  and  hope — filled  Father  Absinthe's  heart.  What  should 
he  believe?   what  should  he   refuse  to  believe?     He  did   not 


MONSIEUR   LECOQ  29 

know.  How  was  he  to  separate  the  true  from  the  false  among 
all  these  equally  surprising  assertions?  On  the  other  hand,  the 
gravity  of  his  companion,  which  certainly  was  not  feigned,  dis- 
missed all  idea  of  pleasantry. 

Finally,  curiosity  began  to  torture  him.  "We  had  reached  the 
point  where  the  women  made  their  appearance,"  said  he. 

"Yes,  indeed,"  responded  Lecoq,  "but  here  all  certainty 
ceases ;  no  more  proofs,  only  suppositions.  Still,  I  have  every 
reason  to  believe  that  our  fugitives  left  the  drinking  den  before 
the  beginning  of  the  fight,  before  the  cries  that  attracted  our 
attention.  Who  were  they?  I  can  only  conjecture.  I  suspect, 
however,  that  they  were  not  equals  in  rank.  I  am  inclined  to 
think  that  one  was  the  mistress,  the  other  her  servant." 

"That  is  proved,"  ventured  the  old  man,  "by  the  great  dif- 
ference in  their  feet  and  in  their  shoes." 

This  shrewd  observation  elicited  a  smile  from  Lecoq.  "That 
difference,"  he  replied,  seriously,  "is  something,  of  course;  but 
it  was  not  that  which  decided  me  in  my  opinion.  If  greater  or 
less  perfection  of  the  extremities  regulated  social  distinctions, 
many  mistresses  would  be  servants.  What  struck  me  was  this : 
When  the  two  women  rushed  wildly  from  Mother  Chupin's 
house,  the  woman  with  the  small  feet  sprang  across  the  garden 
with  one  bound,  she  darted  on  some  distance  in  advance  of  the 
other.  The  terror  of  the  situation,  the  vileness  of  the  den,  the 
horror  of  the  scandal,  the  thought  of  safety,  inspired  her  with 
marvelous  energy.  But  her  strength,  as  often  happens  with 
delicate  and  nervous  women,  lasted  only  a  few  seconds.  She 
was  not  half-way  from  the  Poivriere  when  her  speed  relaxed, 
her  limbs  trembled.  Ten  steps  farther  on  she  tottered  and 
almost  fell.  Some  steps  farther,  and  she  became  so  exhausted 
that  she  let  go  her  hold  upon  her  skirts ;  they  trailed  upon  the 
snow,  tracing  a  faint  circle  there.  Then  the  woman  with  the 
broad  feet  came  to  aid  her.  She  seized  her  companion  round 
the  waist;  she  dragged  her  along;  their  footprints  here  are 
mingled  confusedly;  then,  seeing  that  her  friend  was  about  to 
fall,  she  caught  her  up  in  her  strong  arms  and  carried  her — 
for  you  will  see  that  the  footprints  made  by  the  woman  with 
the  small  feet  suddenly  cease  at  this  point." 

Was  Lecoq  merely  amusing  himself  by  inventing  this  story? 
Was  this  scene  anything  but  a  work  of  imagination?  Was  the 
accent  of  deep  and  sincere  conviction  which  he  imparted  to 
his  words  only  feigned? 


30  MONSIEUR   LECOQ 

Father  Absinthe  was  still  in  doubt,  but  he  thought  of  a  way 
in  which  he  might  satisfy  his  uncertainty.  He  caught  up  the 
lantern  and  hurried  off  to  examine  these  footprints  which  he 
had  not  known  how  to  read,  which  had  been  speechless  to  him, 
but  which  yielded  their  secret  to  another.  He  was  obliged  to 
agree  with  his  companion.  All  that  Lecoq  had  described  was 
written  there ;  he  saw  the  confused  footprints,  the  circle  made 
by  the  sweeping  skirts,  the  cessation  of  the  tiny  imprints. 

On  his  return,  his  countenance  betrayed  a  respectful  and 
astonished  admiration,  and  it  was  with  a  shade  of  embarrass- 
ment that  he  said :  "You  can  scarcely  blame  an  old  man  for 
being  a  little  like  St.  Thomas.  T  have  touched  it  with  my 
fingers,'  and  now  I  am  content  to  follow  you." 

The  young  police  agent  could  not,  indeed,  blame  his  col- 
league for  his  incredulity.  Resuming  his  recital,  he  continued : 
"Then  the  accomplice,  who  had  heard  the  fugitives  coming,  ran 
to  meet  them,  and  he  aided  the  woman  with  large  feet  in  carry- 
ing her  companion.  The  latter  must  have  been  really  ill,  for 
the  accomplice  took  off  his  hat  and  used  it  in  brushing  the  snow 
off  this  log.  Then,  thinking  the  surface  was  not  yet  dry 
enough,  he  wiped  it  with  the  skirt  of  his  overcoat.  Were  these 
civilities  pure  gallantry,  or  the  usual  attentions  of  an  inferior? 
I  have  asked  myself  that  question.  This  much,  however,  is 
certain,  while  the  woman  with  the  small  feet  was  recovering 
her  strength,  half  reclining  upon  this  board,  the  other  took  the 
accomplice  a  little  on  one  side,  five  or  six  steps  away  to  the 
left,  just  beside  that  enormous  block  of  granite.  There  she 
talked  with  him,  and,  as  he  listened,  the  man  leaned  upon  the 
snow-covered  stone.  His  hand  left  a  very  distinct  imprint  there. 
Then,  as  the  conversation  continued,  he  rested  his  elbow  upon 
the  snowy  surface." 

Like  all  men  of  limited  intelligence,  Father  Absinthe  had 
suddenly  passed  from  unreasoning  distrust  to  unquestioning 
confidence.  Henceforth,  he  could  believe  anything  for  the  very 
same  reason  that  had,  at  first,  made  him  believe  nothing.  Hav- 
ing no  idea  of  the  bounds  of  human  reasoning  and  penetration, 
he  saw  no  limits  to  the  conjectural  genius  of  his  companion. 
With  perfect  faith,  therefore,  he  inquired:  "And  what  was  the 
accomplice  saying  to  the  woman  with  the  broad  shoes?" 

Lecoq  smiled  at  this  simplicity,  but  the  other  did  not  see  him 
do  so.  "It  is  rather  difficult  for  me  to  answer  that  question," 
replied  the  young  detective,  "I  think,  however,  that  the  woman 


MONSIEUR   LECOQ  31 

was  explaining  to  the  man  the  immensity  and  imminence  of  the 
danger  that  threatened  his  companion,  and  that  they  were  try- 
ing to  devise  some  means  to  rescue  him  from  it.  Perhaps  she 
brought  him  orders  given  by  the  murderer.  It  is  certain  that 
she  ended  by  beseeching  the  accomplice  to  run  to  the  Poivriere 
and  see  what  was  passing  there.  And  he  did  so,  for  his  tracks 
start  from  this  block  of  granite." 

"And  only  to  think,"  exclaimed  Father  Absinthe,  "that  we 
were  in  the  hovel  at  that  very  moment.  A  word  from  Gevrol, 
and  we  might  have  had  handcuffs  on  the  whole  gang !  How 
unfortunate  !" 

Lecoq  was  not  sufficiently  disinterested  to  share  his  com- 
panion's regret.  On  the  contrary,  he  was  very  thankful  for 
Gevrol's  blunder.  Had  it  not  been  for  that,  how  would  he  ever 
have  found  an  opportunity  of  investigating  an  affair  that  grew 
more  and  more  mysterious  as  his  search  proceeded,  but  which 
he  hoped  to  fathom  finally. 

"To  conclude,"  he  resumed,  "the  accomplice  soon  returned, 
he  had  witnessed  the  scene,  and  was  evidently  afraid.  He 
feared  that  the  thought  of  exploring  the  premises  might  enter 
the  minds  of  the  police.  It  was  to  the  lady  with  small  feet 
that  he  addressed  himself.  He  explained  the  necessity  of 
flight,  and  told  her  that  even  a  moment's  delay  might  be  fatal. 
At  his  words,  she  summoned  all  her  energy;  she  rose  and  has- 
tened away,  clinging  to  the  arm  of  her  companion.  Did  the 
man  indicate  the  route  they  were  to  take,  or  did  they  know  it 
themselves?  This  much  is  certain,  he  accompanied  them  some 
distance,  in  order  to  watch  over  them.  But  besides  protecting 
these  women,  he  had  a  still  more  sacred  duty  to  perform — that 
of  succoring  his  accomplice,  if  possible.  He  retraced  his  steps, 
passed  by  here  once  more,  and  the  last  footprint  that  I  can  dis- 
cover leads  in  the  direction  of  the  Rue  du  Chateau  des  Ren- 
tiers. He  wished  to  know  what  would  become  of  the  mur- 
derer, and  went  to  place  himself  where  he  might  see  him  pass 
by  with  his  captors. 

Like  a  dilettante  who  can  scarcely  restrain  his  applause  until 
the  close  of  the  aria  that  delights  him,  Father  Absinthe  had 
been  unable  during  the  recital  to  entirely  suppress  his  admira- 
tion. But  it  was  not  until  Lecoq  ceased  speaking  that  he  gave 
full  vent  to  his  enthusiasm :  "Here  is  a  detective  if  you  like !" 
he  exclaimed.  "And  they  pretend  that  Gevrol  is  a  shrewd! 
What  has  he  ever  done  to  compare  with  this?     Ah!  shall  I 


32 


MONSIEUR    LECOQ 


tell  you  what  I  think  ?  Why,  in  comparison  with  you,  the  Gen- 
eral is  a  more  John  the  Baptist." 

Certainly  the  flattery  was  gross,  but  it  was  impossible  to 
doubt  its  sincerity.  This  was  the  first  time  that  the  balmy 
dew  of  praise  had  fallen  upon  Lecoq's  vanity,  and  it  greatly 
delighted  him,  although  he  modestly  replied :  "Nonsense,  you 
are  too  kind,  papa.  After  all,  what  have  I  done  that  is  so  very 
clever?  I  told  you  that  the  man  was  of  middle  age.  It  was 
not  difficult  to  see  that  after  one  had  examined  his  heavy,  drag- 
ging step.  I  told  you  that  he  was  tall — an  easy  matter.  When 
I  saw  that  he  had  been  leaning  upon  that  block  of  granite  there 
to  the  left,  I  measured  the  block  in  question.  It  is  almost  five 
feet  five  inches  in  height,  consequently  a  man  who  could  rest 
his  elbow  upon  it  must  be  at  least  six  feet  high.  The  mark  of 
his  hand  proves  that  I  am  not  mistaken.  On  seeing  that  he 
had  brushed  away  the  snow  which  covered  the  plank,  I  asked 
myself  what  he  had  used ;  I  thought  that  it  might  be  his  cap, 
and  the  mark  left  by  the  peak  proves  that  I  was  right.  Finally, 
if  I  have  discovered  the  color  and  the  material  of  his  overcoat, 
it  is  only  because  when  he  wiped  the  wet  board,  some  splinters 
of  the  wood  tore  off  a  few  tiny  flakes  of  brown  wool,  which  I 
have  found,  and  which  will  figure  in  the  trial.  But  what  does 
this  amount  to,  after  all?  Nothing.  We  have  only  discovered 
the  first  clues  of  the  affair.  Still,  we  are  on  the  right  scent 
— so,  forward  then !" 

The  old  officer  was  electrified,  and,  like  an  echo,  he  repeated : 
"Forward !" 


HP  HAT  night  the  vagabonds,  who  had  taken  refuge  in  the 
•*■  neighborhood  of  the  Poivriere,  had  a  very  bad  time  of  it ; 
for  while  those  who  managed  to  sleep  were  disturbed  by  fright- 
ful dreams  of  a  police  raid,  those  who  remained  awake  witnessed 
some  strange  incidents,  well  calculated  to  fill  their  minds  with 
terror.  On  hearing  the  shots  fired  inside  Mother  Chupin's 
drinking  den,  most  of  the  vagrants  concluded  that  there  had 


MONSIEUR   LECOQ  83 

been  a  collision  between  the  police  and  some  of  their  com- 
rades, and  they  immediately  began  prowling  about,  eagerly  lis- 
tening and  watching,  and  ready  to  take  flight  at  the  least  sign 
of  danger.  At  first  they  could  discover  no  particular  reasons 
for  alarm.  But  later  on.  at  about  two  o'clock  in  the  morning, 
just  as  they  were  beginning  to  feel  secure  again,  the  fog  lifted 
a  little,  and  they  witnessed  a  phenomenon  well  calculated  to 
arouse  anxiety. 

Upon  the  unoccupied  tract  of  land,  which  the  people  of  the 
neighborhood  called  the  "plain,"  a  small  but  very  bright  light 
was  seen  describing  the  most  capricious  evolutions.  It  moved 
here  and  there  without  any  apparent  aim,  tracing  the  most 
inexplicable  zigzags,  sometimes  sinking  to  the  earth,  sometimes 
rising  to  a  height  of  four  or  five  feet,  at  others  remaining  quite 
motionless,  and  the  next  second  flying  off  like  a  ball.  In  spite 
of  the  place  and  the  season  of  the  year,  the  less  ignorant 
among  vagabonds  believed  the  light  to  be  some  ignis  fatuus.  one 
of  those  luminous  meteors  that  raise  from  the  marshes  and  float 
about  in  the  atmosphere  at  the  bidding  of  the  wind.  In  point  of 
fact,  however,  this  ignis  fatuus  was  the  lantern  by  the  light  of 
which  the  two  police  agents  were  pursuing  their  investigations. 

After  thus  suddenly  revealing  his  capacity  to  his  first  dis- 
ciple, Lecoq  found  himself  involved  in  a  cruel  perplexity.  He 
had  not  the  boldness  and  promptness  of  decision  which  is  the 
gift  of  a  prosperous  past,  and  was  hesitating  between  two 
courses,  both  equally  reasonable,  and  both  offering  strong  proba- 
bilities of  success.  He  stood  between  two  paths,  that  made  by 
the  two  women  on  the  one  side,  and  that  made  by  the  accom- 
plice on  the  other.  Which  should  he  take?  For  he  could  not 
hope  to  follow  both.  Seated  upon  the  log  where  the  women 
had  rested  a  few  moments  before,  with  his  hand  pressed  upon 
his  forehead,  he  reflected  and  weighed  the  chances. 

"If  I  follow  the  man  I  shall  learn  nothing  that  I  do  not  know 
already.  He  has  gone  to  hover  round  the  party;  he  has  fol- 
lowed them  at  a  distance,  he  has  seen  them  lock  up  his  accom- 
plice, and  he  is  undoubtedly  prowling  round  about  the  station 
house.  If  I  hurried  in  pursuit,  could  I  hope  to  overtake  and 
capture  him?    No;  too  long  a  time  has  elapsed." 

Father  Absinthe  listened  to  this  monologue  with  intense  curi- 
osity, as  anxious  as  an  unsophisticated  person  who,  having 
questioned  a  clairvoyant  in  regard  to  some  lost  articles,  is 
waiting  the  oracle's  response. 


54  MONSIEUR   LECOQ 

"To  follow  the  women,"  continued  the  young  man,  "to  what 
would  that  lead?  Perhaps  to  an  important  discovery,  perhaps 
to  nothing." 

However,  he  preferred  the  unknown,  which,  with  all  its 
chances  of  failure,  had  chances  of  success  as  well.  He  rose, 
his  course  was  decided. 

"Father  Absinthe,"  said  he,  "we  are  going  to  follow  the 
footprints  of  these  two  women,  and  wherever  they  lead  us  we 
will  go." 

Inspired  with  equal  ardor  they  began  their  walk.  At  the 
end  of  the  path  upon  which  they  had  entered  they  fancied  they 
observed,  as  in  some  magic  glass,  the  one  the  fruits,  the  other 
the  glory  of  success.  They  hurried  forward.  At  first  it  was 
only  play  to  follow  the  distinct  footprints  that  led  toward  the 
Seine.  But  it  was  not  long  before  they  were  obliged  to  proceed 
more  slowly. 

On  leaving  the  waste  ground  they  arrived  at  the  outer  limits 
of  civilization,  so  to  speak;  and  strange  footprints  mingled 
constantly  with  the  footprints  of  the  fugitives,  at  times  even 
effacing  them.  In  many  spots,  either  on  account  of  exposure 
or  the  nature  of  the  soil,  the  thaw  had  completed  its  work, 
and  there  were  large  patches  of  ground  entirely  free  from 
snow.  In  such  cases  they  lost  the  trail,  and  it  required  all 
Lecoq's  sagacity  and  all  his  companion's  good-will  to  find  it 
again. 

On  such  occasions  Father  Absinthe  planted  his  cane  in  the 
earth,  near  the  last  footprint  that  had  been  discovered,  and 
Lecoq  and  himself  hunted  all  over  the  ground  around  this 
point,  much  after  the  fashion  of  a  couple  of  bloodhounds  thrown 
off  the  scent.  Then  it  was  that  the  lantern  moved  about  so 
strangely.  More  than  a  dozen  times,  in  spite  of  all  their  efforts, 
they  would  have  lost  the  clue  entirely  had  it  not  been  for  the 
elegant  shoes  worn  by  the  lady  with  the  little  feet.  These  had 
such  small  and  extremely  high  heels  that  the  impression  they 
left  could  not  be  mistaken.  They  sank  down  three  or  four 
inches  in  the  snow,  or  the  mud,  and  their  tell-tale  impress 
remained  as  clear  and  distinct  as  that  of  a  seal. 

Thanks  to  these  heels,  the  pursuers  were  able  to  discover 
that  the  two  fugitives  had  not  gone  up  the  Rue  de  Patay,  as 
might  have  been  supposed.  Probably  they  had  considered  this 
street  too  frequented,  and  too  well  lighted.  They  had  only 
crossed  it,  just  below   the   Rue  de  la  Croix-Rouge,   and   had 


MONSIEUR   LECOQ  35 

profited  by  an  empty  space  between  two  houses  to  regain  the 
open  ground. 

"Certainly  these  women  were  well  acquainted  with  the  local- 
ity," murmured  Lecoq. 

Indeed,  the  topography  of  the  district  evidently  had  no  secrets 
for  them,  for,  on  quitting  the  Rue  de  Patay,  they  had  imme- 
di?tely  turned  to  the  right,  so  as  to  avoid  several  large  excava- 
tions, from  which  a  quantity  of  brick  clay  had  been  dug. 

But  at  last  the  trail  was  recovered,  and  the  detectives  fol- 
lowed it  as  far  as  the  Rue  du  Chevaleret.  Here  the  footprints 
abruptly  ceased.  Lecoq  discovered  eight  or  ten  footmarks  left 
by  the  woman  who  wore  the  broad  shoes,  but  that  was  all. 
Hereabout,  moreover,  the  condition  of  the  ground  was  not  cal- 
culated to  facilitate  an  exploration  of  this  nature.  There  had 
been  a  great  deal  of  passing  to  and  fro  in  the  Rue  du  Cheva- 
leret, and  not  merely  was  there  scarcely  any  snow  left  on  the 
footpaths,  but  the  middle  of  the  street  was  transformed  into  a 
river  of  slush. 

"Did  these  people  recollect  at  last  that  the  snow  might  betray 
them?  Did  they  take  the  middle  of  the  road?"  grumbled  the 
young  police  agent. 

Certainly  they  could  not  have  crossed  to  a  vacant  space  as 
they  had  done  just  before,  for  on  the  other  side  of  the  street 
extended  a  long  factory  wall. 

"Ah !"  sighed  Father  Absinthe,  "we  have  our  labor  for  our 
pains." 

But  Lecoq  possessed  a  temperament  that  refused  to  acknowl- 
edge defeat.  Animated  by  the  cold  anger  of  a  man  who  sees 
the  object  which  he  was  about  to  seize  disappear  from  before 
his  eyes,  he  recommenced  his  search,  and  was  well  repaid  for 
his  efforts. 

"I  understand  !"  he  cried  suddenly,  "I  comprehend — I  see !" 

Father  Absinthe  drew  near.  He  did  not  see  nor  divine  any- 
thing !   but  he  no  longer  doubted  his  companion's  powers. 

"Look  there,"  said  Lecoq ;  "what  are  those  marks  ?" 

"Marks  left  by  the  wheels  of  some  carriage  that  plainly 
turned  here." 

"Very  well,  papa,  these  tracks  explain  everything.  When 
they  reached  this  spot,  our  fugitives  saw  the  light  of  an  ap- 
proaching cab,  which  was  returning  from  the  centre  of  Paris. 
It  was  empty,  and  proved  their  salvation.  They  waited,  and 
when  it  came  nearer  they  hailed  the  driver.     No  doubt  they 


36  MONSIEUR   LECOQ 

promised  him  a  handsome  fare;  this  is  indeed  evident,  since  he 
consented  to  go  back  again.  He  turned  round  here ;  they  got 
into  the  vehicle,  and  that  is  why  the  footprints  go  no  further." 

This  explanation  did  not  please  Lecoq's  companion.  "Have 
we  made  any  great  progress  now  that  we  know  that  ?"  he  asked. 

Lecoq  could  not  restrain  an  impulse  to  shrug  his  shoulders. 
"Did  you  expect  that  the  tracks  made  by  the  fugitives  would 
lead  us  through  Paris  and  up  to  their  verv  doors  ?"  he  asked. 

"Xo;  but—" 

"Then  what  would  you  ask  more?  Do  you  think  that  I 
shall  not  know  how  to  find  this  driver  to-morrow?  He  was 
returning  with  his  empty  vehicle,  his  day's  work  was  ended; 
hence,  his  stable  is  in  the  neighborhood.  Do  you  suppose  that 
he  will  have  forgotten  that  he  took  up  two  persons  in  the  Rue 
du  Chevaleret?  He  will  tell  us  where  he  drove  them;  but  that 
will  not  do  us  any  good,  for,  of  course,  they  will  not  have  given 
him  their  real  address.  But  at  all  events  he  can  probably  give 
us  a  description  of  them,  tell  us  how  they  were  dressed,  describe 
their  appearance,  their  manner,  and  their  age.  And  with  that, 
and  what  we  already  know — " 

An  eloquent  gesture  expressed  the  remainder  of  his  thought, 
then  he  added:  "We  must  now  go  back  to  the  Poivriere,  and 
go  quickly.  And  you,  my  friend,  may  now  extinguish  your 
lantern." 

While  doing  his  best  to  keep  pace  with  his  companion,  who 
was  in  such  haste  to  get  back  to  the  Poivriere  that  he  almost 
ran,  Father  Absinthe's  thoughts  were  as  busy  as  his  legs,  and 
an  entirely  new  train  of  ideas  was  awakened  in  his  mind. 

During  the  twenty-five  years  that  he  had  been  connected 
with  the  police  force,  the  good  man — to  use  his  own  expression 
— had  seen  many  of  his  colleagues  walk  over  him  and  win, 
after  only  a  few  months'  work,  a  promotion  that  his  long  years  of 
service  had  not  gained  for  him.  In  these  cases  he  had  not  failed 
to  accuse  his  superiors  of  injustice,  and  his  fortunate  rivals  of 
gross  flattery.  In  his  opinion,  seniority  was  the  only  claim  to 
advancement — the  only,  the  best,  the  most  respectable  claim ; 
and  he  was  wont  to  sum  up  all  his  opinions,  all  his  grief  and 
bitterness  of  mind  in  one  phrase :  "It  is  infamous  to  pass  over 
an  old  member  of  the  service." 

To-night,  however,  Father  Absinthe  discovered  that  there 
is  something  else  in  the  world  besides  seniority,  and  sufficient 
reasons  for  what  he  had  formerly  regarded  as  favoritism.     He 


MONSIEUR   LECOQ  37 

secretly  confessed  that  this  newcomer  whom  he  had  treated  so 
carelessly  had  just  followed  up  a  clue  as  he.  veteran  though  he 
was,  would  never  have  succeeded  in  doing. 

But  communing  with  himself  was  not  this  good  man's  forte ; 
he  soon  grew  weary  of  reflection ;  and  on  reaching  a  place 
where  they  were  obliged  to  proceed  more  slowly  on  account 
of  the  badness  of  the  road,  he  deemed  it  a  favorable  opportu- 
nity to  resume  the  conversation.  "You  are  silent,  comrade," 
he  ventured  to  remark,  "and  one  might  swear  that  you  were 
not  exactly  pleased." 

This  surprising  result  of  the  old  man's  reflections  would  have 
amazed  Lecoq,  if  his  mind  had  not  been  a  hundred  leagues 
away.     "No,  I  am  not  pleased,"  he  responded. 

''And  whv.  prav?  Onlv  ten  minutes  ago  vou  were  as  gav  as 
a  lark." 

"Then  I  did  not  see  the  misfortune  that  threatens  us." 

"A  misfortune!" 

"A  very  great  misfortune.  Do  you  not  perceive  that  the 
weather  has  undesirably  changed.  It  is  evident  that  the  wind 
is  now  coming  from  the  south.  The  fog  has  disappeared,  but 
the  sky  is  cloudy  and  threatening.  It  will  rain  in  less  than 
an  hour." 

"A  few  drops  are  falling  now;  I  just  felt  one." 

These  words  produced  on  Lecoq  much  the  same  effect  as  a 
whip-up  on  a  spirited  horse.  He  sprang  forward,  and,  adopting 
a  still  more  hurried  pace,  exclaimed:  "Let  us  make  haste!  let 
us  make  haste  !" 

The  old  police  agent  followed  him  as  in  duty  bound;  but  his 
mind  was.  if  possible,  still  more  troubled  by  the  replies  of  his 
young  companion.  A  great  misfortune !  The  wind  from  the 
south  !     Rain !     He  did  not.  he  could  not  see  the  connection. 

Greatly  puzzled,  and  not  a  little  anxious.  Father  Absinthe 
asked  for  an  explanation,  although  he  had  but  little  more 
breath  than  was  absolutely  necessary  to  enable  him  to  continue 
the  forced  march  he  was  making.  "Upon  my  word,"  said  he, 
"I  have  racked  my  brains — " 

His  companion  took  pity  on  his  anxiety.  "What !"  he  ex- 
claimed, as  he  still  hastened  forward,  "you  do  not  understand 
that  our  investigation,  my  success,  and  your  reward,  are  de- 
pendent upon  those  black  clouds  which  the  wind  is  driving 
toward  us !" 

"Oh  r 


38  MONSIEUR   LECOQ 

"Twenty  minutes  of  merely  gentle  rain,  and  our  time  and 
labor  will  be  lost.  If  it  rains,  the  snow  will  melt,  and  then 
farewell  to  our  proofs.  Let  us  get  on — let  us  get  on  more 
quickly !  You  know  very  well  that  in  such  cases  words  don't 
suffice.  If  we  declare  to  the  public  prosecutor  that  we  have 
seen  these  footprints,  he  will  ask,  where?  And  what  can  we 
say?  If  we  swear  by  all  the  gods  that  we  have  seen  the  foot- 
prints of  a  man  and  of  two  women,  the  investigating  magis- 
trate will  say,  'Let  me  see  them.'  And  who  will  feel  sheepish 
then?  Father  Absinthe  and  Lecoq.  Besides,  Gevrol  would  not 
fail  to  declare  that  we  were  saying  what  was  not  true,  in  order 
to  enhance  our  own  value,  and  humiliate  him." 

"What  an  idea !" 

"Faster,  papa,  faster;  you  will  have  all  day  to-morrow  to  be 
indignant.  Perhaps  it  will  not  rain.  In  that  case,  these  per- 
fect, clear,  and  easily  recognizable  footprints  will  prove  the 
culprits'  ruin.  How  can  we  preserve  them?  By  what  process 
could  we  solidify  them?  I  would  deluge  them  with  my  blood 
if  that  could  only  cause  them  to  congeal." 

Father  Absinthe  was  just  then  thinking  that  his  share  of  the 
labor  had  hitherto  been  the  least  important;  for  he  had  merely 
held  the  lantern.  But  here  was  a  chance  for  him  to  acquire 
a  real  and  substantial  right  to  the  prospective  reward.  "I 
know  a  method,"  said  he,  "by  which  one  could  preserve  these 
marks  in  the  snow." 

At  these  words  the  younger  man  stopped  short.  "You  know 
— you?"  he  interrupted. 

"Yes,  I  know,"  replied  the  old  detective,  with  the  evident 
satisfaction  of  a  man  who  has  gained  his  revenge.  "They 
invented  a  way  at  the  time  of  that  affair  at  the  Maison  Blanche, 
last  December." 

"I  recollect." 

"Ah !  well,  on  the  snow  in  the  courtyard  there  was  a  foot- 
print that  attracted  a  detective's  attention.  He  said  that  the 
whole  evidence  depended  on  that  mark  alone,  that  it  was 
worth  more  than  ten  years'  hard  work  in  following  up  the 
case.  Naturally,  he  desired  to  preserve  it.  They  sent  for  a 
great  chemist — " 

"Go  on,  go  on." 

"I  have  never  seen  the  method  put  into  prastise,  but  an  expert 
told  me  all  about  it,  and  showed  me  the  mold  they  obtained. 
He  explained  it  to  me  precisely,  on  account  of  my  profession." 


MONSIEUR    LECOQ  39 

Lecoq  was  trembling  with  impatience.  "And  how  did  they 
obtain  the  mold?"  he  asked  abruptly. 

"Wait:  I  was  just  going  to  explain.  They  take  some  of  the 
best  gelatine,  and  allow  it  to  soak  in  cold  water.  When  it 
becomes  thoroughly  softened,  they  heat  it  until  it  forms  a 
liquid,  of  moderate  consistency.  Then  when  it  is  just  cool 
enough,  they  pour  a  nice  little  covering  of  it  upon  the  foot- 
print. 

Lecoq  felt  the  irritation  that  is  natural  to  a  person  who  has 
just  heard  a  bad  joke,  or  who  has  lost  his  time  in  listening  to 
a  fool. 

"Enough !"  he  interrupted,  angrily.  "That  method  can  be 
found  in  all  the  manuals.  It  is  excellent,  no  doubt,  but  how  can 
it  serve  us?    Have  you  any  gelatine  about  you?" 

"No." 

"Nor  have  I.  You  might  as  well  have  counseled  me  to  pour 
melted  lead  upon  the  footprints  to  fix  them." 

They  continued  their  way,  and  five  minutes  later,  without 
having  exchanged  another  word,  they  reentered  the  Widow 
Chupin's  hovel.  The  first  impulse  of  the  older  man  would  have 
been  to  rest  to  breathe,  but  Lecoq  did  not  give  him  time  to 
do  so. 

"Make  haste:  get  me  a  dish — a  plate — anything!"  cried  the 
young  detective,  "and  bring  me  some  water;  gather  together 
all  the  boards  and  old  boxes  you  can  find  lying  about." 

While  his  companion  was  obeying  him,  Lecoq  armed  him- 
self with  a  fragment  of  one  of  the  broken  bottle's,  and  began 
scraping  away  furiously  at  the  plastered  wall  that  separated 
the  two  rooms. 

His  mind  disconcerted  at  first  by  the  imminence  of  this 
unexpected  catastrophe,  a  fall  of  rain,  had  now  regained 
its  equilibrium.  He  had  reflected,  he  had  thought  of  a  way 
by  which  failure  might  possibly  be  averted — and  he  hoped  for 
ultimate  success.  When  he  had  accumulated  some  seven  or 
eight  handfuls  of  fine  plaster  dust,  he  mixed  one-half  with  a 
little  water  so  as  to  form  a  thin  paste,  leaving  the  rest  un- 
touched on  the  side  of  the  plate. 

"Now,  papa,"  said  he,  "come  and  hold  the  light  for  me." 

When  in  the  garden,  the  young  man  sought  for  the  deepest 
and  most  distinct  of  the  footprints,  knelt  beside  it,  and  began 
his  experiment,  trembling  with  anxiety.  He  first  sprinkled 
upon  the  impression  a  fine  coating  of  dry  plaster,   and  then 


40 


MONSIEUR   LECOQ 


upon  this  coating,  with  infinite  care,  he  poured  his  liquid  solu- 
tion drop  by  drop. 

What  luck !  the  experiment  was  successful !  The  plaster 
united  in  a  homogeneous  mass,  forming  a  perfect  model  of  the 
impression.  Thus,  after  an  hour's  labor,  Lecoq  possessed  half 
a  dozen  of  these  casts,  which  might,  perhaps,  be  a  little  wanting 
in  clearness  of  outline,  but  which  were  quite  perfect  enough 
to  be  used  as  evidence. 

The  young  detective's  alarm  had  been  well  founded,  for  it 
was  already  beginning  to  rain.  Still,  he  had  plenty  of  time  to 
cover  a  number  of  the  footprints  with  the  boxes  and  pieces  of 
board  which  Father  Absinthe  had  collected,  thus  placing  them, 
as  it  were,  beyond  the  reach  of  a  thaw.  Now  he  could  breathe. 
The  authorities  might  come,  for  the  most  important  part  of  his 
task  was  completed. 


IT  was  some  distance  from  the  Poivriere  to  the  Rue  de 
■*■  Chevaleret,  even  by  way  of  the  plain,  and  fully  four  hours 
had  been  occupied  by  Lecoq  and  his  colleague  in  collecting 
their  elements  of  information. 

All  this  while,  the  Widow  Chupin's  abode  had  remained 
open,  accessible  to  any  chance  visitor.  Still,  when,  on  his 
return,  the  young  police  agent  remembered  this  neglect  of  ele- 
mentary precautions,  he  did  not  feel  alarmed.  Considering  all 
the  circumstances,  it  was  very  difficult  to  believe  that  any  seri- 
ous harm  could  have  resulted  from  this  carelessness. 

For  who  would  have  been  likely  to  visit  this  drinking-den 
after  midnight?  Its  bad  name  served  the  purpose  of  a  bul- 
wark. The  most  daring  vagrants  did  not  drink  there  without 
some  disquietude,  fearing  that  if  the  liquor  caused  them  to  lose 
consciousness,  they  might  be  robbed  or  perhaps  even  mur- 
dered. Hence,  if  any  one  had  been  attracted  to  this  notori- 
ously dangerous  drinking-shop  by  the  light  that  streamed 
through  the  open  door,  it  could  only  have  been  some  very 
reckless  person   returning  late  at  night   from  the  ball  at  the 


MONSIEUR   LECOQ  41 

Rainbow,  with  a  few  so^us  left  in  his  pocket.  But,  even  then, 
a  single  glance  inside  would  have  sufficed  to  put  the  bravest 
to  flight. 

In  less  than  a  second  the  young  police  agent  had  weighed 
all  these  possibilities,  concerning  which  he  did  not  breathe  a 
word  to  Father  Absinthe.  When,  little  by  little,  the  excite- 
ment caused  by  his  successive  hopes  and  disappointments,  and 
by  the  accomplishment  of  the  experiment  with  the  footprints 
had  died  away,  and  he  had  regained  his  usual  calm  of  mind, 
he  made  a  careful  inspection  of  the  abode,  and  was  by  no  means 
satisfied  with  himself.  He  had  experimented  upon  Father  Ab- 
sinthe with  his  new  system  of  investigation,  just  as  an  aspiring 
orator  tries  his  powers  before  his  least  gifted  friends,  not 
before  the  cleverest.  He  had  certainly  overwhelmed  the  old 
veteran  by  his  superiority;  he  had  literally  crushed  him.  But 
what  great  merit,  what  wonderful  victory  was  this?  Why 
should  he  boast  of  having  outwitted  Father  Absinthe,  one  of 
the  least  sagacious  men  in  the  service? 

If  he  could  only  have  given  some  startling  proofs  of  his 
energy  or  of  his  penetration !  But,  after  all,  what  had  he 
accomplished?  Was  the  mystery  solved?  Was  his  success 
more  than  problematical?  When  one  thread  is  drawn  out,  the 
skein  is  not  untangled.  This  night  would  undoubtedly  decide 
his  future  as  a  detective,  so  he  swore  that  if  he  could  not 
conquer  his  vanity,  he  would,  at  least,  compel  himself  to  con- 
ceal it.  Hence,  it  was  in  a  very  modest  tone  that  he  said  to  his 
companion :  "We  have  done  all  that  we  can  do  outside,  now, 
would  it  not  be  wise  to  busy  ourselves  with  the  inside  of 
the   house  ?" 

Everything  looked  exactly  in  the  same  state  as  when  the  two 
men  left  the  room.  A  candle,  with  a  charred  smoking  wick, 
cast  its  flickering  light  upon  the  same  scene  of  disorder,  reveal- 
ing to  view  the  rigid  features  of  the  three  victims.  Without 
losing  a  moment,  Lecoq  began  to  pick  up  and  study  the  vari- 
ous objects  scattered  over  the  floor.  Some  of  these  still  re- 
mained intact.  The  Widow  Chupin  had  recoiled  from  the 
expense  of  a  tiled  floor,  judging  the  bare  ground  upon  which 
the  cabin  was  built  quite  good  enough  for  the  feet  of  her  cus- 
tomers. This  ground,  which  must  originally  have  been  well 
beaten  down,  had,  by  constant  use  and  damp,  become  well- 
nigh  as  muddy  as  the  soil  outside. 

The  first  fruits  of  Lecoq's  search  were  a  large  salad-bowl 


42  MONSIEUR   LECOQ 

and  a  big  iron  spoon,  the  latter  so  twisjed  and  bent  that  it  had 
evidently  been  used  as  a  weapon  during  the  conflict.  On  in- 
specting the  bowl,  it  became  evident  that  when  the  quarrel 
began  the  victims  were  regaling  themselves  with  the  familiar 
mixture  of  water,  wine,  and  sugar,  known  round  about  the 
barrieres  as  vin  a  la  Franqaise.  After  the  salad-bowl,  the  two 
men  picked  up  five  of  the  weighty  glasses  ordinarily  used  in 
wine-shops,  and  which,  while  looking  as  though  they  would 
contain  half  a  bottle,  are  in  point  of  fact  so  thick  at  the  bottom 
that  they  hold  next  to  nothing.  Three  of  these  glasses  were 
broken,  two  were  whole.  All  of  them  had  contained  wine — the 
same  vin  a  la  Franqaise.  This  was  plain,  but  for  greater  surety, 
Lecoq  applied  his  tongue  to  the  bluish  mixture  remaining  in  the 
bottom  of  each  glass.  "The  deuce  !"  he  muttered,  with  an  aston^ 
ished  air. 

Then  he  examined  successively  the  surfaces  of  the  three  over- 
turned tables.  Upon  one  of  these,  the  one  nearest  the  fireplace 
and  the  window,  the  still  wet  marks  of  the  five  glasses,  of  the 
salad-bowl,  and  even  of  the  spoons  could  be  distinguished. 
Lecoq  very  properly  regarded  this  circumstance  as  a  matter  of 
the  greatest  importance,  for  it  proved  clearly  enough  that  five 
persons  had  emptied  the  salad-bowl  in  company.  Who  were 
these  five  persons? 

"Oh!  oh!"  suddenly  exclaimed  lecoq  in  two  entirely  dif- 
ferent tones.  "Then  the  two  women  could  not  have  been  with 
the  murderer !" 

A  very  simple  mode  of  discovery  had  presented  itself  to  his 
mind.  It  was  to  ascertain  if  there  were  any  other  glasses,  and 
what  they  had  contained.  After  a  fresh  search  on  the  floor,  a 
sixth  glass  was  found,  similar  in  form  to  the  others,  but  much 
smaller.  Its  smell  showed  that  it  had  contained  brandy.  Then 
these  two  women  had  not  been  with  the  murderer,  and  there- 
fore he  could  not  have  fought  because  the  other  men  had  in- 
sulted them.  This  discovery  proved  the  inaccuracy  of  Lecoq's 
original  suppositions.  It  was  an  unexpected  check,  and  he  was 
mourning  over  it  in  silence,  when  Father  Absinthe,  who  had 
not  ceased  ferreting  about,  uttered  a  cry  of  surprise. 

The  young  man  turned;  he  saw  that  his  companion  had  be- 
come very  pale.    "What  is  it?"  he  asked. 

"Some  one  has  been  here  in  our  absence." 

"Impossible !" 

It  was  not  impossible — it  was  true.    When  Gevrol  had  torn 


MONSIEUR   LECOQ  43 

the  apron  off  Widow  Chupin's  head  he  had  thrown  it  upon  the 
steps  of  the  stairs;  neither  of  the  police  agents  had  since 
touched  it.  And  yet  the  pockets  of  this  apron  were  now  turned 
inside  out;  this  was  a  proof,  this  was  evidence.  At  this  dis- 
covery Lecoq  was  overcome  with  consternation,  and  the  con- 
traction of  his  features  revealed  the  struggle  going  on  in  his 
mind.  "Who  could  have  been  here?"  he  murmured.  "Rob- 
bers?   That  is  improbable." 

Then,  after  a  long  silence  which  his  companion  took  good 
care  not  to  interrupt,  he  added :  "The  person  who  came  here, 
who  dared  to  penetrate  into  this  abode  and  face  the  corpses  of 
these  murdered  men — this  person  could  have  been  none  other 
than  the  accomplice.  But  it  is  not  enough  to  suspect  this,  it  is 
necessary  to  know  it.     I  must — I  will  know  it !" 

They  searched  for  a  long  time,  and  it  was  not  until  after  an 
hour  of  earnest  work  that,  in  front  of  the  door  forced  open  by 
the  police,  they  discovered  in  the  mud,  just  inside  the  marks 
made  by  Gevrol's  tread,  a  footprint  that  bore  a  close  resem- 
blance to  those  left  by  the  man  who  had  entered  the  garden. 
They  compared  the  impressions  and  recognized  the  same 
designs  formed  by  the  nails  upon  the  sole  of  the  boot. 

"It  must  have  been  the  accomplice !"  exclaimed  Lecoq.  "He 
watched  us,  he  saw  us  go  away,  and  then  he  entered.  But 
why?  What  pressing,  irresistible  necessity  made  him  decide 
to  brave  such  imminent  danger?"  He  seized  his  companion's 
hand,  nearly  crushing  it  in  his  excitement :  "Ah  !  I  know  why !" 
continued  he,  violently.  "I  understand  only  too  well.  Some 
article  that  would  have  served  to  throw  light  on  this  horrible 
affair  had  been  left  or  forgotten,  or  lost  here,  and  to  obtain  it, 
to  find  it,  he  decided  to  run  this  terrible  risk.  And  to  think 
that  it  was  my  fault,  my  fault  alone,  that  this  convincing  proof 
escaped  us  !  And  I  thought  myself  so  shrewd !  What  a  lesson ! 
The  door  should  have  been  locked ;  any  fool  would  have 
thought  of  it — "  Here  he  checked  himself,  and  remained  with 
open  mouth  and  distended  eyes,  pointing  with  his  finger  to  one 
of  the  corners  of  the  room. 

"What  is  the  matter?"  asked  his  frightened  companion. 

Lecoq  made  no  reply,  but  slowly,  and  with  the  stiff  move- 
ments of  a  somnambulist,  he  approached  the  spot  to  which  he 
had  pointed,  stooped,  picked  up  something,  and  said :  "My  folly 
is  not  deserving  of  such  luck." 

The   object  he   had   found   was  an  earring   composed   of  a 


44  MONSIEUR   LECOQ 

single  large  diamond.  The  setting  was  of  marvelous  work- 
manship. "This  diamond,"  declared  Lecoq,  after  a  moment's 
examination,  "must  be  worth  at  least  five  or  six  thousand 
francs." 

"Are  you  in  earnest?" 
"I  think  I  could  swear  to  it." 

He  would  not  have  troubled  about  such  a  preamble  as  "I 
think"  a  few  hours  before,  but  the  blunder  he  had  made  was 
a  lesson  that  would  not  be  forgotten  so  long  as  he  lived. 

"Perhaps  it  was  that  same  diamond  earring  that  the  accom- 
plice came  to  seek,"  ventured  Father  Absinthe. 

"The  supposition  is  scarcely  admissible.  In  that  case,  he 
would  not  have  sought  for  it  in  Mother  Chupin's  apron.  No, 
he  must  have  been  seeking  for  something  else — a  letter,  for 
example." 

The  older  man  was  not  listening;  he  had  taken  the  earring, 
and  was  examining  it  in  his  turn.  "And  to  think,"  he  mur- 
mured, astonished  by  the  brilliancy  of  the  stone,  "to  think  that 
a  woman  who  had  ten  thousand  francs'  worth  of  jewels  in  her 
ears  would  have  come  to  the  Poivriere.  Who  would  have 
believed  it?" 

Lecoq  shook  his  head  thoughtfully.  "Yes,  it  is  very  strange, 
very  improbable,  very  absurd.  And  yet  we  shall  see  many 
things  quite  as  strange  if  we  ever  arrive — which  I  very  much 
doubt — at  a  solution  of  this  mysterious  affair." 

Day  was  breaking,  cold,  cheerless,  and  gloomy,  when  Lecoq 
and  his  colleague  concluded  their  investigation.  There  was  not 
an  inch  of  space  that  had  not  been  explored,  carefully  examined 
and  studied,  one  might  almost  say,  with  a  magnifying  glass. 
There  now  only  remained  to  draw  up  the  report. 

The  younger  man  seated  himself  at  the  table,  and,  with  the 
view  of  making  his  recital  as  intelligible  as  possible,  he  began 
by  sketching  a  plan  of  the  scene  of  the  murder. 

It  will  be  seen  that  in  the  memoranda  appended  to  this  ex- 
planatory diagram,  Lecoq  had  not  once  written  his  own  name. 
In  noting  the  things  that  he  had  imagined  or  discovered,  he 
referred  to  himself  simply  as  one  of  the  police.  This  was  not 
so  much  modesty  as  calculation.  By  hiding  one's  self  on  well- 
chosen  occasions,  one  gains  greater  notoriety  when  one  emerges 
from  the  shade.  It  was  also  through  cunning  that  he  gave 
Gevrol  such  a  prominent  position.  These  tactics,  rather  subtle, 
perhaps,  but  after  all  perfectly  fair,  could  not  fail  to  call  atten- 


MONSIEUR    LECOQ 


45 


X. — The  point  where  the  squad  of  police,  under  the  command  of  Inspector 
Gevrol,  heard  the  cries  of  the  victims. 

(The  distance  from  this  point  to  the  wine-shop  known  as  the  Poivriere,  is 
only  one  hundred  and  twenty-three  yards;  hence,  it  may  reasonably  be  sup- 
posed that  these  cries  were  the  first  that  were  uttered,  and  consequently  that 
the  conflict  had  just  commenced.) 

H. — The  window  closed  with  shutters,  through  the  cracks  of  which  one  ot 
the  police  agents  was  able  to  see  the  scene  within. 

(5. — The  door  forced  open  by  Inspector  Gevrol. 

D.— -The  staircase  upon  which  the   Widow  Chupin  was  seated,  crying. 

(It  was  upon  the  third  step  of  this  staircase  that  the  Widow  Chupin  s  apron 
was  afterward  found,  the  pockets  turned  kiside  out.) 

F. — Fireplace. 

HHH.— Tables. 

(The  remnants  of  the  salad-bowl  and  of  the  five  glasses  were  found  scat- 
tered on  the  floor  between  the  points  F  and  B.) 

T. — Door  communicating  with  the  back  room  of  the  hovel,  before  which 
the  armed  murderer  was  standing  with  the  table  H  before   hira  as  a  rampart. 

K. — Back  door  of  the  hut,  opening  into  the  garden,  by  which  the  agent 
of  police  who  thought  of  cutting  off  the  murderer's  retreat,  entered  and 
secured  him. 

L. — Gate  of  the  garden,  opening  upon  the  unoccupied  ground. 

MM. — Footprints  on  the  snow,  discovered  by  the  police  agent  remaining 
at  the   Poivriere,   after  the  departure  of  Inspector  Gevrol. 


tion  to  the  man  who  had  shown  himself  so  efficient  when  the 
efforts  of  his  chief  had  been  merely  confined  to  breaking  open 
the  door. 

The  document  Lecoq  drew  up  was  not  a  proces-verbal,  a 
formal  act  reserved  for  the  officers  of  judiciary  police;  it  was 
a  simple  report,  that  would  be  admitted  under  the  title  of  an 
inquiry,  and  yet  the  young  detective  composed  it  with  quite 
as  much  care  as  a  general  would  have  displayed  in  drawing  up 
the  bulletin  of  his  first  victory. 


46  MONSIEUR   LECOQ 

While  Lecoq  was  drawing  and  writing,  Father  Absinthe 
leaned  over  his  shoulder  to  watch  him.  The  plan  amazed  that 
worthy  man.  He  had  seen  a  great  deal;  but  he  had  always 
supposed  that  it  was  necessary  to  be  an  engineer,  an  architect, 
or,  at  least,  a  carpenter,  to  execute  such  work.  Not  at  all. 
With  a  tape-line  with  which  to  take  some  measurements,  and 
a  bit  of  board  in  place  of  a  rule,  his  inexperienced  colleague 
had  soon  accomplished  the  miracle.  Father  Absinthe's  respect 
for  Lecoq  was  thereby  greatly  augmented.  It  is  true  that  the 
worthy  veteran  had  not  noticed  the  explosion  of  the  young 
police  agent's  vanity,  nor  his  return  to  his  former  modest 
demeanor.  He  had  not  observed  his  alarm,  nor  his  perplexity, 
nor  his  lack  of  penetration. 

After  a  few  moments,  Father  Absinthe  ceased  watching  his 
companion.  He  felt  weary  after  the  labors  of  the  night,  his 
head  was  burning,  and  he  shivered  and  his  knees  trembled. 
Perhaps,  though  he  was  by  no  means  sensitive,  he  felt  the  in- 
fluence of  the  horrors  that  surrounded  him,  and  which  seemed 
more  sinister  than  ever  in  the  bleak  light  of  morning.  He 
began  to  ferret  in  the  cupboards,  and  at  last  succeeded  in 
discovering — oh,  marvelous  fortune  ! — a  bottle  of  brandy,  three 
parts  full.  He  hesitated  for  an  instant,  then  he  poured  out  a 
glass,  and  drained  it  at  a  single  draft. 

"Will  you  have  some?"  he  inquired  of  his  companion.  "It 
is  not  a  very  famous  brand,  to  be  sure ;  but  it  is  just  as  good, 
it  makes  one's  blood  circulate  and  enlivens  one." 

Lecoq  refused ;  he  did  not  need  to  be  enlivened.  All  his. 
faculties  were  hard  at  work.  He  intended  that,  after  a  single 
perusal  of  his  report,  the  investigating  magistrate  should  say: 
"Let  the  officer  who  drew  up  this  document  be  sent  for."  It 
must  be  remembered  that  Lecoq's  future  depended  upon  such 
an  order.  Accordingly,  he  took  particular  care  to  be  brief, 
clear,  and  concise,  to  plainly  indicate  how  his  suspicions  on  the 
subject  of  the  murder  had  been  aroused,  how  they  had  in- 
creased, and  how  they  had  been  confirmed.  He  explained  by 
what  series  of  deductions  he  had  succeeded  in  establishing 
a  theory  which,  if  it  was  not  the  truth,  was  at  least  plausible 
enough  to  serve  as  the  basis  for  further  investigation. 

Then  he  enumerated  the  articles  of  conviction  ranged  on  the 
table  before  him.  There  were  the  flakes  of  brown  wool  col- 
lected upon  the  plank,  the  valuable  earring,  the  models  of  the 
different   footprints   in  the   garden,   and   the   Widow   Chupin's 


MONSIEUR    LECOQ  47 

apron  with  its  pockets  turned  inside  out.  There  was  also  the 
murderer's  revolver,  with  two  barrels  discharged  and  three  still 
load«d.  This  weapon,  although  not  of  an  ornamental  charac- 
ter, was  still  a  specimen  of  highly  finished  workmanship.  It 
bore  the  name  of  one  Stephens,  14  Skinner  Street,  a  well-known 
London  gunsmith. 

Lecoq  felt  convinced  that  by  examining  the  bodies  of  the 
victims  he  would  obtain  other  and  perhaps  very  valuable  in- 
formation ;  but  he  did  not  dare  venture  upon  such  a  course. 
Besides  his  own  inexperience  in  such  a  matter,  there  was 
Gevrol  to  be  thought  of,  and  the  inspector,  furious  at  his  own 
mistake,  would  not  fail  to  declare  that,  by  changing  the  atti- 
tude of  the  bodies,  Lecoq  had  rendered  a  satisfactory  examina- 
tion by  the  physicians  impossible. 

The  young  detective  accordingly  tried  to  console  himself 
for  his  forced  inaction  in  this  respect,  and  he  was  rereading 
his  report,  modifying  a  few  expressions,  when  Father  Absinthe, 
who  was  standing  upon  the  threshold  of  the  outer  door,  called 
to  him. 

"Is  there  anything  new?"  asked  Lecoq. 

"Yes,"  was  the  reply.  "Here  come  Gevrol  and  two  of 
our  comrades  with  the  commissary  of  police  and  two  other 
gentlemen." 

It  was,  indeed,  the  commissary  who  was  approaching,  inter- 
ested but  not  disturbed  by  this  triple  murder  which  was  sure 
to  make  his  arrondissement  the  subject  of  Parisian  conversation 
during  the  next  few  days.  Why,  indeed,  should  he  be  troubled 
about  it  ?  For  Gevrol,  whose  opinion  in  such  matters  might  be 
regarded  as  an  authority,  had  taken  care  to  reassure  him  when 
he  went  to  arouse  him  from  his  slumbers. 

"It  was  only  a  fight  between  some  old  offenders;  former  jail 
birds,  habitues  of  the  Poivriere,"  he  had  said,  adding  senten- 
tiously :  "If  all  these  ruffians  would  kill  one  another,  we  might 
have  some  little  peace." 

He  added  that  as  the  murderer  had  been  arrested  and  placed 
in  confinement,  there  was  nothing  urgent  about  the  case.  Ac- 
cordingly, the  commissary  thought  there  was  no  harm  in  taking 
another  nap  and  waiting  until  morning  before  beginning  the 
inquiry.  He  had  seen  the  murderer,  reported  the  case  to  the 
prefecture,  and  now  he  was  coming — leisurely  enough — accom- 
panied by  two  physicians,  appointed  by  the  authorities  to  draw 
up  a  medico-legal   report  in   all   such   cases.     The  party   also 


48  MONSIEUR   LECOQ 

comprised  a  sergeant-major  of  the  53d  regiment  of  infantry  of 
the  line,  who  had  been  summoned  by  the  commissary  to  iden- 
tify, if  possible,  the  murdered  man  who  wore  a  uniform,  for 
if  one  might  believe  the  number  engraved  upon  the  buttons  of 
his  overcoat,  he  belonged  to  the  53d  regiment,  now  stationed 
at  the  neighboring  fort. 

As  the  party  approached  it  was  evident  that  Inspector  Gevrol 
was  even  less  disturbed  than  the  commissary.  He  whistled  as 
he  walked  along,  flourishing  his  cane,  which  never  left  his 
hand,  and  already  laughing  in  his  sleeve  over  the  discomfiture 
of  the  presumptuous  fool  who  had  desired  to  remain  to  glean, 
where  he,  the  experienced  and  skilful  officer,  had  perceived 
nothing.  As  soon  as  he  was  within  speaking  distance,  the 
inspector  called  to  Father  Absinthe,  who,  after  warning  Lecoq, 
remained  on  the  threshold,  leaning  against  the  door-post,  puffing 
his  pipe,  as  immovable  as  a  sphinx. 

"Ah,  well,  old  man !"  cried  Gevrol,  "have  you  any  great 
melodrama,  very  dark  and  very  mysterious,  to  relate  to  us?" 

"I  have  nothing  to  relate  myself,"  replied  the  old  detective, 
without  even  drawing  his  pipe  from  his  lips,  "I  am  too  stupid, 
that  is  perfectly  understood.  But  Monsieur  Lecoq  will  tell  you 
something  that  will  astonish  you." 

The  prefix,  "monsieur,"  which  the  old  police  agent  used  in 
speaking  of  his  colleague,  displeased  Gevrol  so  much  that  he 
pretended  not  to  understand.  "Who  are  you  speaking  of?"  he 
asked  abruptly. 

"Of  my  colleague,  of  course,  who  is  now  busy  finishing  his 
report — of  Monsieur  Lecoq."  Quite  unintentionally,  the  worthy 
fellow  had  certainly  become  the  young  police  agent's  godfather. 
From  that  day  forward,  for  his  enemies  as  well  as  for  his 
friends,  he  was  and  he  remained  "Monsieur"  Lecoq. 

"Ah !  ah  !"  said  the  inspector,  whose  hearing  was  evidently 
impaired.     "Ah,  he  has  discovered — " 

"The  pot  of  roses  which  others  did  not  scent,  General."  By 
this  remark,  Father  Absinthe  made  an  enemy  of  his  supe- 
rior officer.  But  he  cared  little  for  that:  Lecoq  had  become 
his  deity,  and  no  matter  what  the  future  might  reserve,  the 
old  veteran  had  resolved  to  follow  his  young  colleague's 
fortunes. 

"We'll  see  about  that,"  murmured  the  inspector,  mentally 
resolving  to  have  an  eye  on  this  youth  whom  success  might 
transform  into  a  rival.     He  said  no  more,  for  the  little  party 


MONSIEUR    LECOQ  49 

which  he  preceded  had  now  overtaken  him,  and  he  stood  aside 
to  make  way  for  the  commissary  of  police. 

This  commissary  was  far  from  being  a  novice.  He  had 
served  for  many  years,  and  yet  he  could  not  repress  a  gesture 
of  horror  as  he  entered  the  Poivriere.  The  sergeant-major  of 
me  53d,  who  followed  him,  an  old  soldier,  dtcorated  and  medaled 
— who  had  smelt  powder  many  scores  of  times — was  still  more 
overcome.  He  grew  as  pale  as  the  corpses  lying  on  the  ground, 
and  was  obliged  to  lean  against  the  wall  for  support.  The  two 
physicians  alone  retained  their  stoical  indifference. 

Lecoq  had  risen,  his  report  in  his  hand ;  he  bowed,  and 
assuming  a  respectful  attitude,  was  waiting  to  be  questioned. 

"You  must  have  passed  a  frightful  night,"  said  the  commis- 
sary, kindly ;  "and  quite  unnecessarily,  since  any  investigation 
was  superfluous." 

"I  think,  however,"  replied  the  young  police  agent,  having 
recourse  to  all  his  diplomacy,  "that  my  time  has  not  been 
entirely  lost.  I  have  acted  according  to  the  instructions  of  my 
superior  officer ;  I  have  searched  the  premises  thoroughly,  and 
I  have  ascertained  many  things.  I  have,  for  example,  acquired 
the  certainty  that  the  murderer  had  a  friend,  possibly  an  ac- 
complice, of  whom  I  can  give  quite  a  close  description.  He 
must  have  been  of  middle  age,  and  wore,  if  I  am  not  mistaken, 
a  soft  cap  and  a  brown  woolen  overcoat :  as  for  his  boots — " 

"Zounds !"  exclaimed  Gevrol,  "and  I — "  He  stopped  short, 
like  a  man  whose  impulse  had  exceeded  his  discretion,  and  who 
would  have  gladly  recalled  his  words. 

"And  you?"  inquired  the  commissary,  "pray,  what  do  you 
mean  ?" 

The  inspector  had  gone  too  far  to  draw  back,  and,  unwit- 
tingly, was  now  obliged  to  act  as  his  own  executioner.  "I  was 
about  to  mention,"  he  said,  "that  this  morning,  an  hour  or  so 
ago,  while  I  was  waiting  for  you,  sir,  before  the  station-house, 
at  the  Barriere  d'ltalie,  where  the  murderer  is  confined,  I 
noticed  close  by  an  individual  whose  appearance  was  not  unlike 
that  of  the  man  described  by  Lecoq.  This  man  seemed  to  be 
very  intoxicated,  for  he  reeled  and  staggered  against  the  walls. 
He  tried  to  cross  the  street,  but  fell  down  in  the  middle  of  it, 
in  such  a  position  that  he  would  inevitably  have  been  crushed 
by  the  first  passing  vehicle." 

Lecoq  turned  away  his  head;  he  did  not  wish  them  to  read 
in  his  eyes  how  perfectly  he  understood  the  whole  game. 
3— Vol.  I— Gab. 


50  MONSIEUR    LECOQ 

"Seeing  this,"  pursued  Gevrol,  "I  called  two  men  and  asked 
them  to  aid  me  in  raising  the  poor  devil.  We  went  up  to  him ; 
he  had  apparently  fallen  asleep:  we  shook  him — we  made  him 
sit  up;  we  told  him  that  he  could  not  remain  there,  but  he 
immediately  flew  into  a  furious  rage.  He  swore  at  us,  threat- 
ened us,  and  began  fighting  us.  And,  on  my  word,  we  had  to 
take  him  to  the  station-house,  and  leave  him  there  to  recover 
from  the  effects  of  his  drunken  debauch." 

"Did  you  shut  him  up  in  the  same  cell  with  the  murderer?" 
inquired  Lecoq. 

"Naturally.  You  know  very  well  that  there  are  only  two 
cages  in  the  station-house  at  the  barriere — one  for  men  and  the 
other  for  women ;  consequently — " 

The  commissary  seemed  thoughtful.  "Ah !  that's  very  unfor- 
tunate," he  stammered;  "and  there  is  no  remedy." 

"Excuse  me,  there  is  one,"  observed  Gevrol,  "I  can  send 
one  of  my  men  to  the  station-house  with  an  order  to  detain  the 
drunken  man — " 

Lecoq  interposed  with  a  gesture:  "Trouble  lost,"  he  said 
coldly.  "If  this  individual  is  an  accomplice,  he  has  got  sober 
by  now — rest  assured  of  that,  and  is  already  far  away." 

"Then  what  is  to  be  done?"  asked  the  inspector,  with  an 
ironical  air.  "May  one  be  permitted  to  ask  the  advice  of 
Monsieur  Lecoq." 

"I  think  chance  offered  us  a  splendid  opportunity,  and  we 
did  not  know  how  to  seize  it;  and  that  the  best  thing  we  can 
do  now  is  to  give  over  mourning,  and  prepare  to  profit  by  the 
next  opportunity  that  presents  itself." 

Gevrol  was,  however,  determined  to  send  one  of  his  men  to 
the  station-house ;  and  it  was  not  until  the  messenger  had 
started  that  Lecoq  commenced  the  reading  of  his  report.  He 
read  it  rapidly,  refraining  as  much  as  possible  from  placing 
the  decisive  proofs  in  strong  relief,  reserving  these  for  his  own 
benefit ;  but  so  strong  was  the  logic  of  his  deductions  that  he 
was  frequently  interrupted  by  approving  remarks  from  the  com- 
missary and  the  two  physicians. 

Gevrol,  who  alone  represented  the  opposition,  shrugged  his 
shoulders  till  they  were  well-nigh  dislocated,  and  grew  literally 
green  with  jealousy. 

"I  think  that  you  alone,  young  man,  have  judged  correctly 
in  this  affair,"  said  the  commissary  when  Lecoq  had  finished 
reading.    "I  may  be  mistaken ;  but  your  explanations  have  made 


MONSIEUR    LECOQ 


51 


me  alter  my  opinion  concerning  the  murderer's  attitude  while 
I  was  questioning  him  (which  was  only  for  a  moment).  He 
refused,  obstinately  refused,  to  answer  my  questions,  and 
wouldn't  even  give  me  his  name." 

The  commissary  was  silent  for  a  moment,  reviewing  the  past 
circumstances  in  his  mind,  and  it  was  in  a  serious  tone  that  he 
eventually  added :  "We  are,  I  feel  convinced,  in  presence  of 
one  of  those  mysterious  crimes  the  causes  of  which  are  beyond 
the  reach  of  human  sagacity — this  strikes  me  as  being  one  of 
those  enigmatical  cases  which  human  justice  never  can  reach." 

Lecoq  made  no  audible  rejoinder;  but  he  smiled  to  himself 
and  thought:  "We  will  see  about  that." 


"^T  O  consultation  held  at  the  bedside  of  a  dying  man  ever  took 
■^  place  in  the  presence  of  two  physicians  so  utterly  unlike 
each  other  as  those  who  accompanied  the  commissary  of  police 
to  the  Poivriere. 

One  of  them,  a  tall  old  man  with  a  bald  head,  wearing  a 
broad-brimmed  hat,  and  an  overcoat  of  antique  cut,  was 
evidently  one  of  those  modest  savants  encountered  occasionally 
in  the  byways  of  Paris — one  of  those  healers  devoted  to  their 
art,  who  too  often  die.  in  obscurity,  after  rendering  immense 
services  to  mankind.  He  had  the  gracious  calmness  of  a 
man  who,  having  seen  so  much  of  human  misery,  has  noth- 
ing left  to  learn,  and  no  troubled  conscience  could  have 
possibly  sustained  his  searching  glance,  which  was  as  keen 
as  his  lancet. 

His  colleague — young,  fresh-looking,  light-haired,  and  jovial 
— was  somewhat  foppishly  attired ;  and  his  white  hands  were 
encased  in  handsome  fur  gloves.  There  was  a  soft  self-satisfied 
smile  on  his  face,  and  he  had  the  manners  of  those  practitioners 
who,  for  profit's  sake,  invariably  recommend  the  infallible 
panaceas  invented  each  month  in  chemical  laboratories  and 
advertised  ad  nauseam  in  the  back  pages  of  newspapers.  He 
had  probably  written  more  than  one  article  upon  "Medicine  for 


52  MONSIEUR   LECOQ 

the  use  of  the  people"  ;  puffing  various  mixtures,  pills,  ointments, 
and  plasters  for  the  benefit  of  their  respective  inventors. 

"I  will  request  you,  gentlemen,"  said  the  commissary  of  police, 
"to  begin  your  duties  by  examining  the  victim  who  wears  a 
military  costume.  Here  is  a  sergeant-major  summoned  to 
answer  a  question  of  identity,  whom  I  must  send  back  to  his 
quarters  as  soon  as  possible." 

The  two  physicians  responded  with  a  gesture  of  assent,  and 
aided  by  Father  Absinthe  and  another  agent  of  police,  they 
lifted  the  body  and  laid  it  upon  two  tables,  which  had  previously 
been  placed  end  to  end.  They  were  not  obliged  to  make  any 
note  of  the  attitude  in  which  they  found  the  body,  since  the  un- 
fortunate man,  who  was  still  alive  when  the  police  entered  the 
cabin,  had  been  moved  before  he  expired. 

"Approach,  sergeant,"  ordered  the  commissary,  "and  look 
carefully  at  this  man." 

It  was  with  very  evident  repugnance  that  the  old  soldier 
obeyed. 

"What  is  the  uniform  that  he  wears?" 

"It  is  the  uniform  of  the  2d  battalion  of  the  53d  regiment 
of  the  line." 

"Do  you  recognize  him?" 

"Not  at  all." 

"Are  you  sure  that  he  does  not  belong  to  your  regiment?" 

"I  can  not  say  for  certain:  there  are  some  conscripts  at  the 
depot  whom  I  have  never  seen.  But  I  am  ready  to  swear  that 
he  had  never  formed  part  of  the  2d  battalion — which,  by  the 
way,  is  mine,  and  in  which  I  am  sergeant-major." 

Lecoq,  who  had  hitherto  remained  in  the  background,  now 
stepped  forward.  "It  might  be  as  well,"  he  suggested,  "to  note 
the  numbers  marked  on  the  other  articles  of  clothing." 

"That  is  a  very  good  idea,"  said  the  commissary,  approvingly. 

"Here  is  his  shako,"  added  the  young  police  agent.  "It  bears 
the  number  3,129." 

The  officials  followed  Lecoq's  advice,  and  soon  discovered 
that  each  article  of  clothing  worn  by  the  unfortunate  man  bore 
a  different  number. 

"The  deuce !"  murmured  the  sergeant ;  "there  is  every  indi- 
cation—    But  it  is  very  singular." 

Invited  to  consider  what  he  was  going  to  say,  the  brave 
trooper  evidently  made  an  effort  to  collect  his  intellectual 
faculties.     "I  would  stake  my  epaulets  that  this  fellow  never 


MONSIEUR   LECOQ  53 

was  a  soldier,"  he  said  at  last.     "He  must  have  disguised  him- 
self to  take  part  in  the  Shrove  Sunday  carnival." 

"Why  do  you  think  that?" 

"Oh,  I  know  it  better  than  I  can  explain  it.  I  know  it  by 
his  hair,  by  his  nails,  by  his  whole  appearance,  by  a  certain 
je  ne  sais  quoi;  in  short,  I  know  it  by  everything  and  by  nothing. 
Why  look,  the  poor  devil  did  not  even  know  how  to  put  on  his 
shoes ;  he  has  laced  his  gaiters  wrong  side  outwards."  Evidently 
further  doubt  was  impossible  after  this  evidence,  which  con- 
firmed the  truth  of  Lecoq's  first  remark  to  Inspector  Gevrol. 

"Still,  if  this  person  was  a  civilian,  how  could  he  have 
procured  this  clothing?"  insisted  the  commissary.  "Could  he 
have  borrowed  it  from  the  men  in  your  company?" 

"Yes,  that  is  possible ;  but  it  is  difficult  to  believe." 

"Is  there  no  way  by  which  you  could  ascertain?" 

"Oh !  very  easily.  I  have  only  to  run  over  to  the  fort  and 
order  an  inspection  of  clothing." 

"Do  so,"  approved  the  commissary;  "it  would  be  an  excellent 
way  of  getting  at  the  truth." 

But  Lecoq  had  just  thought  of  a  method  quite  as  convincing, 
and  much  more  prompt.  "One  word,  sergeant,"  said  he,  "isn't 
cast  off  military  clothing  sold  by  public  auction  ?" 

"Yes ;  at  least  once  a  year,  after  the  inspection." 

"And  are  not  the  articles  thus  sold  marked  in  some  way?" 

"Assuredly." 

"Then  see  if  there  isn't  some  mark  of  the  kind  on  this  poor 
wretch's  uniform." 

The  sergeant  turned  up  the  collar  of  the  coat  and  examined 
the  waist-band  of  the  pantaloons.  "You  are  right,"  he  said, 
these  are  condemned  garments." 

The  eyes  of  the  young  police  agent  sparkled.  "We  must 
then  believe  that  the  poor  devil  purchased  this  costume,"  he 
observed.  "Where?  Necessarily  at  the  Temple,  from  one  of 
the  dealers  in  military  clothing.  There  are  only  five  or  six 
of  these  establishments.  I  will  go  from  one  to  another  of  them, 
and  the  person  who  sold  these  clothes  will  certainly  recognize 
them  by  some  trade  mark." 

"And  that  will  assist  us  very  much,"  growled  Gevrol. 

The  sergeant-major,  to  his  great  relief,  now  received  per- 
mission to  retire,  but  not  without  having  been  warned  that 
very  probably  the  commissary  would  require  his  deposition. 

The  moment  had  come  to  search  the  garments  of  the  pre- 


54  MONSIEUR   LECOQ 

tended  soldier,  and  the  commissary,  who  performed  this  duty 
himself,  hoped  that  some  clue  as  to  the  man's  identity  would  be 
forthcoming.  He  proceeded  with  his  task,  at  the  same  time 
dictating  to  one  of  the  men  a  proces-verbal  of  the  search;  that 
is  to  say,  a  minute  description  of  all  the  articles  he  found  upon 
the  dead  man's  person.  In  the  right  hand  trousers  pocket  some 
tobacco,  a  pipe,  and  a  few  matches  were  found ;  in  the  left  hand 
one,  a  linen  handkerchief  of  good  quality,  but  unmarked,  and  a 
soiled  leather  pocket-book,  containing  seven  francs  and  sixty 
centimes. 

There  appeared  to  be  nothing  more,  and  the  commissary  was 
expressing  his  regret,  when,  on  carefully  examining  the  pocket- 
book  he  found  a  compartment  which  had  at  first  escaped  his 
notice,  being  hidden  by  a  leather  flap.  This  compartment  con- 
tained a  carefully  folded  paper.  The  commissary  unfolded  it 
and  read  the  contents  aloud: 

*My  dear  Gustave, — To-morrow,  Sunday  evening,  do  not 
fail  to  come  to  the  ball  at  the  Rainbow,  according  to  our  agree- 
ment. If  you  have  no  money  pass  by  my  house,  and  I  will  leave 
some  with  the  concierge,  who  will  give  it  to  you. 

"Be  at  the  ball  by  eight  o'clock.  If  I  am  not  already  there,  it 
will  not  be  long  before  I  make  my  appearance.  Everything  is 
going  on  satisfactorily.  "Lacheneur/ 


tt 


Alas !  what  did  this  letter  reveal  ?  Only  that  the  dead  man's 
name  was  Gustave;  that  he  had  some  connection  with  a  man 
named  Lacheneur,  who  had  advanced  him  money  for  a  certain 
object;  and  that  they  had  met  at  the  Rainbow  some  hours  before 
the  murder. 

It  was  little — very  little — but  still  it  was  something.  It  was 
a  clue;  and  in  this  absolute  darkness  even  the  faintest  gleam  of 
light  was  eagerly  welcomed. 

"Lacheneur!"  growled  Gevrol ;  "the  poor  devil  uttered  that 
name  in  his  last  agony." 

"Precisely,"  insisted  Father  Absinthe,  "and  he  declared  that 
he  wished  to  revenge  himself  upon  him.  He  accused  him  of 
having  drawn  him  into  a  trap.  Unfortunately,  death  cut  his 
story   short." 

Lecoq  was  silent.  The  commissary  of  police  had  handed  him 
the  letter,  and  he  was  studying  it  with  the  closest  attention.  The 
paper  on  which  it  was  written  was  of  the  ordinary  kind;  the 


MONSIEUR    LECOQ  55 

ink  was  blue.  In  one  of  the  corners  was  a  half-effaced  stamp, 
of  which  one  could  just  distinguish  the  word — Beaumarchais. 

This  was  enough  for  Lecoq.  "This  letter,"  he  thought,  "was 
certainly  written  in  a  cafe  on  the  Boulevard  Beaumarchais. 
In  which  one  ?  I  must  ascertain  that  point,  for  this  Lacheneur 
must  be  found." 

While  the  agents  of  the  prefecture  were  gathered  around  the 
commissary,  holding  council  and  deliberating,  the  physicians 
began  their  delicate  and  disagreeable  task.  With  the  assistance 
of  Father  Absinthe,  they  removed  the  clothing  of  the  pretended 
soldier,  and  then,  with  sleeves  rolled  up,  they  bent  over  their 
"subject"  like  surgeons  in  the  schools  of  anatomy,  and  exam- 
ined, inspected,  and  appraised  him  physically.  Very  willingly 
would  the  younger  doctor  have  dispensed  with  these  formalities, 
which  he  considered  very  ridiculous,  and  entirely  unnecessary; 
but  the  old  physician  had  too  high  a  regard  for  his  profession, 
and  for  the  duty  he  had  been  called  upon  to  fulfil,  to  neglect 
the  slightest  detail.  Minutely,  and  with  the  most  scrupulous 
exactitude,  he  noted  the  height  of  the  dead  man,  his  supposed 
age,  the  nature  of  his  temperament,  the  color  and  length  of  his 
hair,  and  the  degree  of  development  of  his  muscular  system. 

Then  the  doctors  passed  to  an  examination  of  the  wound. 
Lecoq  had  judged  correctly.  The  medical  men  declared  it  to 
be  a  fracture  of  the  base  of  the  skull.  It  could,  they  stated, 
only  have  been  caused  by  some  instrument  with  a  very  broad 
surface,  or  by  a  violent  knock  of  the  head  against  some  hard 
substance  of  considerable  magnitude. 

But  no  weapon,  other  than  the  revolver,  had  been  found; 
and  it  was  evidently  not  heavy  enough  to  produce  such  a 
wound.  There  must,  then,  necessarily,  have  been  a  hand-to- 
hand  struggle  between  the  pretended  soldier  and  the  murderer ; 
and  the  latter,  seizing  his  adversary  by  the  throat,  had  dashed 
him  violently  against  the  wall.  The  presence  of  some  very 
tiny  but  very  numerous  spots  of  extravasated  blood  about  the 
neck  made  this  theory  extremely  plausible. 

No  other  wound,  not  even  a  bruise  or  a  scratch,  was  to  be 
found.  Hence,  it  became  evident  that  this  terrible  struggle 
must  have  been  exceedingly  short.  The  murder  of  the  pre- 
tended soldier  must  have  been  consummated  between  the 
moment  when  the  squad  of  police  heard  the  shrieks  of  despair 
and  the  moment  when  Lecoq  peered  through  the  shutter  and 
saw  the  victim  fall. 


56  MONSIEUR   LECOQ 

The  examination  of  the  other  murdered  man  required  dif- 
ferent but  even  greater  precautions  than  those  adopted  by  the 
doctors  in  their  inspection  of  the  pseudo  soldier.  The  position 
of  these  two  victims  had  been  respected ;  they  were  still  lying 
across  the  hearth  as  they  had  fallen,  and  their  attitude  was  a 
matter  of  great  importance,  since  it  might  have  decisive  bearing 
on  the  case.  Now,  this  attitude  was  such  that  one  could  not 
fail  to  be  impressed  with  the  idea  that  with  both  these  men 
death  had  been  instantaneous.  They  were  both  stretched  out 
upon  their  backs,  their  limbs  extended,  and  their  hands  wide 
open. 

No  contraction  or  extension  of  the  muscles,  no  trace  of 
conflict  could  be  perceived ;  it  seemed  evident  that  they  had 
been  taken  unawares,  the  more  so  as  their  faces  expressed 
the  most  intense  terror. 

"Thus,"  said  the  old  doctor,  "we  may  reasonably  suppose 
that  they  were  stupefied  by  some  entirely  unexpected,  strange, 
and  frightful  spectacle.  I  have  come  across  this  terrified  ex- 
pression depicted  upon  the  faces  of  dead  people  more  than 
once.  I  recollect  noticing  it  upon  the  features  of  a  woman  who 
died  suddenly  from  the  shock  she  experienced  when  one  of  her 
neighbors,  with  the  view  of  playing  her  a  trick,  entered  her 
kouse  disguised  as  a  ghost." 

Lecoq  followed  the  physician's  explanations,  and  tried  to 
make  them  agree  with  the  vague  hypotheses  that  were  revolving 
in  his  own  brain.  But  who  could  these  individuals  be  ?  Would 
they,  in  death,  guard  the  secret  of  their  identity,  as  the  other 
victim   had  done? 

The  first  subject  examined  by  the  physicians  was  over  fifty 
years  of  age.  His  hair  was  very  thin  and  quite  gray  and  his 
face  was  closely  shaven,  excepting  a  thick  tuft  of  hair  on  his 
rather  prominent  chin.  He  was  very  poorly  clad,  wearing  a 
soiled  woolen  blouse  and  a  pair  of  dilapidated  trousers  hanging 
in  rags  over  his  boots,  which  were  very  much  trodden  down  at 
the  heels.  The  old  doctor  declared  that  this  man  must  have 
been  instantly  killed  by  a  bullet.  The  size  of  the  circular 
wound,  the  absence  of  blood  around  its  edge,  and  the  blackened 
and  burnt  state  of  the  flesh  demonstrated  this  fact  with  almost 
mathematical    precision. 

The  great  difference  that  exists  in  wounds  made  by  firearms, 
according  to  the  distance  from  which  the  death-dealing  missile 
comes,  was  seen  when  the  physicians  began  to  examine  the  last 


MONSIEUR   LECOQ  57 

of  the  murdered  men.  The  ball  that  had  caused  the  latter's 
death  had  scarcely  crossed  a  yard  of  space  before  reaching 
him,  and  his  wound  was  not  nearly  so  hideous  in  aspect  as  the 
other's.  This  individual,  who  was  at  least  fifteen  years  younger 
than  his  companion,  was  short  and  remarkably  ugly;  his  face, 
which  was  quite  beardless,  being  pitted  all  over  by  the  small- 
pox. His  garb  was  such  as  is  worn  by  the  worst  frequenters 
of  the  barriere.  His  trousers  were  of  a  gray  checked  material, 
and  his  blouse,  turned  back  at  the  throat,  was  blue.  It  was 
noticed  that  his  boots  had  been  blackened  quite  recently.  The 
smart  glazed  cap  that  lay  on  the  floor  beside  him  was  in  har- 
mony with  his  carefully  curled  hair  and  gaudy  necktie. 

These  were  the  only  facts  that  the  physicians'  report  set 
forth  in  technical  terms,  this  was  the  only  information  obtained 
by  the  most  careful  investigation.  The  two  men's  pockets  were 
explored  and  turned  inside  out ;  but  they  contained  nothing  that 
gave  the  slightest  clue  to  their  identity,  either  as  regards  name, 
social  position,  or  profession.  There  was  not  even  the  slightest 
indication  on  any  of  these  points,  not  a  letter,  nor  an  address, 
not  a  fragment  of  paper,  nothing — not  even  such  common 
articles  of  personal  use,  as  a  tobacco  pouch,  a  knife,  or  a  pipe 
which  might  be  recognized,  and  thus  establish  the  owner's 
identity.  A  little  tobacco  in  a  paper  bag,  a  couple  of  pocket 
handkerchiefs  that  were  unmarked,  a  packet  of  cigarettes — 
these  were  the  only  articles  discovered  beyond  the  money  which 
the  victims  carried  loose  in  their  pockets.  On  this  point,  it 
should  be  mentioned  that  the  elder  man  had  sixty-seven  francs 
about  him,  and  the  younger  one,  two  louis. 

Rarely  had  the  police  found  themselves  in  the  presence  of  so 
strange  an  affair,  without  the  slightest  clue  to  guide  them.  Of 
course,  there  was  the  fact  itself,  as  evidenced  by  the  bodies  of 
the  three  victims;  but  the  authorities  were  quite  ignorant  of  the 
circumstances  that  had  attended  and  of  the  motive  that  had 
inspired  the  crime.  Certainly,  they  might  hope  with  the  power- 
ful means  of  investigation  at  their  disposal  to  finally  arrive  at 
the  truth  in  the  course  of  time,  and  after  repeated  efforts.  But, 
in  the  mean  while,  all  was  mystery,  and  so  strangely  did  the  case 
present  itself  that  it  could  not  safely  be  said  who  was  really 
responsible  for  the  horrible  tragedy  at  the  Poivriere. 

The  murderer  had  certainly  been  arrested ;  but  if  he  persisted 
in  his  obstinacy,  how  were  they  to  ascertain  his  name?  He 
protested  that  he  had  merely  killed  in  self-defense.    How  could 


58  MONSIEUR   LECOQ 

it  be  shown  that  such  was  not  the  case?  Nothing  was  known 
concerning  the  victims ;  one  of  whom  had  with  his  dying  breath 
accused  himself.  Then  again,  an  inexplicable  influence  tied 
the  Widow  Chupin's  tongue.  Two  women,  one  of  whom  had 
lost  an  earring  valued  at  5,000  francs,  had  witnessed  the  strug- 
gle— then  disappeared.  An  accomplice,  after  two  acts  of 
unheard-of  audacity,  had  also  made  his  escape.  And  all  these 
people — the  women,  the  murderer,  the  keeper  of  the  saloon, 
the  accomplice,  and  the  victims — were  equally  strange  and 
mysterious,  equally  liable  not  to  be  what  they  seemed. 

Perhaps  the  commissary  of  police  thought  he  would  spend 
a  very  unpleasant  quarter  of  an  hour  at  the  prefecture  when 
he  reported  the  case.  Certainly,  he  spoke  of  the  crime  in  a 
very  despondent  tone. 

"It  will  now  be  best,"  he  said  at  last,  "to  transport  these 
three  bodies  to  the  Morgue.  There  they  will  doubtless  be 
identified."  He  reflected  for  a  moment,  and  then  added:  "And 
to  think  that  one  of  these  dead  men  is  perhaps  Lacheneur 
himself!" 

"That  is  scarcely  possible,"  said  Lecoq.  "The  spurious 
soldier,  being  the  last  to  die,  had  seen  his  companions  fall.  If 
he  had  supposed  Lacheneur  to  be  dead,  he  would  not  have 
spoken  of  vengeance." 

Gevrol,  who  for  the  past  two  hours  had  pretended  to  pay 
no  attention  to  the  proceedings,  now  approached.  He  was 
not  the  man  to  yield  even  to  the  strongest  evidence.  "If 
Monsieur,  the  Commissary,  will  listen  to  me,  he  shall  hear 
my  opinion,  which  is  a  trifle  more  definite  than  M.  Lecoq's 
fancies." 

Before  he  could  say  any  more,  the  sound  of  a  vehicle  stopping 
before  the  door  of  the  cabin  interrupted  him,  and  an  instant 
afterward  the  investigating  magistrate  entered  the  room. 

All  the  officials  assembled  at  the  Poivriere  knew  at  least 
by  sight  the  magistrate  who  now  made  his  appearance,  and 
Gevrol,  an  old  habitue  of  the  Palais  de  Justice,  mechanically 
murmured  his  name:  "M.  Maurice  d'Escorval." 

He  was  the  son  of  that  famous  Baron  d'Escorval,  who,  in 
181 5,  sealed  his  devotion  to  the  empire  with  his  blood,  and 
upon  whom  Napoleon,  in  the  Memorial  of  St.  Helena,  pro- 
nounced this  magnificent  eulogium :  "Men  as  honest  as  he 
may,  I  believe,  exist ;  but  more  honest,  no,  it  is  not  possible." 

Having  entered  upon  his  duties  as  magistrate  early  in  life, 


MONSIEUR    LECOQ  59 

and  being  endowed  with  remarkable  talents,  it  was  at  first 
supposed  that  the  younger  D'Escorval  would  rise  to  the  most 
exalted  rank  in  his  profession  But  he  had  disappointed  all 
such  prognostications  by  resolutely  refusing  the  more  elevated 
positions  that  were  offered  to  him,  in  order  to  retain  his  modest 
but  useful  functions  in  the  public  prosecutor's  offices  at  Paris. 
To  explain  his  repeated  refusals,  he  said  that  life  in  the  capital 
had  more  charms  for  him  than  the  most  enviable  advancement 
in  provincial  centres.  But  it  was  hard  to  understand  this 
declaration,  for  in  spite  of  his  brilliant  connections  and 
large  fortune,  he  had.  ever  since  the  death  of  his  eldest 
brother,  led  a  most  retired  life,  his  existence  merely  being 
revealed  by  his  untiring  labors  and  the  good  he  did  to  those 
around    him. 

He  was  now  about  forty-two  years  of  age,  but  appeared  much 
younger,  although  a  few  furrows  already  crossed  his  brow. 
One  would  have  admired  his  face,  had  it  not  been  for  the 
puzzling  immobility  that  marred  its  beauty,  the  sarcastic  curl 
of  his  thin  lips,  and  the  gloomy  expression  of  his  pale-blue 
eyes.  To  say  that  he  was  cold  and  grave,  did  not  express  the 
truth,  it  was  saying  too  little.  He  was  gravity  and  coldness 
personified,  with  a  shade  of  hauteur  added. 

Impressed  by  the  horror  of  the  scene  the  instant  he  placed 
his  foot  upon  the  threshold,  M.  d'Escorval  acknowledged  the 
presence  of  the  physicians  and  the  commissary  by  a  slight  nod 
of  the  head.  The  others  in  the  room  had  no  existence  so  far 
as  he  was  concerned.  At  once  his  faculties  went  to  work.  He 
studied  the  ground,  and  carefully  noted  all  the  surroundings 
with  the  attentive  sagacity  of  a  magistrate  who  realizes  the 
immense  weight  of  even  the  slightest  detail,  and  who  fully 
appreciates  the  eloquence  of  circumstantial  evidence. 

"This  is  a  serious  affair,"  he  said  gravely;  "very  serious." 

The  commissary's  only  response  was  to  lift  his  eyes  to 
heaven.  A  gesture  that  plainly  implied,  "I  quite  agree  with 
you !"  The  fact  is,  that  for  the  past  two  hours  the  worthy 
commissary's  responsibility  had  weighed  heavily  upon  him.  and 
he  secretly  blessed  the  investigating  magistrate  for  relieving 
him  of  it. 

"The  public  prosecutor  was  unable  to  accompany  me,"  re- 
sumed M.  d'Escorval,  "he  has  not  the  gift  of  omnipresence,  and 
I  doubt  if  it  will  be  possible  for  him  to  join  me  here.  Let  us, 
therefore,  begin  operations  at  once." 


60  MONSIEUR   LECOQ 

The  curiosity  of  those  present  had  become  intense;  and  the 
commissary  only  expressed  the  general  feeling  when  he  said : 
"You  have  undoubtedly  questioned  the  murderer,  sir,  and  have 
learnt—" 

"I  have  learnt  nothing,"  interrupted  M.  d'Escorval,  apparently 
much  astonished  at  the  interruption. 

He  took  a  chair  and  sat  himself  down,  and  while  his  clerk 
was  busy  in  authenticating  the  commissary's  proces-vcrbal,  he 
began  to  read  the  report  prepared  by  Lecoq. 

Pale,  agitated,  and  nervous,  the  young  police  agent  tried  to 
read  upon  the  magistrate's  impassive  face  the  impression  pro- 
duced by  the  document.  His  future  depended  upon  the 
magistrate's  approval  or  disapproval;  and  it  was  not  with  a 
fuddled  mind  like  that  of  Father  Absinthe  that  he  had  now  to 
deal,  but  with  a  superior  intelligence. 

"If  I  could  only  plead  my  own  cause,"  he  thought.  "What 
are  cold  written  phrases  in  comparison  with  spoken,  living 
words,  palpitating  with  emotion  and  imbued  with  the  con- 
victions of  the  speaker." 

However,  he  was  soon  reassured.  The  magistrate's  face 
retained  its  immobility,  but  again  and  again  did  M.  d'Escorval 
nod  his  head  in  token  of  approval,  and  occasionally  some  point 
more  ingenious  than  the  others  extorted  from  his  lips  the  ex- 
clamations :     "Not  bad — very  good  !" 

When  he  had  finished  the  perusal  he  turned  to  the  commissary 
and  remarked :  "All  this  is  very  unlike  your  report  of  this 
morning,  which  represented  the  affair  as  a  low  broil  between 
a  party  of  miserable  vagabonds." 

The  observation  was  only  too  just  and  fair;  and  the  com- 
missary deeply  regretted  that  he  had  trusted  to  Gevrol's 
representations,  and  remained  in  bed.  "This  morning," 
he  responded  evasively,  "I  only  gave  you  my  first  impres- 
sions. These  have  been  modified  by  subsequent  researches, 
so  that—" 

"Oh !"  interrupted  the  magistrate,  "I  did  not  intend  to  re- 
proach you ;  on  the  contrary,  I  must  congratulate  you.  One 
could  not  have  done  better  nor  acted  more  promptly.  The 
investigation  that  has  been  carried  out  shows  great  penetration 
and  research,  and  the  results  are  given  with  unusual  clearness, 
and  wonderful  precision." 

Lecoq's  head  whirled. 

The  commissary  hesitated  for  an  instant.     At  first  he  was 


MONSIEUR   LECOQ  61 

sorely  tempted  to  confiscate  this  praise  to  his  own  profit.  If  he 
drove  away  the  unworthy  thought,  it  was  because  he  was  an 
honest  man,  and  more  than  that,  because  he  was  not  displeased 
to  have  the  opportunity  to  do  Gevrol  a  bad  turn  and  punish  him 
for  his  presumptuous  folly." 

"I  must  confess,"  he  said  with  some  embarrassment,  "that 
the  merit  of  this  investigation  does  not  belong  to  me." 

"To  whom,  then,  shall  I  attribute  it — to  the  inspector?" 
thought  M.  d'Escorval,  not  without  surprise,  for  having  occa- 
sionally employed  Gevrol,  he  did  not  expect  from  him  such 
ingenuity  and  sagacity  as  was  displayed  in  this  report.  "Is  it 
you,  then,  who  have  conducted  this  investigation  so  ably?" 
he   asked. 

"Upon  my  word,  no !"  responded  Inspector  Gevrol.  "I,  my- 
self, am  not  so  clever  as  all  that.  I  content  myself  with  telling 
what  I  actually  discover ;  and  I  only  give  proofs  when  I  have 
them  in  hand.  May  I  be  hung  if  the  grounds  of  this  report 
have  any  existence  save  in  the  brains  of  the  man  who  imagined 
them."  Perhaps  the  inspector  really  believed  what  he  said,  being 
one  of  those  persons  who  are  blinded  by  vanity  to  such  a  degree 
that,  with  the  most  convincing  evidence  before  their  eyes,  they 
obstinately  deny  it. 

"And  yet,"  insisted  the  magistrate,  "these  women  whose  foot- 
prints have  been  detected  must  have  existed.  The  accomplice 
who  left  the  flakes  of  wool  adhering  to  the  plank  is  a  real  being. 
This  earring  is  a  positive,  palpable  proof." 

Gevrol  had  hard  work  to  refrain  from  shrugging  his  shoul- 
ders. "All  this  can  be  satisfactorily  explained,"  he  said,  "with- 
out a  search  of  twelve  or  fourteen  hours.  That  the  murderer 
had  an  accomplice  is  possible.  The  presence  of  the  women  is 
very  natural.  Wherever  there  are  male  thieves,  you  will  find 
female  thieves  as  well.  As  for  the  diamond — what  does  that 
prove?  That  the  scoundrels  had  just  met  with  a  stroke  of 
good  luck,  that  they  had  come  here  to  divide  their  booty,  and 
that  the  quarrel  arose  from  the  division." 

This  was  an  explanation,  and  such  a  plausable  one,  that  M. 
d'Escorval  was  silent,  reflecting  before  he  announced  his  de- 
cision. "Decidedly,"  he  declared  at  last,  "decidedly,  I  adopt 
the  hypothesis  set  forth  in  the  report.    Who  prepared  it?" 

Gevrol's  face  turned  red  with  anger.  "One  of  my  men,"  he 
replied,  "a  clever,  adroit  fellow,  Monsieur  Lecoq.  Come 
forward,  Lecoq,  that  the  magistrate  may  see  you." 


62  MONSIEUR   LECOQ 

The  young  man  advanced,  his  lips  tightly  compressed  so  as 
to  conceal  a  smile  of  satisfaction  which  almost  betrayed  itself. 

"My  report,  sir,  is  only  a  summary,"  he  began,  "but  I  have 
certain  ideas — " 

"Which  you  will  acquaint  me  with,  when  I  ask  for  them," 
interrupted  the  magistrate.  And  oblivious  of  Lecoq's  chagrin, 
he  drew  from  his  clerk's  portfolio  two  forms,  which  he  filled 
up  and  handed  to  Gevrol,  saying :  "Here  are  two  orders ;  take 
them  to  the  station,  where  the  murderer  and  the  landlady  of 
this  cabin  are  confined,  and  have  them  conducted  to  the  pre- 
fecture, where  they  will  be  privately  examined." 

Having  given  these  directions,  M.  d'Escorval  was  turn- 
ing toward  the  physicians,  when  Lecoq,  at  the  risk  of  a 
second  rebuff,  interposed.  "May  I  venture,  sir,  to  beg  of  you 
to  confide  this  message  to  me?"  he  asked  of  the  investigating 
magistrate. 

"Impossible,  I  may  have  need  of  you  here." 

"I  desired,  sir,  to  collect  certain  evidence  and  an  opportunity 
to  do  so  may  not  present  itself  again." 

The  magistrate  perhaps  fathomed  the  young  man's  motive. 
"Then,  let  it  be  so,"  he  replied,  "but  after  your  task  is  com- 
pleted you  must  wait  for  me  at  the  prefecture,  where  I  shall 
proceed  as  soon  as  I  have  finished  here.    You  may  go." 

Lecoq  did  not  wait  for  the  order  to  be  repeated.  He  snatched 
up  the  papers,  and  hastened  away. 

He  literally  flew  over  the  ground,  and  strange  to  say  he  no 
longer  experienced  any  fatigue  from  the  labors  of  the  pre- 
ceding night.  Never  had  he  felt  so  strong  and  alert,  either 
in  body  or  mind.  He  was  very  hopeful  of  success.  He  had 
every  confidence  in  himself,  and  his  happiness  would  indeed 
have  been  complete  if  he  had  had  another  judge  to  deal 
with.  But  M.  d'Escorval  overawed  him  to  such  a  degree 
that  he  became  almost  paralyzed  in  his  presence.  With 
what  a  disdainful  glance  the  magistrate  had  surveyed  him ! 
With  what  an  imperious  tone  he  had  imposed  silence  upon 
him — and  that,  too,  when  he  had  found  his  work  deserving 
of  commendation. 

"Still,  never  mind,"  the  young  detective  mentally  exclaimed, 
"no  one  ever  tastes  perfect  happiness  here  below." 

And  concentrating  all  his  thoughts  on  the  task  before  him, 
he  hurried  on  his  way. 


MONSIEUR    LECOQ 


63 


TI  7" HEN,  after  a  rapid  walk  of  twenty  minutes,  Lecoq  reached 
T  the  police  station  near  the  Barriere  d'ltalie,  the  door- 
keeper, with  his  pipe  in  his  mouth,  was  pacing  slowly  to  and  fro 
before  the  guard-house.  His  thoughtful  air,  and  the  anxious 
glances  he  cast  every  now  and  then  toward  one  of  the  little 
grated  windows  of  the  building  sufficed  to  indicate  that  some 
very  rare  bird  indeed  had  been  entrusted  to  his  keeping.  As 
soon  as  he  recognized  Lecoq,  his  brow  cleared,  and  he  paused  in 
his  promenade. 

"Ah,  well!"  he  inquired,  "what  news  do  you  bring?" 

"I  have  an  order  to  conduct  the  prisoners  to  the  prefecture." 

The  keeper  rubbed  his  hands,  and  his  smile  of  satisfaction 
plainly  implied  that  he  felt  a  load  the  less  on  his  shoulders. 

"Capital !  capital !"  he  exclaimed.  "The  Black  Maria,  the 
prison  van,  will  pass  here  in  less  than  an  hour;  we  will  throw 
them  in,  and  hurry  the  driver  off — " 

Lecoq  was  obliged  to  interrupt  the  keeper's  transports  of  satis- 
faction.    "Are  the  prisoners  alone?"  he  inquired. 

"Quite  alone :  the  woman  in  one  cell,  and  the  man  in  the 
other.  This  has  been  a  remarkably  quiet  night,  for  Shrove 
Sunday !  Quite  surprising  indeed !  It  is  true  your  hunt  was 
interrupted." 

"You  had  a  drunken  man  here,  however." 

"No — yes — that's  true — this  morning  just  at  daybreak.  A 
poor  devil,  who  is  under  a  great  obligation  to  Gevrol." 

The  involuntary  irony  of  this  remark  did  not  escape  Lecoq. 
"Yes,  under  a  great  obligation,  indeed !"  he  said  with  a  de- 
risive laugh. 

"You  may  laugh  as  much  as  you  like,"  retorted  the  keeper, 
"but  such  is  really  the  case;  if  it  hadn't  been  for  Gevrol  the 
man  would  certainly  have  been  run  over." 

"And  what  has  become  of  him?" 

The  keeper  shrugged  his  shoulders.  "You  ask  me  too  much," 
he  responded.    He  was  a  worthy  fellow  who  had  been  spending 


64  MONSIEUR    LECOQ 

the  night  at  a  friend's  house,  and  on  coming  out  into  the  open 
air,  the  wine  flew  into  his  head.  He  told  us  all  about  it  when 
he  got  sober,  half  an  hour  afterward.  I  never  saw  a  man  so 
vexed  as  he  was.  He  wept,  and  stammered :  "The  father  of 
a  family,  and  at  my  age  too !  Oh !  it  is  shameful !  What  shall 
I  say  to  my  wife  ?    What  will  the  children  think  ?" 

"Did  he  talk  much  about  his  wife?" 

"He  talked  about  nothing  else.  He  mentioned  her  name — 
Eudosia  Leocadie,  or  some  name  of  that  sort.  He  declared 
that  he  should  be  ruined  if  we  kept  him  here.  He  begged  us 
to  send  for  the  commissary  to  go  to  his  house,  and  when  we 
set  him  free,  I  thought  he  would  go  mad  with  joy ;  he  kissed 
our  hands,  and  thanked  us  again  and  again !" 

"And  did  you  place  him  in  the  same  cage  as  the  murderer?" 
inquired  Lecoq. 

"Of  course." 

"Then  they  talked  with  each  other." 

"Talked  ?  Why,  the  drunkard  was  so  'gone,'  I  tell  you.  that  he 
couldn't  have  said  'bread'  distinctly.  When  he  was  placed  in  a 
cell,  bang !  He  fell  down  like  a  log  of  wood.  As  soon  as  he  re- 
covered, we  let  him  out.  I'm  sure,  they  didn't  talk  to  each  other." 

The  young  police  agent  had  grown  very  thoughtful.  "I  was 
evidently   right,"   he   murmured. 

"What  did  you  say?"  inquired  the  keeper. 

"Nothing,"  replied  Lecoq,  who  was  not  inclined  to  com- 
municate his  reflections  to  the  custodian  of  the  guard-house. 
These  reflections  of  his  were  by  no  means  pleasant  ones.  "I 
was  right,"  he  thought;  "this  pretended  drunkard  was  none 
other  than  the  accomplice.  He  is  evidently  an  adroit,  audacious, 
cool-headed  fellow.  While  we  were  tracking  his  footprints  he 
was  watching  us.  When  we  had  got  to  some  distance,  he  was 
bold  enough  to  enter  the  hovel.  Then  he  came  here  and  com- 
pelled them  to  arrest  him ;  and  thanks  to  an  assumption  of  child- 
ish simplicity,  he  succeeded  in  finding  an  opportunity  to  speak 
with  the  murderer.  He  played  his  part  perfectly.  Still,  I  know 
that  he  did  play  a  part,  and  that  is  something.  I  know  that  one 
must  believe  exactly  the  opposite  of  what  he  said.  He  talked  of 
his  family,  his  wife  and  children — hence,  he  has  neither  children, 
wife,  nor  family." 

Lecoq  suddenly  checked  himself,  remembering  that  he  had 
no  time  to  waste  in  conjectures.  "What  kind  of  fellow  was 
this  drunkard  ?  he  inquired. 


MONSIEUR    LECOQ  65 

"He  was  tall  and  stout,  with  full  ruddy  cheeks,  a  pair  of 
white  whiskers,  small  eyes,  a  broad  flat  nose,  and  a  good- 
natured,  jovial  manner." 

"How  old  would  you  suppose  him  to  be?" 

"Between  forty  and  fifty." 

"Did  you  form  any  idea  of  his  profession?" 

"It's  my  opinion,  that  what  with  his  soft  cap  and  his  heavy 
brown  overcoat,  he  must  be  either  a  clerk  or  the  keeper  of 
some  little  shop." 

Having  obtained  this  description,  which  agreed  with  the 
result  of  his  investigations,  Lecoq  was  about  to  enter  the 
station  house  when  a  sudden  thought  brought  him  to  a  stand- 
still. "I  hope  this  man  has  had  no  communication  with  this 
Widow  Chupin !"  he  exclaimed. 

The  keeper  laughed  heartily.  "How  could  he  have  had  any?" 
he  responded.  "Isn't  the  old  woman  alone  in  her  cell  ?  Ah,  the 
old  wretch !  She  has  been  cursing  and  threatening  ever  since 
she  arrived.  Never  in  my  whole  life  have  I  heard  such  language 
as  she  has  used.  It  has  been  enough  to  make  the  very  stones 
blush ;  even  the  drunken  man  was  so  shocked  that  he  went  to 
the  grating  in  the  door,  and  told  her  to  be  quiet." 

Lecoq's  glance  and  gesture  were  so  expressive  of  impatience 
and  wrath  that  the  keeper  paused  in  his  recital  much  perturbed. 
"What  is  the  matter?"  he  stammered.     "Why  are  you  angry?" 

"Because,"  replied  Lecoq,  furiously,  "because — "  Not  wish- 
ing to  disclose  the  real  cause  of  his  anger,  he  entered  the 
station  house,  saying  that  he  wanted  to  see  the  prisoner. 

Left  alone,  the  keeper  began  to  swear  in  his  turn.  "These 
police  agents  are  all  alike,"  he  grumbled.  "They  question  you, 
you  tell  them  all  they  desire  to  know ;  and  afterward,  if  you 
venture  to  ask  them  anything,  they  reply :  'nothing,'  or  'because.' 
They  have  too  much  authority ;  it  makes  them  proud." 

Looking  through  the  little  latticed  window  in  the  door,  by 
which  the  men  on  guard  watch  the  prisoners,  Lecoq  eagerly 
examined  the  appearance  of  the  assumed  murderer.  He  was 
obliged  to  ask  himself  if  this  was  really  the  same  man  he  had 
seen  some  hours  previously  at  the  Poivriere,  standing  on  the 
threshold  of  the  inner  door,  and  holding  the  whole  squad  of 
police  agents  in  check  by  the  intense  fury  of  his  attitude.  Now, 
on  the  contrary,  he  seemed,  as  it  were,  the  personification  of 
weakness  and  despondency.  He  was  seated  on  a  bench  opposite 
the  grating  in  the  door,  his  elbows  resting  on  his  knees,  his  chin 


66  MONSIEUR    LECOQ 

upon  his  hand,  his  under  lip  hanging  low  and  his  eyes  fixed 
upon  vacancy. 

"No,"  murmured  Lecoq,  "no,  this  man  is  not  what  he  seems 
to  be." 

So  saying  he  entered  the  cell,  the  culprit  raised  his  head,  gave 
the  detective  an  indifferent  glance,  but  did  not  utter  a  word. 

"Well,  how  goes  it  ?"  asked  Lecoq. 

"I  am  innocent !"  responded  the  prisoner,  in  a  hoarse,  dis- 
cordant voice. 

"I  hope  so,  I  am  sure — but  that  is  for  the  magistrate  to 
decide.     I  came  to  see  if  you  wanted  anything." 

"No,"  replied  the  murderer,  but  a  second  later  he  changed 
his  mind.  "All  the  same,"  he  said,  "I  shouldn't  mind  a  crust 
and  a  drink  of  wine." 

"You  shall  have  them,"  replied  Lecoq,  who  at  once  went 
out  to  forage  in  the  neighborhood  for  eatables  of  some  sort. 
In  his  opinion,  if  the  murderer  had  asked  for  a  drink  after  at 
first  refusing  to  partake  of  anything,  it  was  solely  with  the 
view  of  conveying  the  idea  that  he  was  really  the  kind  of  man 
he  pretended  to  be. 

At  all  events,  whoever  he  might  be,  the  prisoner  ate  with  an 
excellent  appetite.  He  then  took  up  the  large  glass  of  wine 
that  had  been  brought  him,  drained  it  slowly,  and  remarked : 
"That's  capital !     There  can  be  nothing  to  beat  that !" 

This  seeming  satisfaction  greatly  disappointed  Lecoq,  who 
had  selected,  as  a  test,  one  of  those  horribly  thick,  bluish, 
nauseous  mixtures  in  vogue  around  the  barrieres — hoping,  nay, 
almost  expecting,  that  the  murderer  would  not  drink  it  with- 
out some  sign  of  repugnance.  And  yet  the  contrary  proved  the 
case.  However,  the  young  detective  had  no  time  to  ponder 
over  the  circumstance,  for  a  rumble  of  wheels  now  announced 
the  approach  of  that  lugubrious  vehicle,  the  Black  Maria. 

When  the  Widow  Chupin  was  removed  from  her  cell  she 
fought  and  scratched  and  cried  "Murder !"  at  the  top  of  her 
voice ;  and  it  was  only  by  sheer  force  that  she  was  at  length 
got  into  the  van.  Then  it  was  that  the  officials  turned  to  the 
assassin.  Lecoq  certainly  expected  some  sign  of  repugnance 
now,  and  he  watched  the  prisoner  closely.  But  he  was  again 
doomed  to  disappointment.  The  culprit  entered  the  vehicle 
in  the  most  unconcerned  manner,  and  took  possession  of  his 
compartment  like  one  accustomed  to  it,  knowing  the  most  com- 
fortable position  to  assume  in  such  close  quarters. 


MONSIEUR    LECOQ  67 

"Ah !  what  an  unfortunate  morning,"  murmured  Lecoq, 
disconsolately.  "Still  I  will  lie  in  wait  for  him  at  the  pre- 
fecture." 

When  the  door  of  the  prison-van  had  been  securely  closed, 
the  driver  cracked  his  whip,  and  the  sturdy  horses  started  off 
at  a  brisk  trot.  Lecoq  had  taken  his  seat  in  front,  between 
the  driver  and  the  guard ;  but  his  mind  was  so  engrossed  with 
his  own  thoughts  that  he  heard  nothing  of  their  conversation, 
which  was  very  jovial,  although  frequently  interrupted  by  the 
shrill  voice  of  the  Widow  Chupin,  who  sang  and  yelled  her 
imprecations   alternately. 

It  is  needless,  however,  to  recapitulate  her  oaths;  let  us 
rather  follow  the  train  of  Lecoq's  meditation.  By  what  means 
could  he  secure  some  clue  to  the  murderer's  identity?  He  was 
still  convinced  that  the  prisoner  must  belong  to  the  higher 
ranks  of  society.  After  all,  it  was  not  so  extraordinary  that 
he  should  have  succeeded  in  feigning  an  appetite,  that  he  should 
have  concealed  his  distaste  for  a  nauseous  beverage,  and  that 
he  should  have  entered  the  Black  Maria  without  hesitation. 
Such  conduct  was  quite  possible,  indeed  almost  probable  on  the 
part  of  a  man,  endowed  with  considerable  strength  of  will,  and 
realizing  the  imminence  of  his  peril.  But  granting  this,  would 
he  be  equally  able  to  hide  his  feelings  when  he  was  obliged  to 
submit  to  the  humiliating  formalities  that  awaited  him — for- 
malities which  in  certain  cases  can,  and  must,  be  pushed  even 
to  the  verge  of  insult  and  outrage? 

No;  Lecoq  could  not  believe  that  this  would  be  possible.  He 
felt  sure  that  the  disgraceful  position  in  which  the  prisoner 
would  find  himself  would  cause  him  to  revolt,  to  lose  his  self- 
control,  to  utter  some  word  that  might  give  the  desired  clue. 
It  was  not  until  the  gloomy  vehicle  had  turned  off  the  Pont 
Neuf  on  to  the  Quai  de  l'Horloge  that  the  young  detective  be- 
came conscious  of  what  was  transpiring  around  him.  Soon  the 
van  passed  through  an  open  gateway,  and  drew  up  in  a  small, 
damp  courtyard. 

Lecoq  immediately  alighted,  and  opened  the  door  of  the  com- 
partment in  which  the  supposed  murderer  was  confined,  ex- 
claiming as  he  did  so:  "Here  we  are,  get  out."  There  was  no 
fear  of  the  prisoner  escaping.  The  iron  gate  had  been  closed, 
and  at  least  a  dozen  agents  were  standing  near  at  hand,  waiting 
to  have  a  look  at  the  new  arrivals. 

The  prisoner  slowly  stepped  to  the  ground.     His  expression 


68  MONSIEUR    LECOQ 

of  face  remained  unchanged,  and  each  gesture  evinced  the  per- 
fect indifference  of  a  man  accustomed  to  such  ordeals. 

Lecoq  scrutinized  his  demeanor  as  attentively  as  an  anatomist 
might  have  watched  the  action  of  a  muscle.  He  noted  that  the 
prisoner  seemed  to  experience  a  sensation  of  satisfaction  directly 
his  foot  touched  the  pavement  of  the  courtyard,  that  he  drew 
a  long  breath,  and  then  stretched  and  shook  himself,  as  if  to 
regain  the  elasticity  of  his  limbs,  cramped  by  confinement  in 
the  narrow  compartment  from  which  he  had  just  emerged. 
Then  he  glanced  around  him,  and  a  scarcely  perceptible  smile 
played  upon  his  lips.  One  might  have  sworn  that  the  place 
was  familiar  to  him,  that  he  was  well  acquainted  with  these 
high  grim  walls,  these  grated  windows,  these  heavy  doors — in 
short,  with  all  the  sinister  belongings  of  a  prison. 

"Good  Lord  !"  murmured  Lecoq,  greatly  chagrined,  "does  he 
indeed  recognize  the  place?" 

And  his  sense  of  disappointment  and  disquietude  increased 
when,  without  waiting  for  a  word,  a  motion,  or  a  sign,  the 
prisoner  turned  toward  one  of  the  five  or  six  doors  that  opened 
into  the  courtyard.  Without  an  instant's  hesitation  he  walked 
straight  toward  the  very  doorway  he  was  expected  to  enter 
— Lecoq  asked  himself  was  it  chance?  But  his  amazement  and 
disappointment  increased  tenfold  when,  after  entering  the 
gloomy  corridor,  he  saw  the  culprit  proceed  some  little  dis- 
tance, resolutely  turn  to  the  left,  pass  by  the  keeper's  room,  and 
finally  enter  the  registrar's  office.  An  old  offender  could  not 
have  done  better. 

Big  drops  of  perspiration  stood  on  Lecoq's  forehead.  "This 
man,"  thought  he,  "has  certainly  been  here  before;  he  knows 
the  ropes." 

The  registrar's  office  was  a  large  room  heated  almost  to  suf- 
focation by  an  immense  stove,  and  badly  lighted  by  three  small 
windows,  the  panes  of  which  were  covered  with  a  thick  coating 
of  dust.  There  sat  the  clerk  reading  a  newspaper,  spread  out 
over  the  open  register — that  fatal  book  in  which  are  inscribed 
the  names  of  all  those  whom  misconduct,  crime,  misfortune, 
madness,  or  error  have  brought  to  these  grim  portals. 

Three  or  four  attendants,  who  were  awaiting  the  hour  for 
entering  upon  their  duties,  reclined  half  asleep  upon  the  wooden 
benches  that  lined  three  sides  of  the  room.  These  benches,  with 
a  couple  of  tables,  and  some  dilapidated  chairs,  constituted  the 
entire  furniture  of  the  office,  in  one  corner  of  which  stood  a 


MONSIEUR   LECOQ  69 

measuring  machine,  under  which  each  culprit  was  obliged  to 
pass,  the  exact  height  of  the  prisoners  being  recorded  in  order 
that  the  description  of  their  persons  might  be  complete  in 
every  respect. 

At  the  entrance  of  the  culprit  accompanied  by  Lecoq,  the 
clerk  raised  his  head.     "Ah!"  said  he,  "has  the  van  arrived?" 

"Yes,"  responded  Lecoq.  And  showing  the  orders  signed 
by  M.  d'Escorval,  he  added :  "Here  are  this  man's  papers." 

The  registrar  took  the  documents  and  read  them.  "Oh !" 
he  exclaimed,  "a  triple  assassination  !  Oh  !  oh  !"  The  glance 
he  gave  the  prisoner  was  positively  deferential.  This  was  no 
common  culprit,  no  ordinary  vagabond,  no  vulgar  thief. 

"The  investigating  magistrate  orders  a  private  examination," 
continued  the  clerk,  "and  I  must  get  the  prisoner  other  clothing, 
as  the  things  he  is  wearing  now  will  be  used  as  evidence.  Let 
some  one  go  at  once  and  tell  the  superintendent  that  the  other 
occupants  of  the  van  must  wait." 

At  this  moment,  the  governor  of  the  Depot  entered  the  office. 
The  clerk  at  once  dipped  his  pen  in  the  ink,  and  turning  to  the 
prisoner  he  asked :  "What  is  your  name  ?" 

"May." 

"Your  Christian  name?" 

"I  have  none." 

"What,  have  you  no  Christian  name?" 

The  prisoner  seemed  to  reflect  for  a  moment,  and  then  an- 
swered, sulkily :  "I  may  as  well  tell  you  that  you  need  not  tire 
yourself  by  questioning  me.  I  shan't  answer  any  one  else  but 
the  magistrate.  You  would  like  to  make  me  cut  my  own  throat, 
wouldn't  you?  A  very  clever  trick,  of  course,  but  one  that 
won't  do  for  me." 

"You  must  see  that  you  only  aggravate  your  situation," 
observed  the  governor. 

"Not  in  the  least.  I  am  innocent ;  you  wish  to  ruin  me.  I 
only  defend  myself.  Get  anything  more  out  of  me  now,  if  you 
can.  But  you  had  better  give  me  back  what  they  took  from 
me  at  the  station-house.  My  hundred  and  thirty-six  francs  and 
eight  sous.  I  shall  need  them  when  I  get  out  of  this  place.  I 
want  vou  to  make  a  note  of  them  on  the  register.  Where  are 
they?" 

The  money  had  been  given  to  Lecoq  by  the  keeper  of  the 
station-house,  who  had  found  it  upon  the  prisoner  when  he  was 
placed    in   his    custody.      Lecoq    now    laid    it   upon   the   table. 


70  MONSIEUR   LECOQ 

"Here  are  your  hundred  and  thirty-six  francs  and  eight  sous," 
said  he,  "and  also  your  knife,  your  handkerchief,  and  four 
cigars." 

An  expression  of  lively  contentment  was  discernible  on  the 
prisoner's  features. 

"Now,"  resumed  the  clerk,  "will  you  answer?" 

But  the  governor  perceived  the  futility  of  further  question- 
ing; and  silencing  the  clerk  by  a  gesture,  he  told  the  prisoner 
to  take  off  his  boots. 

Lecoq  thought  the  assassin's  glance  wavered  as  he  heard  this 
order.  .Was  it  only  a  fancy?" 

"Why  must  I  do  that?"  asked  the  culprit. 

"To  pass  under  the  beam,"  replied  the  clerk.  "We  must 
make  a  note  of  your  exact  height." 

The  prisoner  made  no  reply,  but  sat  down  and  drew  off  his 
heavy  boots.  The  heel  of  the  right  one  was  worn  down  on  the 
inside.  It  was,  moreover,  noticed  that  the  prisoner  wore  no 
socks,  and  that  his  feet  were  coated  with  mud. 

"You  only  wear  boots  on  Sundays,  then?"  remarked  Lecoq. 

"Why  do  you  think  that?" 

"By  the  mud  with  which  your  feet  are  covered,  as  high  as 
the  ankle-bone." 

"What  of  that?"  exclaimed  the  prisoner,  in  an  insolent  tone. 
"Is  it  a  crime  not  to  have  a  marchioness's  feet?" 

"It  is  a  crime  you  are  not  guilty  of,  at  all  events,"  said  the 
young  detective  slowly.  "Do  you  think  I  can't  see  that  if  the  mud 
were  picked  off  your  feet  would  be  white  and  neat?  The  nails 
have  been  carefully  cut  and  polished — " 

He  paused.  A  new  idea  inspired  by  his  genius  for  investi- 
gation had  just  crossed  Lecoq's  mind.  Pushing  a  chair  in  front 
of  the  prisoner,  and  spreading  a  newspaper  over  it,  he  said : 
"Will  you  place  your  foot  there?" 

The  man  did  not  comply  with  the  request. 

"It  is  useless  to  resist,"  exclaimed  the  governor,  "we  arc 
in  force." 

The  prisoner  delayed  no  longer.  He  placed  his  foot  on 
the  chair,  as  he  had  been  ordered,  and  Lecoq,  with  the  aid  of 
a  knife,  proceeded  to  remove  the  fragments  of  mud  that 
adhered  to  the  skin. 

Anywhere  else  so  strange  and  grotesque  a  proceeding  would 
have  excited  laughter,  but  here,  in  this  gloomy  chamber,  the 
anteroom  of  the  assize  court,  an  otherwise  trivial  act  is  fraught 


MONSIEUR    LECOQ  71 

with  serious  import.  Nothing  astonishes ;  and  should  a  smile 
threaten  to  curve  one's  lips,  it  is  instantly  repressed 

All  the  spectators,  from  the  governor  of  the  prison  to  the 
keepers,  had  witnessed  many  other  incidents  equally  absurd; 
and  no  one  thought  of  inquiring  the  detective's  motive.  This 
much  was  known  already ;  that  the  prisoner  was  trying  to  con- 
ceal his  identity.  Now  it  was  necessary  to  establish  it,  at  any 
cost,  and  Lecoq  had  probably  discovered  some  means  of  attain- 
ing this  end. 

The  operation  was  soon  concluded ;  and  Lecoq  swept  the 
dust  off  the  paper  into  the  palm  of  his  hand.  He  divided  it 
into  two  parts,  enclosing  one  portion  in  a  scrap  of  paper,  and 
slipping  it  into  his  own  pocket.  With  the  remainder  he 
formed  a  package  which  he  handed  to  the  governor,  saying: 
"I  beg  you,  sir.  to  take  charge  of  this,  and  to  seal  it  up 
here,  in  presence  of  the  prisoner.  This  formality  is  neces- 
sary, so  that  by  and  by  he  may  not  pretend  that  the  dust  has 
been  changed." 

The  governor  complied  with  the  request,  and  as  he  placed 
this  "bit  of  proof"  (as  he  styled  it)  in  a  small  satchel  for  safe 
keeping,  the  prisoner  shrugged  his  shoulders  with  a  sneering 
laugh.  Still,  beneath  this  cynical  gaiety  Lecoq  thought  he  could 
detect  poignant  anxiety.  Chance  owed  him  the  compensation 
of  this  slight  triumph ;  for  previous  events  had  deceived  all  his 
calculations. 

The  prisoner  did  not  offer  the  slightest  objection  when  he 
was  ordered  to  undress,  and  to  exchange  his  soiled  and  blood- 
stained garments  for  the  clothing  furnished  by  the  Government. 
Not  a  muscle  of  his  face  moved  while  he  submitted  his  person 
to  one  of  those  ignominous  examinations  which  make  the  blood 
rush  to  the  forehead  of  the  lowest  criminal.  It  was  with  per- 
fect indifference  that  he  allowed  an  inspector  to  comb  his  hair 
and  beard,  and  to  examine  the  inside  of  his  mouth,  so  as  to 
make  sure  that  he  had  not  concealed  either  some  fragment  of 
glass,  by  the  aid  of  which  captives  can  sever  the  strongest  bars, 
or  one  of  those  microscopical  bits  of  lead  with  which  prisoners 
write  the  notes  -they  exchange,  rolled  up  in  a  morsel  of  bread, 
and  called  "postilions." 

These  formalities  having  been  concluded,  the  superintendent 
rang  for  one  of  the  keepers.  "Conduct  this  man  to  No.  3  of 
the  secret  cells,"  he  ordered. 

There  was  no  need  to  drag  the  prisoner  away.     He  walked 


72  MONSIEUR    LECOQ 

out,  as  he  had  entered,  preceding  the  guard,  like  some  old 
habitue,  who  knows  where  he  is  going. 

"What  a  rascal !"  exclaimed  the  clerk. 

"Then  you  think — "  began  Lecoq,  baffled  but  not  convinced, 

"Ah  !  there  can  be  no  doubt  of  it,"  declared  the  governor. 
"This  man  is  certainly  a  dangerous  criminal — an  old  offender 
— I  think  I  have  seen  him  before — I  could  almost  swear  to  it." 

Thus  it  was  evident  these  people,  with  their  long,  varied  expe- 
rience, shared  Gevrol's  opinion ;  Lecoq  stood  alone.  He  did  not 
discuss  the  matter — what  good  would  it  have  done?  Besides, 
the  Widow  Chupin  was  just  being  brought  in. 

The  journey  must  have  calmed  her  nerves,  for  she  had  be- 
come as  gentle  as  a  lamb.  It  was  in  a  wheedling  voice,  and 
with  tearful  eyes,  that  she  called  upon  these  "good  gentlemen" 
to  witness  the  shameful  injustice  with  which  she  was  treated — 
she,  an  honest  woman.  Was  she  not  the  mainstay  of  her  family 
(since  her  son  Polyte  was  in  custody,  charged  with  pocket- 
picking),  hence  what  would  become  of  her  daughter-in-law, 
and  of  her  grandson  Toto,  who  had  no  one  to  look  after  them 
but  her? 

Still,  when  her  name  had  been  taken,  and  a  keeper  was 
ordered  to  remove  her,  nature  reasserted  itself,  and  scarcely 
had  she  entered  the  corridor  than  she  was  heard  quarreling 
with  the  guard. 

"You  are  wrong  not  to  be  polite,"  she  said ;  "you  are  losing 
a  good  fee,  without  counting  many  a  good  drink  I  would  stand 
you  when  I  get  out  of  here." 

Lecoq  was  now  free  until  M.  d'Escorval's  arrival.  He  wan- 
dered through  the  gloomy  corridors,  from  office  to  office,  but 
finding  himself  assailed  with  questions  by  every  one  he  came 
across,  he  eventually  left  the  depot,  and  went  and  sat  down  on 
one  of  the  benches  beside  the  quay.  Here  he  tried  to  collect 
his  thoughts.  His  convictions  were  unchanged.  He  was  more 
than  ever  convinced  that  the  prisoner  was  concealing  his  real 
social  standing,  but,  on  the  other  hand,  it  was  evident  that  he 
was  well  acquainted  with  the  prison  and  its  usages. 

He  had  also  proved  himself  to  be  endowed-  with  far  more 
cleverness  than  Lecoq  had  supposed.  What  self-control !  What 
powers  of  dissimulation  he  had  displayed !  He  had  not  so 
much  as  frowned  while  undergoing  the  severest  ordeals,  and 
he  had  managed  to  deceive  the  most  experienced  eyes  in  Paris. 

The  young  detective  had  waited  during  nearly  three  hours, 


MONSIEUR   LECOQ  B 

as  motionless  as  the  bench  on  which  he  was  seated,  and  so 
absorbed  in  studying  his  case  that  he  had  thought  neither  of 
the  cold  nor  of  the  flight  of  time,  when  a  carriage  drew  up 
before  the  entrance  of  the  prison,  and  M.  d'Escorval  alighted, 
followed  by  his  clerk. 

Lecoq  rose  and  hastened,  well-nigh  breathless  with  anxiety, 
toward  the  magistrate. 

"My  researches  on  the  spot,"  said  this  functionary,  "confirm 
me  in  the  belief  that  you  are  right.    Is  there  anything  fresh?" 

"Yes,  sir;  a  fact  that  is  apparently  very  trivial,  though,  in 
truth,  it  is  of  importance  that — " 

"Very  well !"  interrupted  the  magistrate.  "You  will  explain  it 
to  me  by  and  by.  First  of  all,  I  must  summarily  examine  the 
prisoners.    A  mere  matter  of  form  for  to-day.    Wait  for  me  here." 

Although  the  magistrate  promised  to  make  haste,  Lecoq  ex- 
pected that  at  least  an  hour  would  elapse  before  he  reappeared. 
In  this  he  was  mistaken.  Twenty  minutes  later,  M.  d'Escorval 
emerged  from  the  prison  without  his  clerk. 

He  was  walking  very  fast,  and  instead  of  approaching  the 
young  detective,  he  called  to  him  at  some  little  distance.  "I  must 
return  home  at  once,"  he  said,  "instantly ;  I  can  not  listen  to  you." 

"But,  sir—" 

"Enough !  the  bodies  of  the  victims  have  been  taken  to  the 
Morgue.  Keep  a  sharp  lookout  there.  Then,  this  evening  make 
— well — do  whatever  you  think  best." 

"But,  sir,  I  must—" 

"To-morrow ! — to-morrow,  at  nine  o'clock,  in  my  office  in  the 
Palais  de  Justice." 

Lecoq  wished  to  insist  upon  a  hearing,  but  M.  d'Escorval 
had  entered,  or  rather  thrown  himself  into,  his  carriage,  and 
the  coachman  was  already  whipping  up  the  horse. 

"And  to  think  that  he's  an  investigating  magistrate,"  panted 
Lecoq,  left  spellbound  on  the  quay.  "Has  he  gone  mad?"  As 
he  spoke,  an  uncharitable  thought  took  possession  of  his  mind. 
"Can  it  be,"  he  murmured,  "that  M.  d'Escorval  holds  the  key 
to  the  mystery?    Perhaps  he  wishes  to  get  rid  of  me." 

This  suspicion  was  so  terrible  that  Lecoq  hastened  back  to 
the  prison,  hoping  that  the  prisoner's  bearing  might  help  to 
solve  his  doubts.  On  peering  through  the  grated  aperture  in 
the  door  of  the  cell,  he  perceived  the  prisoner  lying  on  the 
pallet  that  stood  opposite  the  door.  His  face  was  turned 
toward  the  wall,  and  he  was  enveloped  in  the  coverlid  up  to 

4— Vol.  I— Gab. 


74 


MONSIEUR    LECOQ 


his  eyes.  He  was  not  asleep,  for  Lecoq  could  detect  a  strange 
movement  of  the  body,  which  puzzled  and  annoyed  him.  On 
applying  his  ear  instead  of  his  eye  to  the  aperture,  he  distin- 
guished a  stifled  moan.  There  could  no  longer  be  any  doubt. 
The  death  rattle  was  sounding  in  the  prisoner's  throat. 

"Help !  help  !*'  cried  Lecoq,  greatly  excited.  "The  prisoner 
is  killing  himself !" 

A  dozen  keepers  hastened  to  the  spot.  The  door  was  quickly 
opened,  and  it  was  then  ascertained  that  the  prisoner,  having 
torn  a  strip  of  binding  from  his  clothes,  had  fastened  it  round 
his  neck  and  tried  to  strangle  himself  with  the  assistance  of 
a  spoon  that  had  been  left  him  with  his  food.  He  was  already 
unconscious,  and  the  prison  doctor,  who  immediately  bled  him, 
declared  that  had  another  ten  minutes  elapsed,  help  would  have 
arrived  too  late. 

When  the  prisoner  regained  his  senses,  he  gazed  around  him 
with  a  wild,  puzzled  stare.  One  might  have  supposed  that  he 
was  amazed  to  find  himself  still  alive.  Suddenly  a  couple  of 
big  tears  welled  from  his  swollen  eyelids,  and  rolled  down  his 
cheeks.  He  was  pressed  with  questions,  but  did  not  vouchsafe 
so  much  as  a  single  word  in  response.  As  he  was  in  such  a 
desperate  frame  of  mind,  and  as  the  orders  to  keep  him  in  soli- 
tary confinement  prevented  the  governor  giving  him  a  com- 
panion, it  was  decided  to  put  a  straight  waistcoat  on  him. 
Lecoq  assisted  at  this  operation,  and  then  walked  away,  puz- 
zled, thoughtful,  and  agitated.  Intuition  told  him  that  these 
mysterious  occurrences  concealed  some  terrible  drama. 

"Still,  what  can  have  occurred  since  the  prisoner's  arrival 
here?"  he  murmured.  "Has  he  confessed  his  guilt  to  the  magis- 
trate, or  what  is  his  reason  for  attempting  so  desperate  an  act?'' 


I  ECOQ  did  not  sleep  that  night,  although  he  had  been  on  his 

feet  for  more  than  forty  hours,  and  had  scarcely  paused 

either  to  eat  or  drink.     Anxiety,  hope,  and  even  fatigue  itself, 

had  imparted  to  his  body  the  fictitious  strength  of  fever,  and 


MONSIEUR    LECOQ  75 

to  his  intellect  the  unhealthy  acuteness  which  is  so  often  the 
result  of  intense  mental  effort. 

He  no  longer  had  to  occupy  himself  with  imaginary  deduc- 
tions, as  in  former  times  when  in  the  employ  of  his  patron, 
the  astronomer.  Once  again  did  the  fact  prove  stranger  than 
fiction.  Here  was  reality — a  terrible  realit>  personified  by  the 
corpses  of  three  victims  lying  on  the  marble  slabs  at  the  Morgue. 
Still,  if  the  catastrophe  itself  was  a  patent  fact,  its  motive,  its 
surroundings,  could  only  be  conjectured.  Who  could  tell  what 
circumstances  had  preceded  and  paved  the  way  for  this  tragical 
denouement  ? 

It  is  true  that  all  doubt  might  be  dispelled  by  one  discovery 
— the  identity  of  the  murderer.  Who  was  he  ?  Who  was  right, 
Gevrol  or  Lecoq  ?  The  former's  views  were  shared  by  the 
officials  at  the  prison;  the  latter  stood  alone.  Again,  the  for- 
mer's opinion  was  based  upon  formidable  proof,  the  evidence 
of  sight;  while  Lecoq's  hypothesis  rested  only  on  a  series  of 
subtle  observations  and  deductions,  starting  from  a  single  sen- 
tence that  had  fallen  from  the  prisoner's  lips. 

And  yet  Lecoq  resolutely  persisted  in  his  theory,  guided  by 
the  following  reasons.  He  learnt  from  M.  d'Escorval's  clerk 
that  when  the  magistrate  had  examined  the  prisoner,  the  latter 
not  only  refused  to  confess,  but  answered  all  the  questions  put 
to  him  in  the  most  evasive  fashion.  In  several  instances,  more- 
over, he  had  not  replied  at  all.  If  the  magistrate  had  not 
insisted,  it  was  because  this  first  examination  was  a  mere 
formality,  solely  intended  to  justify  the  somewhat  premature 
delivery  of  the  order  to  imprison  the  accused. 

Now,  under  these  circumstances,  how  was  one  to  explain 
the  prisoner's  attempt  at  self-destruction  ?  Prison  statistics 
show  that  habitual  offenders  do  not  commit  suicide.  When 
apprehended  for  a  criminal  act,  they  are  sometimes  seized  with 
a  wild  frenzy  and  suffer  repeated  nervous  attacks ;  at  others 
they  fall  into  a  dull  stupor,  just  as  some  glutted  beast  succumbs 
to  sleep  with  the  blood  of  his  prey  still  dripping  from  his  lips. 
However,  such  men  never  think  of  putting  an  end  to  their  days. 
They  hold  fast  to  life,  no  matter  how  seriously  they  may  be 
compromised.     In  truth,  they  are  cowards. 

On  the  other  hand,  the  unfortunate  fellow  who,  in  a  moment 
of  frenzy,  commits  a  crime,  not  unfrequently  seeks  to  avoid  the 
consequences  of  his  act  by  self-destruction. 

Hence,   the   prisoner's   frustrated   attempt   at   suicide   was   a 


76  MONSIEUR   LECOQ 

strong  argument  in  favor  of  Lecoq's  theory.  This  wretched 
man's  secret  must  be  a  terrible  one  since  he  held  it  dearer 
than  life,  since  he  had  tried  to  destroy  himself  that  he  might 
take  it  unrevealed  to  the  grave. 

Four  o'clock  was  striking  when  Lecoq  sprang  from  his  bed 
on  which  he  had  thrown  himself  without  undressing ;  and  five 
minutes  later  he  was  walking  down  the  Rue  Montmartre.  The 
weather  was  still  cold  and  muggy;  and  a  thick  fog  hung  over 
the  city.  But  the  young  detective  was  too  engrossed  with  his 
own  thoughts  to  pay  attention  to  any  atmospherical  unpleasant- 
ness. Walking  with  a  brisk  stride,  he  had  just  reached  the 
church  of  Saint  Eustache,  when  a  coarse,  mocking  voice 
accosted  him  with  the  exclamation :  "Ah,  ha !  my  fine  fellow !" 

He  looked  up  and  perceived  Gevrol,  who,  with  three  of  his 
men,  had  come  to  cast  his  nets  round  about  the  markets,  whence 
the  police  generally  return  with  a  good  haul  of  thieves  and 
vagabonds. 

"You  are  up  very  early  this  morning,  Monsieur  Lecoq,"  con- 
tinued the  inspector ;  "you  are  still  trying  to  discover  our  man's 
identity,  I  suppose?" 

"Still  trying." 

"Is  he  a  prince  in  disguise,  or  only  a  marquis?" 

"One  or  the  other,  I  am  quite  certain." 

"All  right  then.  In  that  case  you  will  not  refuse  us  the 
opportunity  to  drink  to  your  success." 

Lecoq  consented,  and  the  party  entered  a  wine-shop  close  by. 
When  the  glasses  were  filled,  Lecoq  turned  to  Gevrol  and  ex- 
claimed :  "Upon  my  word,  General,  our  meeting  will  save  me  a 
long  walk.  I  was  going  to  the  prefecture  to  request  you,  on 
M.  d'Escorval's  behalf,  to  send  one  of  our  comrades  to  the 
Morgue  this  morning.  The  affair  at  the  Poivriere  has  been 
noised  about,  and  all  the  world  will  be  there,  so  he  desires 
some  officer  to  be  present  to  watch  the  crowd  and  listen  to  the 
remarks  of  the  visitors." 

"All  right ;  Father  Absinthe  shall  be  there  when  the  doors  open." 

To  send  Father  Absinthe  where  a  shrewd  and  subtle  agent 
was  required  was  a  mockery.  Still  Lecoq  did  not  protest,  for 
it  was  better  to  be  badly  served  than  to  be  betrayed ;  and  he 
could  at  least  trust  Father  Absinthe. 

"It  doesn't  much  matter,"  continued  Gevrol ;  "but  you  should 
have  informed  me  of  this  last  evening.  However,  when  I 
reached  the  prefecture  you  had  gone." 


MONSIEUR   LECOQ  77 

"I  had  some  work  to  do." 

"Yes  ?" 

"At  the  station-house  near  the  Barriere  d'ltalie.  I  wanted 
to  know  whether  the  floor  of  the  cell  was  paved  or  tiled."  So 
saying,  Lecoq  paid  the  score,  saluted  his  superior  officer,  and 
went  out." 

"Thunder !"  exclaimed  Gevrol,  striking  his  glass  violently 
upon  the  counter.  "Thunder !  how  that  fellow  provokes  me ! 
He  does  not  know  the  A  B  C  of  his  profession.  When  he  can't 
discover  anything,  he  invents  wonderful  stories,  and  then  mis- 
leads the  magistrates  with  his  high-sounding  phrases,  in  the 
hope  of  gaining  promotion.  I'll  give  him  advancement  with  a 
vengeance !     I'll  teach  him  to  set  himself  above  me !" 

Lecoq  had  not  been  deceived.  The  evening  before,  he  had 
visited  the  station-house  where  the  prisoner  had  first  been  con- 
fined, and  had  compared  the  soil  of  the  cell  floor  with  the  dust 
he  had  placed  in  his  pocket ;  and  he  carried  away  with  him,  as 
he  believed,  one  of  those  crushing  proofs  that  often  suffice  to 
extort  from  the  most  obstinate  criminal  a  complete  confession. 

If  Lecoq  was  in  haste  to  part  company  with  Gevrol,  it  was 
because  he  was  anxious  to  pursue  his  investigations  still  fur- 
ther, before  appearing  in  M.  d'Escorval's  presence.  He  was 
determined  to  find  the  cab-driver  who  had  been  stopped  by  the 
two  women  in  the  Rue  du  Chevaleret ;  and  with  this  object  in 
view,  he  had  obtained  at  the  prefecture  the  names  and  addresses 
of  all  the  cab-owners  hiring  between  the  road  to  Fontainebleau 
and  the  Seine. 

His  earlier  efforts  at  investigation  proved  unsuccessful.  At 
the  first  establishment  he  visited,  the  stable  boys,  who  were  not 
yet  up,  swore  at  him  roundly.  In  the  second,  he  found  the 
grooms  at  work,  but  none  of  the  drivers  had  as  yet  put  in  an 
appearance.  Moreover,  the  owner  refused  to  show  him  the 
books  upon  which  are  recorded — or  should  be  recorded — each 
driver's  daily  engagements.  Lecoq  was  beginning  to  despair, 
when  at  about  half-past  seven  o'clock  he  reached  an  establish- 
ment just  beyond  the  fortifications  belonging  to  a  man  named 
Trigault.  Here  he  learned  that  on  Sunday  night,  or  rather, 
early  on  Monday  morning,  one  of  the  drivers  had  been  accosted 
on  his  way  home  by  some  persons  who  succeeded  in  persuading 
him  to  drive  them  back  into  Paris. 

This  driver,  who  was  then  in  the  courtyard  harnessing  his 
horse,  proved  to  be  a  little  old  man,  with  a  ruddy  complexion, 


78  MONSIEUR    LECOQ 

and  a  pair  of  small  eyes  full  of  cunning.  Lecoq  walked  up  to 
him  at  once. 

"Was  it  you,"  he  asked,  "who,  on  Sunday  night  or  rather  on 
Monday,  between  one  and  two  in  the  morning,  drove  a  couple 
of  women  from  the  Rue  du  Chevaleret  into  Paris?" 

The  driver  looked  up,  and  surveying  Lecoq  attentively,  cau- 
tiously replied:  "Perhaps." 

"It  is  a  positive  answer  that  I  want." 

"Aha !"  said  the  old  man  sneeringly,  "you  know  two  ladies 
who  have  lost  something  in  a  cab,  and  so — " 

The  young  detective  trembled  with  satisfaction.  This  man 
was  certainly  the  one  he  was  looking  for.  "Have  you  heard 
anything  about  a  crime  that  has  been  committed  in  the  neigh- 
borhood?" he  interrupted. 

"Yes ;  a  murder  in  a  low  wine-shop." 

"Well,  then,  I  will  tell  you  that  these  two  women  are  mixed 
up  in  it;  they  fled  when  we  entered  the  place.  I  am  trying  to 
find  them.  I  am  a  detective ;  here  is  my  card.  Now,  can  you 
give  me  any  information?" 

The  driver  had  grown  very  pale.  "Ah!  the  wretches!"  he 
exclaimed.  "I  am  no  longer  surprised  at  the  luck-money  they 
gave  me — a  louis  and  two  five-franc  pieces  for  the  fare — thirty 
francs  in  all.  Cursed  money!  If  I  hadn't  spent  it,  I'd  throw 
it  away !" 

"And  where  did  you  drive  them?" 

"To  the  Rue  de  Bourgogne.  I  have  forgotten  the  number, 
but  I  should  recognize  the  house." 

"Unfortunately,  they  would  not  have  let  you  drive  them  to 
their  own  door." 

"Who  knows?  I  saw  them  ring  the  bell,  and  I  think  they 
went  in  just  as  I  drove  away.     Shall  I  take  you  there?" 

Lecoq's  sole  response  was  to  spring  on  to  the  box,  exclaim- 
ing: "Let  us  be  off." 

It  was  not  to  be  supposed  that  the  women  who  had  escaped 
from  the  Widow  Chupin's  drinking-den  at  the  moment  of  the 
murder  were  utterly  devoid  of  intelligence.  Nor  was  it  at  all 
likely  that  these  two  fugitives,  conscious  as  they  were  of  their 
perilous  situation,  had  gone  straight  to  their  real  home  in  a 
vehicle  hired  on  the  public  highway.  Hence,  the  driver's  hope 
of  finding  them  in  the  Rue  de  Bourgogne  was  purely  chimerical. 
Lecoq  was  fully  aware  of  this,  and  yet  he  did  not  hesitate  to 
jump  on  to  the  box  and  give  the  signal  for  starting.     In  so 


MONSIEUR   LECOQ  79 

doing,  he  obeyed  a  maxim  which  he  had  framed  in  his  early 
days  of  meditation — a  maxim  intended  to  assure  his  after-fame, 
and  which  ran  as  follows :  "Always  suspect  that  which  seems 
probable ;  and  begin  by  believing  what  appears  incredible." 

As  soon  as  the  vehicle  was  well  under  way,  the  young  detec- 
tive proceeded  to  ingratiate  himself  into  the  driver's  good 
graces,  being  anxious  to  obtain  all  the  information  that  this 
worthy  was  able  to  impart. 

In  a  tone  that  implied  that  all  trifling  would  be  useless  the 
cabman  cried:  "Hey  up,  hey  up,  Cocotte !"  and  his  mare  pricked 
up  her  ears  and  quickened  her  pace,  so  that  the  Route  de  Choisy 
was  speedily  reached.  Then  it  was  that  Lecoq  resumed  his 
inquiries. 

"Well,  my  good  fellow,"  he  began,  "you  have  told  me  the 
principal  facts,  now  I  should  like  the  details.  How  did  these 
two  women  attract  your  attention  ?" 

"Oh,  it  was  very  simple.  I  had  been  having  a  most  unfor- 
tunate day — six  hours  on  a  stand  on  the  Boulevards,  with  the 
rain  pouring  all  the  time.  It  was  simply  awful.  At  midnight 
I  had  not  made  more  than  a  franc  and  a  half  for  myself,  but 
I  was  so  wet  and  miserable  and  the  horse  seemed  so  done  up 
that  I  decided  to  go  home.  I  did  grumble,  I  can  tell  you.  Well, 
I  had  just  passed  the  corner  of  the  Rue  Picard,  in  the  Rue  du 
Chevaleret,  when  I  saw  two  women  standing  under  a  lamp, 
some  little  distance  off.  I  did  not  pay  any  attention  to  them; 
for  when  a  man  is  as  old  as  I  am,  women — " 

"Go  on!"  said  Lecoq,  who  could  not  restrain  his  impatience. 

"I  had  already  passed  them,  when  they  began  to  call  after 
me.  I  pretended  I  did  not  hear  them;  but  one  of  them  ran 
after  the  cab,  crying:  'A  louis !  a  louis  for  yourself!'  I  hesi- 
tated for  a  moment,  when  the  woman  added:  'And  ten  francs 
for  the  fare  !'    I  then  drew  up." 

Lecoq  was  boiling  over  with  impatience;  but  he  felt  that 
the  wisest  course  was  not  to  interrupt  the  driver  with  ques- 
tions, but  to  listen  to  all  he  had  to  say. 

"As  you  may  suppose,"  continued  the  coachman,  "I  wasn't 
inclined  to  trust  two  such  suspicious  characters,  alone  at  that 
hour  and  in  that  part  of  the  city.  So,  just  as  they  were  about 
to  get  into  the  cab,  I  called  to  them :  'Wait  a  bit,  my  little 
friends,  you  have  promised  papa  some  sous;  where  are  they?" 
The  one  who  had  called  after  the  cab  at  once  handed  me  thirty 
francs,  saying :  'Above  all,  make  haste !'  " 


80  MONSIEUR   LECOQ 

"Your  recital  could  not  be  more  minute,"  exclaimed  Lecoq, 
approvingly.     "Now,  how  about  these  two  women?" 

"What  do  you  mean?" 

"I  mean  what  kind  of  women  did  they  seem  to  be ;  what  did 
you  take  them  for?" 

"Oh,  for  nothing  very  good  !"  replied  the  driver,  with  a  know- 
ing smile. 

"Ah!  and  how  were  they  dressed?" 

"Like  most  of  the  girls  who  go  to  dance  at  the  Rainbow. 
One  of  them,  however,  was  very  neat  and  prim,  while  the  other 
— well !  she  was  a  terrible  dowdy." 

"Which  ran  after  you?" 

"The  girl  who  was  neatly  dressed,  the  one  who — "  The 
driver  suddenly  paused :  some  vivid  remembrance  passed  through 
his  brain,  and,  abruptly  jerking  the  rains,  he  brought  his  horse 
to  a  standstill. 

"Thunder !"  he  exclaimed.  "Now  I  think  of  it,  I  did  notice 
something  strange.  One  of  the  two  women  called  the  other 
'Madame'  as  large  as  life,  while  the  other  said  'thee'  and 
'thou,'  and  spoke  as  if  she  were  somebody." 

"Oh !  oh !  oh !"  exclaimed  the  young  detective,  in  three 
different  kevs.  "And  which  was  it  that  said  'thee'  and 
'thou'  ?" 

"Why,  the  dowdy  one.  She  with  shabby  dress  and  shoes  as 
big  as  a  gouty  man's.  You  should  have  seen  her  shake  the 
prim-looking  girl,  as  if  she  had  been  a  plum  tree.  'You  little 
fool!'  said  she,  'do  you  want  to  ruin  us?  You  will  have  time 
to  faint  when  we  get  home;  now  come  along.  And  then  she 
begam  to  sob:  'Indeed,  madame,  indeed  I  can't!'  she  said,  and 
really  she  seemed  quite  unable  to  move :  in  fact,  she  appeared 
to  be  so  ill  that  I  said  to  myself:  'Here  is  a  young  woman  who 
has  drunk  more  than  is  good  for  her !'  " 

These  facts  confirmed  even  if  they  corrected  Lecoq's  first 
suppositions.  As  he  had  suspected,  the  social  position  of  the 
two  women  was  not  the  same.  He  had  been  mistaken,  how- 
ever, in  attributing  the  higher  standing  to  the  woman  wearing 
the  shoes  with  the  high  heels,  the  marks  of  which  he  had  so 
particularly  noticed  in  the  snow,  with  all  the  attendant  signs 
of  precipitation,  terror,  and  weakness.  In  reality,  social  pre- 
eminence belonged  to  the  woman  who  had  left  the  large,  broad 
footprints  behind  her.  And  not  merely  was  she  of  a  superior 
rank,  but  she  had  also  shown  superior  energy.     Contrary  to 


MONSIEUR   LECOQ  81 

Lecoq's  original  idea,  it  now  seemed  evident  that  she  was  the 
mistress,  and  her  companion  the  servant. 

"Is  that  all,  my  good  fellow?"  he  asked  the  driver,  who  dur- 
ing the  last  few  minutes  had  been  busy  with  his  horses. 

''Yes,"  replied  the  cabman,  "except  that  I  noticed  that  the 
shabbily  dressed  woman  who  paid  me  had  a  hand  as  small  as 
a  child's,  and  in  spite  of  her  anger,  her  voice  was  as  sweet  as 
music." 

"Did  you  see  her  face?" 

"I  just  caught  a  glimpse  of  it." 

"Could  you  tell  if  she  were  pretty,  or  whether  she  was  a 
blonde  or  brunette?" 

So  many  questions  at  a  time  confused  the  driver.  "Stop 
a  minute  !"  he  replied.  "In  my  opinion  she  wasn't  pretty,  and 
I  don't  believe  she  was  young,  but  she  certainly  was  a  blonde, 
and  with  plenty  of  hair  too." 

"Was  she  tall  or  short,  stout  or  slender?" 

"Between  the  two." 

This  was  very  vague.  "And  the  other,"  asked  Lecoq,  "the 
neatly  dressed  one?" 

"The  deuce  !  As  for  her,  I  did  not  notice  her  at  all ;  all  I 
know  about  her  is  that  she  was  very  small." 

"Would  you  recognize  her  if  you  met  her  again?" 

"Good  heavens !  no." 

The  vehicle  was  now  rolling  along  the  Rue  de  Bourgogne. 
Half-way  down  the  street  the  driver  pulled  up,  and,  turning  to 
Lecoq,  exclaimed:  "Here  we  are.  That's  the  house  the  hussies 
went  into." 

To  draw  off  the  silk  handkerchief  that  served  him  as  a 
muffler,  to  fold  it  and  slip  it  into  his  pocket,  to  spring  to  the 
ground  and  enter  the  house  indicated,  was  only  the  work  of 
an  instant  for  the  young  detective. 

In  the  concierge's  little  room  he  found  an  old  woman  knit- 
ting. Lecoq  bowed  to  her  politely,  and,  displaying  the  silk 
handkerchief,  exclaimed:  "Madame,  I  have  come  to  return  this 
article  to  one  of  your  lodgers." 

"To  which  one?" 

"Really,  I  don't  exactly  know." 

In  a  moment  the  worthy  dame  imagined  that  this  polite  young 
man  was  making  fun  of  her.    "You  scamp — !"  she  began. 

"Excuse  me,"  interrupted  Lecoq;  "allow  me  to  finish.  I 
must  tell  you  that  at  about  three  o'clock  in  the  morning,  of  the 


82  MONSIEUR   LECOQ 

day  before  yesterday,  I  was  quietly  returning  home,  when  two 
ladies,  who  were  seemingly  in  a  great  hurry,  overtook  me  and 
passed  on.  One  of  them  dropped  this  handkerchief,  which 
I  picked  up.  I  hastened  after  her  to  restore  it,  but  before  I 
could  overtake  them  they  had  rung  the  bell  at  your  door  and 
were  already  in  the  house.  I  did  not  like  to  ring  at  such  an  un- 
earthly hour  for  fear  of  disturbing  you.  Yesterday  I  was  so 
busy  I  couldn't  come;  however,  here  I  am  at  last,  and  here's 
the  handkerchief."  So  saying,  Lecoq  laid  the  handkerchief  on 
the  table,  and  turned  as  if  to  go,  when  the  concierge  detained 
him. 

"Many  thanks  for  your  kindness,"  said  she,  "but  you  can 
keep  it.  We  have  no  ladies  in  this  house  who  are  in  the  habit 
of  coming  home  alone  after  midnight." 

"Still  I  have  eyes,"  insisted  Lecoq,  "and  I  certainly  saw — " 

"Ah !  I  had  forgotten,"  exclaimed  the  old  woman.  "The 
night  you  speak  of  some  one  certainly  did  ring  the  bell  here. 
I  pulled  the  string  that  opens  the  door  and  listened,  but  not 
hearing  any  one  close  the  door  or  come  upstairs,  I  said  to  my- 
self: 'Some  mischievous  fellow  has  been  playing  a  trick  on 
me.'  I  slipped  on  my  dress  and  went  out  into  the  hall,  where 
I  saw  two  women  hastening  toward  the  door.  Before  I  could 
reach  them  they  slammed  the  door  in  my  face.  I  opened  it 
again  as  quickly  as  I  could  and  looked  out  into  the  street.  But 
they  were  hurrying  away  as  fast  as  they  could." 

"In  what  direction?" 

"Oh  !  they  were  running  toward  the  Rue  de  Varennes." 

Lecoq  was  baffled  again ;  however,  he  bowed  civilly  to  the 
concierge,  whom  he  might  possibly  have  need  of  at  another 
time,  and  then  went  back  to  the  cab.  "As  I  had  supposed,  they 
do  not  live  here,"  he  remarked  to  the  driver. 

The  latter  shrugged  his  shoulders  in  evident  vexation,  which 
would  inevitably  have  vent  in  a  torrent  of  words,  if  Lecoq, 
who  had  consulted  his  watch,  had  not  forestalled  the  outburst 
by  saying:  "Nine  o'clock — I  am  an  hour  behind  time  already: 
still  I  shall  have  some  news  to  tell.  Now  take  me  to  the 
Morgue  as  quickly  as  possible." 

When  a  mysterious  crime  has  been  perpetrated,  or  a  great 
catastrophe  has  happened,  and  the  identity  of  the  victims  has 
not  been  established,  "a  great  day"  invariably  follows  at  the 
Morgue.  The  attendants  are  so  accustomed  to  the  horrors  of 
the  place  that  the  most  sickly  sight  fails  to  impress  them;  and 


MONSIEUR    LECOQ  83 

even  under  the  most  distressing  circumstances,  they  hasten 
gaily  to  and  fro,  exchanging  jests  well  calculated  to  make  an 
ordinary  mortal's  flesh  creep.  As  a  rule,  they  are  far  less 
interested  in  the  corpses  laid  out  for  public  view  on  the 
marble  slabs  in  the  principal  hall  than  in  the  people  of  every 
age  and  station  in  life  who  congregate  hero  all  day  long;  at 
times  coming  in  search  of  some  lost  relative  or  friend,  but  far 
more  frequently  impelled  by  idle  curiosity. 

As  the  vehicle  conveying  Lecoq  reached  the  quay,  the  young 
detective  perceived  that  a  large,  excited  crowd  was  gathered 
outside  the  building.  The  newspapers  had  reported  the  tragedy 
at  the  Widow  Chupin's  drinking-den,  of  course,  more  or  less 
correctly,  and  everybody  wished  to  see  the  victims. 

On  drawing  near  the  Pont  Notre  Dame,  Lecoq  told  the 
driver  to  pull  up.  "I  prefer  to  alight  here,  rather  than  in  front 
of  the  Morgue,"  he  said,  springing  to  the  ground.  Then, 
producing  first  his  watch,  and  next  his  purse,  he  added :  ''We 
have  been  an  hour  and  forty  minutes,  my  good  fellow,  conse- 
quently I  owe  you — " 

"Nothing  at  all,"  replied  the  driver,  decidedly. 

"But—" 

"No — not  a  sou.  I  am  too  worried  already  to  think  that  I 
took  the  money  these  hussies  offered  me.  It  would  only  have 
served  me  right  if  the  liquor  I  bought  with  it  had  given  me 
the  gripes.  Don't  be  uneasy  about  the  score,  and  if  you  need  a 
trap  use  mine  for  nothing,  till  you  have  caught  the  jades." 

As  Lecoq's  purse  was  low,  he  did  not  insist. 

"You  will,  at  least,  take  my  name  and  address?"  continued 
the  driver. 

"Certainly.  The  magistrate  will  want  your  evidence,  and  a 
summons  will  be  sent  you." 

"All  right,  then.  Address  it  to  Papillon  (Eugene),  driver, 
care  of  M.  Trigault.  I  lodge  at  his  place,  because  I  have  some 
small  interest  in  the  business,  you  see." 

The  young  detective  was  hastening  away,  when  Papillon 
called  him  back.  "When  you  leave  the  Morgue  you  will  want 
to  go  somewhere  else,"  he  said,  "you  told  me  that  you  had 
another  appointment,  and  that  you  were  already  late." 

"Yes,  I  ought  to  be  at  the  Palais  de  Justice;  but  it  is  only 
a  few  steps  from  here." 

"No  matter.  I  will  wait  for  you  at  the  corner  of  the  bridge. 
It's  useless   to  say  'no';   I've   made  up   my  mind,   and   I'm   a 


84  MONSIEUR   LECOQ 

Breton,  you  know.  I  want  you  to  ride  out  the  thirty  francs 
that  those  jades  paid  me"." 

It  would  have  been  cruel  to  refuse  such  a  request.  Accord- 
ingly, Lecoq  made  a  gesture  of  assent,  and  then  hurried  toward 
the  Morgue. 

If  there  was  a  crowd  on  the  roadway  outside,  it  was  because 
the  gloomy  building  itself  was  crammed  full  of  people.  Indeed, 
the  sightseers,  most  of  whom  could  see  nothing  at  all,  were 
packed  as  closely  as  sardines,  and  it  was  only  by  dint  of  well- 
nigh  superhuman  efforts  that  Lecoq  managed  to  effect  an 
entrance.  As  usual,  he  found  among  the  mob  a  large  number 
of  girls  and  women;  for,  strange  to  say,  the  Parisian  fair  sex 
is  rather  partial  to  the  disgusting  sights  and  horrible  emotions 
that  repay  a  visit  to  the  Morgue. 

The  shop  and  work  girls  who  reside  in  the  neighborhood 
readily  go  out  of  their  way  to  catch  a  glimpse  of  the  corpses 
which  crime,  accident,  and  suicide  bring  to  this  horrible  place. 
A  few,  the  more  sensitive  among  them,  may  come  no  further 
than  the  door,  but  the  others  enter,  and  after  a  long  stare 
return  and  recount  their  impressions  to  their  less  courageous 
companions. 

If  there  should  be  no  corpse  exhibited;  if  all  the  marble 
slabs  are  unoccupied,  strange  as  it  may  seem,  the  visitors  turn 
hastily  away  with  an  expression  of  disappointment  or  discon- 
tent. There  was  no  fear  of  their  doing  so,  however,  on  the 
morrow  of  the  tragedy  at  Poivriere,  for  the  mysterious  murderer 
whose  identity  Lecoq  was  trying  to  establish  had  furnished 
three  victims  for  their  delectation.  Panting  with  curiosity, 
they  paid  but  little  attention  to  the  unhealthy  atmosphere :  and 
yet  a  damp  chill  came  from  beyond  the  iron  railings,  while 
from  the  crowd  itself  rose  an  infectious  vapor,  impregnated 
with  the  stench  of  the  chloride  of  lime  used  as  a  disinfectant. 

As  a  continuous  accompaniment  to  the  exclamations,  sighs, 
and  whispered  comments  of  the  bystanders  came  the  murmur 
of  the  water  trickling  from  a  spigot  at  the  head  of  each  slab ; 
a  tiny  stream  that  flowed  forth  only  to  fall  in  fine  spray  upon 
the  marble.  Through  the  small  arched  windows  a  gray  light 
stole  in  on  the  exposed  bodies,  bringing  each  muscle  into  bold  re- 
lief, revealing  the  ghastly  tints  of  the  lifeless  flesh,  and  impart- 
ing a  sinister  aspect  to  the  tattered  clothing  hung  around  the 
room  to  aid  in  the  identification  of  the  corpses.  This  clothing, 
after  a  certain  time,  is  sold — for  nothing  is  wasted  at  the  Morgue. 


MONSIEUR   LECOQ  85 

However,  Lecoq  was  too  occupied  with  his  own  thoughts  to 
remark  the  horrors  of  the  scene.  He  scarcely  bestowed  a  glance 
on  the  three  victims.  He  was  looking  for  Father  Absinthe, 
whom  he  could  not  perceive.  Had  Gevrol  intentionally  or  unin- 
tentionally failed  to  fulfil  his  promise,  or  had  Father  Absinthe 
forgotten  his  duty  in  his  morning  dram? 

Unable  to  explain  the  cause  of  his  comrade's  absence,  Lecoq 
addressed  himself  to  the  head  keeper:  "It  would  seem  that  no 
one  has  recognized  the  victims,"  he  remarked. 

"No  one.  And  yet,  ever  since  opening,  we  have  had  an  im- 
mense crowd.  If  I  were  master  here,  on  days  like  this,  I  would 
charge  an  admission  fee  of  two  sous  a  head,  with  half-price  for 
children.  It  would  bring  in  a  round  sum,  more  than  enough  to 
cover  the  expenses." 

The  keeper's  reply  seemed  to  offer  an  inducement  to  conver- 
sation, but  Lecoq  did  not  seize  it.  "Excuse  me,"  he  interrupted, 
"didn't  a  detective  come  here  this  morning?" 

"Yes,  there  was  one  here." 

"Has  he  gone  away  then?     I  don't  see  him  anywhere?" 

The  keeper  glanced  suspiciously  at  his  eager  questioner,  but 
after  a  moment's  hesitation,  he  ventured  to  inquire:  "Are  you 
one  of  them?" 

"Yes,  I  am,"  replied  Lecoq,  exhibiting  his  card  in  support 
of  his  assertion. 

"And  your  name  ?" 

"Is  Lecoq." 

The  keeper's  face  brightened  up.  "In  that  case,"  said  he, 
"I  have  a  letter  for  you,  written  by  your  comrade,  who  was 
obliged  to  go  away.    Here  it  is." 

The  young  detective  at  once  tore  open  the  envelope  and 
read:  "Monsieur  Lecoq — " 

"Monsieur?"  This  simple  formula  of  politeness  brought  a 
faint  smile  to  his  lips.  Was  it  not,  on  Father  Absinthe's  part, 
an  evident  recognition  of  his  colleague's  superiority.  Indeed, 
our  hero  accepted  it  as  a  token  of  unquestioning  devotion  which 
it  would  be  his  duty  to  repay  with  a  master's  kind  protection 
toward  his  first  disciple.  However,  he  had  no  time  to  waste  in 
thought,  and  accordingly  at  once  proceeded  to  peruse  the  note, 
which  ran  as  follows: 

"Monsieur  Lecoq — I  had  been  standing  on  duty  since  the 
opening  of  the  Morgue,  when  at  about  nine  o'clock  three  young 


86  MONSIEUR   LECOQ 

men  entered,  arm-in-arm.  From  their  manner  and  appearance, 
I  judged  them  to  be  clerks  in  some  store  or  warehouse.  Sud- 
denly I  noticed  that  one  of  them  turned  as  white  as  his  shirt ; 
and  calling  the  attention  of  his  companions  to  one  of  the 
unknown  victims,  he  whispered:   'Gustave !' 

"His  comrades  put  their  hands  over  his  mouth,  and  one  of 
them  exclaimed :  'What  are  you  about,  you  fool,  to  mix  yourself 
up  with  this  affair !     Do  you  want  to  get  us  into  trouble  ?' 

"Thereupon  they  went  out,  and  I  followed  them.  But  the 
person  who  had  first  spoken  was  so  overcome  that  he  could 
scarcely  drag  himself  along;  and  his  companions  were  obliged 
to  take  him  to  a  little  restaurant  close  by.  I  entered  it  myself, 
and  it  is  there  I  write  this  letter,  in  the  mean  time  watching 
them  out  of  the  corner  of  my  eye.  I  send  this  note,  explaining 
my  absence,  to  the  head  keeper,  who  will  give  it  you.  You  will 
understand  that  I  am  going  to  follow  these  men.        A.  B.  S." 

The  handwriting  of  this  letter  was  almost  illegible ;  and  there 
were  mistakes  in  spelling  in  well-nigh  every  line ;  still,  its 
meaning  was  clear  and  exact,  and  could  not  fail  to  excite  the 
most  flattering  hopes. 

Lecoq's  face  was  so  radiant  when  he  returned  to  the  cab 
that,  as  the  old  coachman  urged  on  his  horse,  he  could  not 
refrain  from  saying:  "Things  are  going  on  to  suit  you." 

A  friendly  "hush !"  was  the  only  response.  It  required  all 
Lecoq's  attention  to  classify  this  new  information.  When  he 
alighted  from  the  cab  in  front  of  the  Palais  de  Justice,  he  expe- 
rienced considerable  difficulty  in  dismissing  the  old  cabman,  who 
insisted  upon  remaining  at  his  orders.  He  succeeded  at  last, 
however,  but  even  when  he  had  reached  the  portico  on  the  left 
side  of  the  building,  the  worthy  fellow,  standing  up,  still  shouted 
at  the  top  of  his  voice :  "At  M.  Trigault's  house — <lon't  forget — 
Father  Papillon — No.  998 — 1,000  less  2 — " 

Lecoq  had  entered  the  left  wing  of  the  Palais.  He  climbed 
the  stairs  till  he  had  reached  the  third  floor,  and  was  about  to 
enter  the  long,  narrow,  badly-lighted  corridor  known  as  the 
Galerie  de  lTnstruction,  when,  finding  a  doorkeeper  installed 
behind  a  heavy  oaken  desk,  he  remarked:  "M.  d'Escorval  is, 
of  course,  in  his  office?'' 

The  man  shook  his  head.  "No,"  said  he,  "M.  d'Escorval  is 
not  here  this  morning,  and  he  won't  be  here  for  several  weeks." 

"Why  not!     What  do  you  mean?" 


MONSIEUR   LECOQ  87 

"Last  night,  as  he  was  alighting  from  his  carriage,  at  his  own 
door,  he  had  a  most  unfortunate  fall,  and  broke  his  leg." 


COME  men  are  wealthy.  They  own  a  carriage  drawn  by  a 
^  pair  of  high-stepping  horses,  and  driven  by  a  coachman  in 
stylish  livery ;  and  as  they  pass  by,  leaning  back  on  comfortable 
cushions,  they  become  the  object  of  many  an  envious  glance. 
Sometimes,  however,  the  coachman  has  taken  a  drop  too  much, 
and  upsets  the  carriage ;  perhaps  the  horses  run  away  and  a 
general  smash  ensues;  or,  maybe,  the  hitherto  fortunate  owner, 
in  a  moment  of  absent-mindedness,  misses  the  step,  and  frac- 
tures his  leg  on  the  curbstone.  Such  accidents  occur  every  day ; 
and  their  long  list  should  make  humble  foot-passengers  bless 
the  lowly  lot  which  preserves  them  from  such  peril. 

On  learning  the  misfortune  that  had  befallen  M.  d'Escorval, 
Lecoq's  face  wore  such  an  expression  of  consternation  that  the 
doorkeeper  could  not  help  laughing.  "What  is  there  so  very 
extraordinary  about  that  I've  told  you?"  he  asked. 

"I— oh!  nothing—" 

The  detective  did  not  speak  the  truth.  The  fact  is,  he  had 
just  been  struck  by  the  strange  coincidence  of  two  events — the 
supposed  murderer's  attempted  suicide,  and  the  magistrate's  fall. 
Still,  he  did  not  allow  the  vague  presentiment  that  flitted  through 
his  mind  to  assume  any  definite  form.  For  after  all,  what  pos- 
sible connection  could  there  be  between  the  two  occurrences? 
Then  again,  he  never  allowed  himself  to  be  governed  by  preju- 
dice, nor  had  he  as  yet  enriched  his  formulary  with  an  axiom 
he  afterward  professed :  "Distrust  all  circumstances  that  seem 
to  favor  your  secret  wishes." 

Of  course,  Lecoq  did  not  rejoice  at  M.  d'Escorval's  accident; 
could  he  have  prevented  it,  he  would  have  gladly  done  so. 
Still,  he  could  not  help  saying  to  himself  that  this  stroke  of 
misfortune  would  free  him  from  all  further  connection  with  a 
man  whose  superciliousness  and  disdain  had  been  painfully  dis- 
agreeable to  his  feelings. 


88  MONSIEUR   LECOQ 

This  thought  caused  a  sensation  of  relief — almost  one  of  light- 
headedness. "In  that  case,"  said  the  young  detective  to  the 
doorkeeper,  "I  shall  have  nothing  to  do  here  this  morning." 

"You  must  be  joking,"  was  the  reply.  "Does  the  world  stop 
moving  because  one  man  is  disabled?  The  news  only  arrived 
an  hour  ago;  but  all  the  urgent  business  that  M.  d'Escorval 
had  in  charge  has  already  been  divided  among  the  other 
magistrates." 

"I  came  here  about  that  terrible  affair  that  occurred  the  other 
night  just  beyond  the  Barriere  de  Fontainebleau." 

"Eh !  Why  didn't  you  say  so  at  once  ?  A  messenger  has 
been  sent  to  the  prefecture  after  you  already.  M.  Segmuller 
has  charge  of  the  case,  and  he's  waiting  for  you." 

Doubt  and  perplexity  were  plainly  written  on  Lecoq's  fore- 
head. He  was  trying  to  remember  the  magistrate  that  bore 
this  name,  and  wondered  whether  he  was  a  likely  man  to  espouse 
his  views. 

"Yes,"  resumed  the  doorkeeper,  who  seemed  to  be  in  a  talka- 
tive mood,  "M.  Segmuller — you  don't  seem  to  know  him.  He 
is  a  worthy  man,  not  quite  so  grim  as  most  of  our  gentlemen. 
A  prisoner  he  had  examined  said  one  day :  'That  devil  there 
has  pumped  me  so  well  that  I  shall  certainly  have  my  head 
chopped  off ;  but,  nevertheless,  he's  a  good  fellow !" 

His  heart  somewhat  lightened  by  these  favorable  reports, 
Lecoq  went  and  tapped  at  a  door  that  was  indicated  to  him, 
and  which  bore  the  number — 22. 

"Come  in  !"  called  out  a  pleasant  voice. 

The  young  detective  entered,  and  found  himself  face  to  face 
with  a  man  of  some  forty  years  of  age,  tall  and  rather  corpu- 
lent, who  at  once  exclaimed :  "Ah  !  you  are  Lecoq.  Very  well 
— take  a  seat.  I  am  busy  just  now  looking  over  the  papers  of 
the  case,  but  I  will  attend  to  you  in  five  minutes." 

Lecoq  obeyed,  at  the  same  time  glancing  furtively  at  the 
magistrate  with  whom  he  was  about  to  work.  M.  Segmuller's 
appearance  corresponded  perfectly  with  the  description  given 
by  the  doorkeeper.  His  plump  face  wore  an  air  of  frankness 
and  benevolence,  and  his  blue  eyes  had  a  most  pleasant  expres- 
sion. Nevertheless,  Lecoq  distrusted  these  appearances,  and 
in  so  doing  he  was  right. 

Born  near  Strasbourg,  M.  Segmuller  possessed  that  candid 
physiognomy  common  to  most  of  the  natives  of  blonde  Alsace 
— a  deceitful  mask,  which,  behind  seeming  simplicity,  not  un- 


MONSIEUR   LECOQ  89 

frequently  conceals  a  Gascon  cunning,  rendered  all  the  more 
dangerous  since  it  is  allied  with  extreme  caution.  He  had  a 
wonderfully  alert,  penetrating  mind ;  but  his  system — every  mag- 
istrate has  his  own— was  mainly  good-humor.  Unlike  most  of 
his  colleagues,  who  were  as  stiff  and  cutting  in  manner  as  the 
sword  which  the  statue  of  Justice  usually  holds  in  her  hand, 
he  made  simplicity  and  kindness  of  demeanor  his  leading  trait, 
though,  of  course,  without  ever  losing  sight  of  his  magisterial 
duties. 

Still,  the  tone  of  his  voice  was  so  paternal,  and  the  subtle 
purport  of  his  questions  so  veiled  by  his  seeming  frankness, 
that  most  of  those  whom  he  examined  forgot  the  necessity  of 
protecting  themselves,  and  unawares  confessed  their  guilt. 
Thus,  it  frequently  happened  that  while  some  unsuspecting  cul- 
prit was  complacently  congratulating  himself  upon  getting  the 
best  of  the  judge,  the  poor  wretch  was  really  being  turned 
inside  out  like  a  glove. 

By  the  side  of  such  a  man  as  M.  Segmuller  a  grave  and 
slender  clerk  would  have  excited  distrust ;  so  he  had  chosen  one 
who  was  a  caricature  of  himself.  This  clerk's  name  was 
Goguet.  He  was  short  but  corpulent,  and  his  broad,  beardless 
face  habitually  wore  a  silly  smile,  not  out  of  keeping  with  his 
intellect,  which  was  none  of  the  brightest. 

As  stated  above,  when  Lecoq  entered  M.  Segmuller's  room 
the  latter  was  busy  studying  the  case  which  had  so  unexpectedly 
fallen  into  his  hands.  All  the  articles  which  the  vounsr  detec- 
tive  had  collected,  from  the  flakes  of  wool  to  the  diamond  ear- 
ring, were  spread  out  upon  the  magistrate's  desk.  With  the 
greatest  attention,  he  perused  the  report  prepared  by  Lecoq, 
and  according  to  the  different  phases  of  the  affair,  he  examined 
one  or  another  of  the  objects  before  him,  or  else  consulted  the 
plan  of  the  ground. 

"A  good  half-hour  elapsed  before  he  had  completed  his 
inspection,  when  he  threw  himself  back  in  his  armchair. 
Monsieur  Lecoq,"  he  said,  slowly,  "Monsieur  d'Escorval  has 
informed  me  by  a  note  on  the  margin  of  this  file  of  papers 
that  you  are  an  intelligent  man,  and  that  we  can  trust  you." 

"I  am  willing,  at  all  events." 

"You  speak  too  slightingly  of  yourself;  this  is  the  first  time 
that  an  agent  has  brought  me  a  report  as  complete  as  yours. 
You  are  young,  and  if  you  persevere,  I  think  you  will  be  abl? 
to  accomplish  great  things  in  your  profession." 


yo  MONSIEUR   LECOQ 

Nervous  with  delight,  Lecoq  bowed  and  stammered  his 
thanks. 

"Your  opinion  in  this  matter  coincides  with  mine,"  continued 
M.  Segmuller,  "and  the  public  prosecutor  informs  me  that  M. 
d'Escorval  shares  the  same  views.  An  enigma  is  before  us ;  and 
it  ought  to  be  solved." 

"Oh ! — we'll  solve  it,  I  am  certain,  sir,"  exclaimed  Lecoq, 
who  at  this  moment  felt  capable  of  the  most  extraordinary 
achievements.  Indeed,  he  would  have  gone  through  fire  and 
water  for  the  magistrate  who  had  received  him  so  kindly,  and 
his  enthusiasm  sparkled  so  plainly  in  his  eyes  that  M.  Segmuller 
could  not  restrain  a  smile. 

"I  have  strong  hopes  of  it  myself,"  he  responded ;  "but  we 
are  far  from  the  end.  Now,  what  have  you  been  doing  since 
yesterday?  Did  M.  d'Escorval  give  you  any  orders?  Have 
you  obtained  any  fresh  information?" 

"I  don't  think  I  have  wasted  my  time,"  replied  Lecoq,  who 
at  once  proceeded  to  relate  the  various  facts  that  had  come  to 
his  knowledge  since  his  departure  from  the  Poivriere. 

With  rare  precision  and  that  happiness  of  expression  which 
Seldom  fails  a  man  well  acquainted  with  his  subject,  he  re- 
counted the  daring  feats  of  the  presumed  accomplice,  the  points 
he  had  noted  in  the  supposed  murderer's  conduct,  the  latter's 
unsuccessful  attempt  at  self-destruction.  He  repeated  the  testi- 
mony given  by  the  cab-driver,  and  by  the  concierge  in  the  Rue 
de  Bourgogne,  and  then  read  the  letter  he  had  received  from 
Father  Absinthe. 

In  conclusion,  he  placed  on  the  magistrate's  desk  some  of  the 
dirt  he  had  scraped  from  the  prisoner's  feet ;  at  the  same  time 
depositing  beside  it  a  similar  parcel  of  dust  collected  on  the 
floor  of  the  cell  in  which  the  murderer  was  confined  at  the 
Barriere  d'ltalie. 

When  Lecoq  had  explained  the  reasons  that  had  led  him 
to  collect  this  soil,  and  the  conclusions  that  might  be  drawn 
from  a  comparison  of  the  two  parcels,  M.  Segmuller,  who  had 
been  listening  attentively,  at  once  exclaimed:  "You  are  right. 
It  may  be  that  you  have  discovered  a  means  to  confound  all  the 
prisoner's  denials.  At  all  events,  this  is  certainly  a  proof  of 
surprising  sagacity  on  your  part." 

So  it  must  have  been,  for  Goguet,  the  clerk,  nodded  approv- 
inglv.  "Capital !"  he  murmured.  "I  should  never  have  thought 
of  that" 


MONSIEUR   LECOQ  91 

While  he  was  talking,  M.  Segmuller  had  carefully  placed  all 
the  so-called  "articles  of  conviction"  in  a  large  drawer,  from 
which  they  would  not  emerge  until  the  trial.  "Now,"  said  he, 
"I  understand  the  case  well  enough  to  examine  the  Widow 
Chupin.    We  may  gain  some  information  from  her." 

He  was  laying  his  hand  upon  the  bell,  when  Lecoq  stopped 
him  with  an  almost  supplicating  gesture.  "I  have  one  great 
favor  to  ask  you,  sir,"  he  observed. 

"What  is  it?— speak." 

"I  should  very  much  like  to  be  present  at  this  examination. 
It  takes  so  little,  sometimes,  to  awaken  a  happy  inspiration." 

Although  the  law  says  that  the  accused  shall  first  of  all  be 
privately  examined  by  the  investigating  magistrate  assisted  by 
his  clerk,  it  also  allows  the  presence  of  police  agents.  Accord- 
ingly, M.  Segmuller  told  Lecoq  that  he  might  remain.  At  the 
same  time  he  rang  his  bell ;  which  was  speedily  answered  by  a 
messenger. 

"Has  the  Widow  Chupin  been  brought  here,  in  compliance 
with  my  orders  ?"  asked  M.  Segmuller. 

"Yes,  sir;  she  is  in  the  gallery  outside." 

"Let  her  come  in  then." 

An  instant  later  the  hostess  of  the  Poivriere  entered  the 
room,  bowing  to  the  right  and  to  the  left.  This  was  not  her 
first  appearance  before  a  magistrate,  and  she  was  not  ignorant 
of  the  respect  that  is  due  to  justice.  Accordingly,  she  had 
arrayed  herself  for  her  examination  with  the  utmost  care.  She 
had  arranged  her  rebellious  gray  locks  in  smooth  bandeaux,  and 
her  garments,  although  of  common  material,  looked  positively 
neat.  She  had  even  persuaded  one  of  the  prison  warders  to 
buy  her — with  the  money  she  had  about  her  at  the  time  of  her 
arrest — a  black  crape  cap.  and  a  couple  of  white  pocket-hand- 
kerchiefs, intending  to  deluge  the  latter  with  her  tears,  should 
the  situation  call  for  a  pathetic  display. 

She  was  indeed  far  too  knowing  to  rely  solely  on  the  mere 
artifices  of  dress ;  hence,  she  had  also  drawn  upon  her  repertoire 
of  grimaces  for  an  innocent,  sad,  and  yet  resigned  expression, 
well  fitted,  in  her  opinion,  to  win  the  sympathy  and  indulgence 
of  the  magistrate  upon  whom  her  fate  would  depend. 

Thus  disguised,  with  downcast  eyes  and  honeyed  voice,  she 
looked  so  unlike  the  terrible  termagant  of  the  Poivriere,  that 
her  customers  would  scarcely  have  recognized  her.  Indeed,  an 
honest  old  bachelor  might  have  offered  her  twenty  francs  a 


92  MONSIEUR   LECOQ 

month  to  take  charge  of  his  chambers — solely  on  the  strength 
of  her  good  looks.  But  M.  Segmuller  had  unmasked  so  many 
hypocrites  that  he  was  not  deceived  for  a  moment.  "What  an 
old  actress !"  he  muttered  to  himself,  and,  glancing  at  Lecoq,  he 
perceived  the  same  thought  sparkling  in  the  young  detective's 
eyes.  It  is  true  that  the  magistrate's  penetration  may  have  been 
due  to  some  notes  he  had  just  perused — notes  containing  an 
abstract  of  the  woman's  former  life,  and  furnished  by  the  chief 
of  police  at  the  magistrate's  request. 

With  a  gesture  of  authority  M.  Segmuller  warned  Goguet, 
the  clerk  with  the  silly  smile,  to  get  his  writing  materials  ready. 
He  then  turned  toward  the  Widow  Chupin.  "Your  name  ?"  he 
asked  in  a  sharp  tone. 

"Aspasie  Claperdty,  my  maiden  name,"  replied  the  old 
woman,  "and  to-day,  the  Widow  Chupin,  at  your  service,  sir ;" 
so  saying,  she  made  a  low  courtesy,  and  then  added :  "A  lawful 
widow,  you  understand,  sir ;  I  have  my  marriage  papers  safe 
in  my  chest  at  home ;  and  if  you  wish  to  send  any  one — " 

"Your  age  ?"  interrupted  the  magistrate. 

"Fifty-four." 

"Your  profession?" 

"Dealer  in  wines  and  spirits  outside  of  Paris,  near  the  Rue 
du  Chateau-des-Rentiers,  just  beyond  the  fortifications." 

A  prisoner's  examination  always  begins  with  these  questions 
as  to  individuality,  which  gives  both  the  magistrate  and  the 
culprit  time  to  study  each  other,  to  try,  as  it  were,  each  other's 
strength,  before  joining  in  a  serious  struggle;  just  as  two  duel- 
ists, about  to  engage  in  mortal  combat,  first  try  a  few  passes 
with  the  foils. 

"Now,"  resumed  M.  Segmuller,  "we  will  note  your  antece- 
dents. Have  you  not  already  been  found  guilty  of  several 
offenses?" 

The  Widow  Chupin  was  too  well  versed  in  criminal  proce- 
dure to  be  ignorant  of  those  famous  records  which  render  the 
denial  of  identity  such  a  difficult  matter  in  France.  "I  have 
been  unfortunate,  my  good  judge,"  she  whined. 

"Yes,  several  times.  First  of  all,  you  were  arrested  on  a 
charge  of  receiving  stolen  goods." 

"But  it  was  proved  that  I  was  innocent,  that  my  character 
was  whiter  than  snow.  My  poor,  dear  husband  had  been 
deceived  by  his  comrades ;  that  was  all." 

"Possibly.    But  while  your  husband  was  undergoing  his  sen- 


MONSIEUR   LECOQ  93 

tence,  you  were  condemned,  first  to  one  month's  and  then  to 
three  months'  imprisonment  for  stealing." 

"Oh,  I  had  some  enemies  who  did  their  best  to  ruin  me." 

"Next  you  were  imprisoned  for  having  led  some  young  girls 
astray." 

''They  were  good-for-nothing  hussies,  my  kind  sir,  heartless, 
unprincipled  creatures.  I  did  them  many  favors,  and  then  they 
went  and  related  a  batch  of  falsehoods  to  ruin  me.  I  have 
always  been  too  kind  and  considerate  toward  others." 

The  list  of  the  woman's  offenses  was  not  exhausted,  but  M. 
Segmuller  thought  it  useless  to  continue.  "Such  is  your  past," 
he  resumed.  "At  the  present  time  your  wine-shop  is  the  resort 
of  rogues  and  criminals.  Your  son  is  undergoing  his  fourth 
term  of  imprisonment;  and  it  has  been  clearly  proved  that  you 
abetted  and  assisted  him  in  his  evil  deeds.  Your  daughter-in- 
law,  by  some  miracle,  has  remained  honest  and  industrious, 
hence  you  have  tormented  and  abused  her  to  such  an  extent 
that  the  authorities  have  been  obliged  to  interfere.  When  she 
left  your  house  you  tried  to  keep  her  child — no  doubt  meaning 
to  bring  it  up  after  the  same  fashion  as  its  father." 

"This,"  thought  the  Widow  Chupin,  "is  the  right  moment  to 
try  and  soften  the  magistrate's  heart."  Accordingly,  she  drew 
one  of  her  new  handkerchiefs  from  her  pocket,  and,  by  dint  of 
rubbing  her  eyes,  endeavored  to  extract  a  tear.  "Oh,  unhappy 
me,"  she  groaned.  "How  can  any  one  imagine  that  I  would 
harm  my  grandson,  my  poor  little  Toto !  Why,  I  should  be 
worse  than  a  wild  beast  to  try  and  bring  my  own  flesh  and 
blood  to  perdition." 

She  soon  perceived,  however,  that  her  lamentations  did  not 
much  affect  M.  Segmuller,  hence,  suddenly  changing  both  her 
tone  and  manner,  she  began  her  justification.  She  did  not  posi- 
tively deny  her  past;  but  she  threw  all  the  blame  on  the  injus- 
tice of  destiny,  which,  while  favoring  a  few,  generally  the  less 
deserving,  showed  no  mercy  to  others.  Alas !  she  was  one  of 
those  who  had  had  no  luck  in  life,  having  always  been  perse- 
cuted, despite  her  innocence.  In  this  last  affair,  for  instance, 
how  was  she  to  blame?  A  triple  murder  had  stained  her  shop 
with  blood ;  but  the  most  respectable  establishments  are  not 
exempt  from  similar  catastrophes.  During  her  solitary  con- 
finement, she  had,  said  she,  dived  down  into  the  deepest  recesses 
of  her  conscience,  and  she  was  still  unable  to  discover  what 
blame  could  justly  be  laid  at  her  door. 


94  MONSIEUR   LECOQ 

"I  can  tell  you,"  interrupted  the  magistrate.  "You  are 
accused  of  impeding  the  action  of  the  law." 

"Good  heavens  !     Is  it  possible  ?" 

"And  of  seeking  to  defeat  justice.  This  is  equivalent  to 
complicity,  Widow  Chupin ;  take  care.  When  the  police  entered 
your  cabin,  after  this  crime  had  been  committed,  you  refused 
to  answer  their  questions." 

"I  told  them  all  that  I  knew." 

"Very  well,  then,  you  must  repeat  what  you  told  them 
to  me." 

M.  Segmuller  had  reason  to  feel  satisfied.  He  had  conducted 
the  examination  in  such  a  way  that  the  Widow  Chupin  would 
now  have  to  initiate  a  narrative  of  the  tragedy.  This  excellent 
point  gained;  for  this  shrewd  old  woman,  possessed  of  all  her 
coolness,  would  naturally  have  been  on  her  guard  against  any 
direct  questions.  Now,  it  was  essential  that  she  should  not 
suspect  either  what  the  magistrate  knew  of  the  affair,  or  what 
he  was  ignorant  of.  By  leaving  her  to  her  own  devices  she 
might,  in  the  course  of  the  version  which  she  proposed  to  sub- 
stitute for  the  truth,  not  merely  strengthen  Lecoq's  theories,  but 
also  let  fall  some  remark  calculated  to  facilitate  the  task  of 
future  investigation.  Both  M.  Segmuller  and  Lecoq  were  of 
opinion  that  the  version  of  the  crime  which  they  were  about 
to  hear  had  been  concocted  at  the  station-house  of  the  Place 
d'ltalie  while  the  murderer  and  the  spurious  drunkard  were  left 
together,  and  that  it  had  been  transmitted  by  the  accomplice  to 
the  widow  during  the  brief  conversation  they  were  allowed  to 
have  through  the  wicket  of  the  latter's  cell. 

Invited  by  the  magistrate  to  recount  the  circumstances  of  the 
tragedy,  Mother  Chupin  did  not  hesitate  for  a  moment.  "Oh, 
it  was  a  very  simple  affair,  my  good  sir,"  she  began.  "I  was 
sitting  by  my  fireside  on  Sunday  evening,  when  suddenly  the 
door  opened,  and  three  men  and  two  women  came  in." 

M.  Segmuller  and  the  young  detective  exchanged  glances. 
The  accomplice  had  evidently  seen  Lecoq  and  his  comrade 
examining  the  footprints,  and  accordingly  the  presence  of  the 
two  women  was  not  to  be  denied. 

"What  time  was  this?"  asked  the  magistrate. 

"About  eleven  o'clock." 

"Go  on." 

"As  soon  as  they  sat  down  they  ordered  a  bowl  of  wine, 
a  la  Frangaise.    Without  boasting,  I  may  say  that  I  haven't  an 


MONSIEUR    LECOQ  95 

equal  in  preparing  that  drink.  Of  course,  I  waited  on  them, 
and  afterward,  having  a  blouse  to  mend  for  my  boy,  I  went 
upstairs  to  my  room,  which  is  just  over  the  shop." 

"Leaving  the  people  alone?" 

"Yes,  my  judge." 

"That  showed  a  great  deal  of  confidence  on  your  part." 

The  widow  sadly  shook  her  head.  "People  as  poor  as  I  am 
don't  fear  the  thieves,"  she  sighed. 

"Go  on — go  on." 

"Well,  I  had  been  upstairs  about  half  an  hour,  when  I  heard 
some  one  below  call  out :  'Eh !  old  woman  !'  So  I  went  down, 
and  found  a  tall,  big-bearded  man,  who  had  just  come  in.  He 
asked  for  a  glass  of  brandy,  which  I  brought  to  a  table  where 
he  had  sat  down  by  himself." 

"And  then  did  you  go  upstairs  again  ?"  interrupted  the  magis- 
trate. 

The  exclamation  was  ironical,  of  course,  but  no  one  could 
have  told  from  the  Widow  Chupin's  placid  countenance  whether 
she  was  aware  that  such  was  the  case. 

"Precisely,  my  good  sir,"  she  replied  in  the  most  composed 
manner.  "Only  this  time  I  had  scarcely  taken  up  my  needle 
when  I  heard  a  terrible  uproar  in  the  shop.  I  hurried  down- 
stairs to  put  a  stop  to  it — but  heaven  knows  my  interference 
would  have  been  of  little  use.  The  three  men  who  had  come 
in  first  of  all  had  fallen  upon  the  newcomer,  and  they  were 
beating  him,  my  good  sir,  they  were  killing  him.  I  screamed. 
Just  then  the  man  who  had  come  in  alone  drew  a  revolver 
from  his  pocket ;  he  fired  and  killed  one  of  his  assailants, 
who  fell  to  the  ground.  I  was  so  frightened  that  I  crouched 
on  the  staircase  and  threw  my  apron  over  my  head  that  I 
might  not  see  the  blood  run.  An  instant  later  Monsieur 
Gevrol  arrived  with  his  men ;  they  forced  open  the  door, 
and  behold—" 

The  Widow  Chupin  here  stopped  short.  These  wretched  old 
women,  who  have  trafficked  in  every  sort  of  vice,  and  who  have 
tasted  every  disgrace,  at  times  attain  a  perfection  of  hypocrisy 
calculated  to  deceive  the  most  subtle  penetration.  Any  one  un- 
acquainted with  the  antecedents  of  the  landlady  of  the  Poivriere 
would  certainly  have  been  impressed  by  her  apparent  candor, 
so  skilfully  did  she  affect  a  display  of  frankness,  surprise,  and 
fear.  Her  expression  would  have  been  simply  perfect,  had  it 
not  been  for  her  eyes,  her  small  gray  eyes,  as  restless  as  those 


96  MONSIEUR   LECOQ 

of  a  caged  animal,  and  gleaming  at   intervals  with  craftiness 
and  cunning. 

There  she  stood,  mentally  rejoicing  at  the  success  of  her 
narrative,  for  she  was  convinced  that  the  magistrate  placed 
implicit  confidence  in  her  revelations,  although  during  her 
recital,  delivered,  by  the  way,  with  conjurer-like  volubility,  not 
a  muscle  of  M.  Segmuller's  face  had  betrayed  what  was  passing 
in  his  mind.  When  she  paused,  out  of  breath,  he  rose  from  his 
seat,  and  without  a  word  approached  his  clerk  to  inspect  the 
notes  taken  during  the  earlier  part  of  the  examination. 

From  the  corner  where  he  was  quietly  seated,  Lecoq  did 
not  cease  watching  the  prisoner.  "She  thinks  that  it's  all 
over,"  he  muttered  to  himself:  "she  fancies  that  her  deposition 
is  accepted  without  question." 

If  such  were,  indeed,  the  widow's  opinion,  she  was  soon  to 
be  undeceived;  for,  after  addressing  a  few  low-spoken  words 
to  the  smiling  Goguet,  M.  Segmuller  took  a  seat  near  the  fire- 
place, convinced  that  the  moment  had  now  come  to  abandon 
defensive  tactics,  and  open  fire  on  the  enemy's  position. 

"So,  Widow  Chupin,"  he  began,  "you  tell  us  that  you  didn't 
remain  for  a  single  moment  with  the  people  who  came  into 
your  shop  that  evening !" 

"Not  a  moment." 

"They  came  in  and  ordered  what  they  wanted;  you  waited 
on  them,  and  then  left  them  to  themselves?" 

"Yes,  my  good  sir." 

"It  seems  to  me  impossible  that  you  didn't  overhear  some 
words  of  their  conversation.     What  were  they  talking  about?" 

"I  am  not  in  the  habit  of  playing  spy  over  my  customers." 

"Didn't  you  hear  anything?" 

"Nothing  at  all." 

The  magistrate  shrugged  his  shoulders  with  an  air  of  com- 
miseration. "In  other  words,"  he  remarked,  "you  refuse  to 
inform  justice — " 

"Oh,  my  good  sir!" 

"Allow  me  to  finish.  All  these  improbable  stories  about 
leaving  the  shop  and  mending  your  son's  clothes  in  your  bed- 
room are  so  many  inventions.  You  have  concocted  them  so 
as  to  be  able  to  say  to  me:  'I  didn't  see  anything;  I  didn't 
hear  anything.'  If  such  is  your  system  of  defense,  I  warn 
you  that  it  will  be  impossible  for  you  to  maintain  it,  and  I  may 
add  that  it  would  not  be  admitted  by  any  tribunal." 


MONSIEUR   LECOQ  97 

"It  is  not  a  system  of  defense ;  it  is  the  truth." 

M.  Segmuller  seemed  to  reflect  for  a  moment ;  then,  suddenly, 
he  exclaimed :  "Then  you  have  nothing  to  tell  me  about  this 
miserable  assassin  ?" 

"But  he  is  not  an  assassin,  my  good  sir." 

"What  do  you  mean  by  such  an  assertion?" 

"I  mean  that  he  only  killed  the  others  in  protecting  himself. 
They  picked  a  quarrel  with  him;  he  was  alone  against  three, 
and  saw  very  plainly  that  he  could  expect  no  mercy  from 
brigands  who — " 

The  color  rose  to  the  Widow  Chupin's  cheeks,  and  she 
suddenly  checked  herself,  greatly  embarrassed,  and  evidently 
regretting  that  she  had  not  bridled  her  tongue.  It  is  true  she 
might  reasonably  hope,  that  the  magistrate  had  imperfectly 
heard  her  words,  and  had  failed  to  seize  their  full  purport,  for 
two  or  three  red-hot  coals  having  fallen  from  the  grate  on  the 
hearth,  he  had  taken  up  the  tongs,  and  seemed  to  be  engrossed 
in  the  task  of  artistically  arranging  the  fire. 

"Who  can  tell  me — who  can  prove  to  me  that,  on  the  con- 
trary, it  was  not  this  man  who  first  attacked  the  others?"  he 
murmured,  thoughtfully. 

"I  can,"  stoutly  declared  the  widow,  already  forgetful  of 
her  prudent  hesitation,  "I  can  swear  it." 

M.  Segmuller  looked  up,  intense  astonishment  written  upon 
his  .face.  "How  can  you  know  that?"  he  said  slowly.  "How 
can  you  swear  it?  You  were  in  your  bedroom  when  the  quar- 
rel began." 

Silent  and  motionless  in  his  corner,  Lecoq  was  inwardly 
jubilant.  This  was  a  most  happy  result,  he  thought,  but  a  few 
questions  more,  and  the  old  woman  would  be  obliged  to  con- 
tradict herself.  What  she  had  already  said  sufficed  to  show 
that  she  must  have  a  secret  interest  in  the  matter,  or  else  she 
would  never  have  been  so  imprudently  earnest  in  defending 
the  prisoner. 

"However,  you  have  probably  been  led  to  this  conclusion  by 
your  knowledge  of  the  murderer's  character,"  remarked  M. 
Segmuller,  "you  are  apparently  well  acquainted  with  him." 

"Oh,  I  had  never  set  eyes  on  him  before  that  evening." 

"But  he  must  have  been  in  your  establishment  before?" 

"Never  in  his  life." 

"Oh,  oh  !  Then  how  do  you  explain  that  on  entering  the 
shop    while    you    were    upstairs,    this    unknown    person — this 

5— Vol.  I— Gab. 


98  MONSIEUR   LECOQ 

stranger — should  have  called  out :  'Here,  old  woman !'  Did 
he  merely  guess  that  the  establishment  was  kept  by  a  woman; 
and  that  this  woman  was  no  longer  young?" 

"He  did  not  say  that." 

"Reflect  a  moment;  you,  yourself  just  told  me  so." 

"Oh,  I  didn't  say  that,  I'm  sure,  my  good  sir." 

"Yes,  you  did,  and  I  will  prove  it  by  having  your  evidence 
read.     Goguet,  read  the  passage,  if  you  please." 

The  smiling  clerk  looked  back  through  his  minutes  and  then, 
in  his  clearest  voice,  he  read  these  words,  taken  down  as  they 
fell  from  the  Widow  Chupin's  lips:  "I  had  been  upstairs 
about  half  an  hour,  when  I  heard  some  one  below  call  out  'Eh ! 
old  woman.'     So  I  went  down,"  etc.,  etc. 

"Are  you  convinced?"  asked  M.  Segmuller. 

The  old  offender's  assurance  was  sensibly  diminished  by  this 
proof  of  her  prevarication.  However,  instead  of  discussing  the 
subject  any  further,  the  magistrate  glided  over  it  as  if  he  did 
not  attach  much  importance  to  the  incident. 

"And  the  other  men,"  he  resumed,  "those  who  were  killed: 
did  you  know  them?" 

"No,  good  sir,  no  more  than  I  knew  Adam  and  Eve." 

"And  were  you  not  surprised  to  see  three  men  utterly  un- 
known to  you,  and  accompanied  by  two  women,  enter  your 
establishment?" 

"Sometimes   chance — " 

"Come  !  you  do  not  think  of  what  you  are  saying.  It  was 
not  chance  that  brought  these  customers,  in  the  middle  of  the 
night,  to  a  wine-shop  with  a  reputation  like  yours — an  estab- 
lishment situated  far  from  any  frequented  route  in  the  midst 
of  a  desolate  waste." 

"I'm  not  a  sorceress ;  I  say  what  I  think." 

"Then  you  did  not  even  know  the  youngest  of  the  victims, 
the  man  who  was  attired  as  a  soldier,  he  who  was  named 
Gustave  ?" 

"Not   at   all." 

M.  Segmuller  noted  the  intonation  of  this  response,  and 
then  slowly  added:  "But  you  must  have  heard  of  one  of 
Gustave's  friends,  a  man  called  Lacheneur?" 

On  hearing  this  name,  the  landlady  of  the  Poivriere  became 
visibly  embarrassed,  and  it  was  in  an  altered  voice  that  she 
stammered :  "Lacheneur !  Lacheneur !  no,  I  have  never  heard 
that  name  mentioned." 


MONSIEUR    LECOQ  99 

Still  despite  her  denial,  the  effect  of  M.  Segmuller's  remark 
was  evident,  and  Lecoq  secretly  vowed  that  he  would  find  this 
Lacheneur,  at  any  cost.  Did  not  the  "articles  of  conviction" 
comprise  a  letter  sent  by  this  man  to  Gustave,  and  written,  so 
Lecoq  had  reason  to  believe,  in  a  cafe  on  the  Boulevard  Beau- 
marchais?  With  such  a  clue  and  a  little  patience,  the  mysterious 
Lacheneur  might  yet  be  discovered. 

"Now,"  continued  M.  Segmuller,  "let  us  speak  of  the  women 
who  accompanied  these  unfortunate  men.  What  sort  of  women 
were  they?" 

"Oh !  women  of  no  account  whatever !" 

"Were  they  well  dressed?" 

"On  the  contrary,  very  miserably." 

"Well,  give  me  a  description  of  them." 

"They  were  tall  and  powerfully  built,  and  indeed,  as  it  was 
Shrove  Sundav,  I  first  of  all  took  them  for  men  in  disguise. 
They  had  hands  like  shoulders  of  mutton,  gruff  voices,  and 
very  black  hair.     They  were  as  dark  as  mulattoes — " 

"Enough  !"  interrupted  the  magistrate,  "I  require  no  further 
proof  of  your  mendacity.  These  women  were  short,  and  one 
of  them  was  remarkably  fair." 

"I  swear  to  you,  my  good  sir — " 

"Do  not  declare  it  upon  oath.  I  shall  be  forced  to  confront 
you  with  an  honest  man,  who  will  tell  you  to  your  face  that 
you  are  a  liar !" 

The  widow  did  not  reply,  and  there  was  a  moment's  silence. 
M.  Segmuller  determined  to  deal  a  decisive  blow.  "Do  you  also 
affirm  that  you  had  nothing  of  a  compromising  character  in  the 
pocket  of  your  apron?"  he  asked. 

"Nothing — you  may  have  it  examined;  it  was  left  in  the 
house." 

"Then  you  still  persist  in  your  system,"  resumed  M.  Seg- 
muller. "Believe  me,  you  are  wrong.  Reflect — it  rests  with 
you  to  go  to  the  Assize  Court  as  a  witness,  or  an  accomplice." 

Although  the  widow  seemed  crushed  by  this  unexpected 
blow,  the  magistrate  did  not  add  another  word.  Her  depo- 
sition was  read  over  to  her,  she  signed  it,  and  was  then 
led  away. 

M.  Segmuller  immediately  seated  himself  at  his  desk,  filled 
up  a  blank  form  and  handed  it  to  his  clerk,  saying:  "This  is 
an  order  for  the  governor  of  the  Depot.  Tell  him  to  send  the 
supposed  murderer  here  at  once." 


100 


MONSIEUR    LECOQ 


T  F  it  is  difficult  to  extort  a  confession  from  a  man  interested 
■■■  in  preserving  silence  and  persuaded  that  no  proofs  can  be 
produced  against  him,  it  is  a  yet  more  arduous  task  to  make  a 
woman,  similarly  situated,  speak  the  truth.  As  ttiey  say  at 
the  Palais  de  Justice,  one  might  as  well  try  to  make  the  devil 
confess. 

The  examination  of  the  Widow  Chupin  had  been  conducted 
with  the  greatest  possible  care  by  M.  Segmuller,  who  was 
as  skilful  in  managing  his  questions  as  a  tried  general  in 
maneuvring  his  troops. 

However,  all  that  he  had  discovered  was  that  the  landlady 
of  the  Poivriere  was  conniving  with  the  murderer.  The  motive 
of  her  connivance  was  yet  unknown,  and  the  murderer's  identity 
still  a  mystery.  Both  M.  Segmuller  and  Lecoq  were  neverthe- 
less of  the  opinion  that  the  old  hag  knew  everything.  "It  is 
almost  certain,"  remarked  the  magistrate,  "that  she  was  ac- 
quainted with  the  people  who  came  to  her  house — with  the 
women,  the  victims,  the  murderer — with  all  of  them,  in  fact. 
I  am  positive  as  regards  that  fellow  Gustave — I  read  it  in  her 
eyes.  I  am  also  convinced  that  she  knows  Lacheneur — the  man 
upon  whom  the  dying  soldier  breathed  vengeance — the  myste- 
rious personage  who  evidently  possesses  the  key  to  the  enigma. 
That  man  must  be  found." 

"Ah !"  replied  Lecoq,  "and  I  will  find  him  even  if  I  have 
to  question  every  one  of  the  eleven  hundred  thousand  men 
who  constantly  walk  the  streets  of  Paris !" 

This  was  promising  so  much  that  the  magistrate,  despite  his 
preoccupation,  could  not  repress  a  smile. 

"If  this  old  woman  would  only  decide  to  make  a  clean 
breast  of  it  at  her  next  examination !"  remarked  Lecoq. 

"Yes.     But  she  won't." 

The  young  detective  shook  his  head  despondingly.  Such  was 
his  own  opinion.  He  did  not  delude  himself  with  false  hopes, 
and   he   had   noticed   between   the   Widow   Chupin's   eyebrows 


MONSIEUR   LECOQ  101 

those  furrows  which,  according  to  physiognomists,  indicate  a 
senseless,  brutish  obstinacy. 

"Women  never  confess,"  resumed  the  magistrate;  "and  even 
when  they  seemingly  resign  themselves  to  such  a  course  they 
are  not  sincere.  They  fancy  they  have  discovered  some  means 
of  misleading  their  examiner.  On  the  contrary,  evidence  will 
crush  the  most  obstinate  man;  he  gives  up  the  struggle,  and 
confesses.  Now,  a  woman  scoff's  at  evidence.  Show  her  the 
sun;  tell  her  it's  daytime;  at  once  she  will  close  her  eyes  and 
say  to  you,  'No,  it's  night.'  Male  prisoners  plan  and  combine 
different  systems  of  defense  according  to  their  social  positions; 
the  women,  on  the  contrary,  have  but  one  system,  no  matter 
what  may  be  their  condition  in  life.  They  deny  everything, 
persist  in  their  denials  even  when  the  proof  against  them  is 
overwhelming,  and  then  they  cry.  When  I  worry  the  Chupin 
with  disagreeable  questions,  at  her  next  examination,  you  may 
be  sure  she  will  turn  her  eyes  into  a  fountain  of  tears." 

In  his  impatience,  M.  Segmuller  angrily  stamped  his  foot. 
He  had  many  weapons  in  his  arsenal;  but  none  strong  enough 
to  break  a  woman's  dogged  resistance. 

"If  I  only  understood  the  motive  that  guides  this  old  hag!" 
he  continued.  "But  not  a  clue !  Who  can  tell  me  what  power- 
ful interest  induces  her  to  remain  silent?  Is  it  her  own  cause 
that  she  is  defending?  Is  she  an  accomplice?  Is  it  certain  that 
she  did  not  aid  the  murderer  in  planning  an  ambuscade?" 

"Yes,"  responded  Lecoq,  slowly,  "yes;  this  supposition  very 
naturally  presents  itself  to  the  mind.  But  think  a  moment,  sir, 
such  a  theory  would  prove  that  the  idea  we  entertained  a 
short  time  since  is  altogether  false.  If  the  Widow  Chupin  is 
an  accomplice,  the  murderer  is  not  the  person  we  have  sup- 
posed him  to  be ;  he  is  simply  the  man  he  seems  to  be." 

This  argument  apparently  convinced  M.  Segmuller.  "What 
is  your  opinion?"  he  asked. 

The  young  detective  had  formed  his  opinion  a  long  while 
ago.  But  how  could  he,  a  humble  police  agent,  venture  to 
express' any  decided  views  when  the  magistrate  hesitated?  He 
understood  well  enough  that  his  position  necessitated  extreme 
reserve ;  hence,  it  was  in  the  most  modest  tone  that  he  replied : 
"Might  not  the  pretended  drunkard  have  dazzled  Mother 
Chupin's  eyes  with  the  prospect  of  a  brilliant  reward?  Might 
he  not  have  promised  her  a  considerable  sum  of  money?" 

He   paused;   Goguet,   the   smiling   clerk,   had   just    returned. 


102  MONSIEUR   LECOQ 

Behind  him  stood  a  private  of  the  Garde  de  Paris  who  remained 
respectfully  on  the  threshold,  his  heels  in  a  straight  line,  his 
right  hand  raised  to  the  peak  of  his  shako,  and  his  elbow  on  a 
level  with  his  eyes,  in  accordance  with  the  regulations. 

"The  governor  of  the  Depot,"  said  the  soldier,  "sends  me 
to  inquire  if  he  is  to  keep  the  Widow  Chupin  in  solitary  con- 
finement;  she   complains  bitterly  about  it." 

M.  Segmuller  reflected  for  a  moment.  "Certainly,"  he  mur- 
mured, as  if  replying  to  an  objection  made  by  his  own  con- 
science; "certainly,  it  is  an  undoubted  aggravation  of  suffering; 
but  if  I  allow  this  woman  to  associate  with  the  other  prisoners, 
she  will  certainly  find  some  opportunity  to  communicate  with 
parties  outside.  This  must  not  be;  the  interests  of  justice  and 
truth  must  be  considered  first."  The  thought  embodied  in  these 
last  words  decided  him.  "Despite  her  complaints  the  prisoner 
must  be  kept  in  solitary  confinement  until  further  orders,"  he 
said. 

The  soldier  allowed  his  right  hand  to  fall  to  his  side,  he 
carried  his  right  foot  three  inches  behind  his  left  heel,  and 
wheeled  around.  Goguet,  the  smiling  clerk,  then  closed  the 
door,  and,  drawing  a  large  envelope  from  his  pocket,  handed 
it  to  the  magistrate.  "Here  is  a  communication  from  the 
governor  of  the  Depot,"  said  he. 

The  magistrate  broke  the  seal,  and  read  aloud,  as  follows: 
"I  feel  compelled  to  advise  M.  Segmuller  to  take  every  precau- 
tion with  the  view  of  assuring  his  own  safety  before  proceeding 
with  the  examination  of  the  prisoner,  May.  Since  his  unsuc- 
cessful attempt  at  suicide,  this  prisoner  has  been  in  such  a  state 
of  excitement  that  we  have  been  obliged  to  keep  him  in  a  strait- 
waistcoat.  He  did  not  close  his  eyes  all  last  night,  and  the  guards 
who  watched  him  expected  every  moment  that  he  would  become 
delirious.  However,  he  did  not  utter  a  word.  When  food  was 
offered  him  this  morning,  he  resolutely  rejected  it,  and  I  should 
not  be  surprised  if  it  were  his  intention  to  starve  himself  to 
death.  I  have  rarely  seen  a  more  determined  criminal.  I  think 
him  capable  of  any  desperate  act." 

"Ah !"  exclaimed  the  clerk,  whose  smile  had  disappeared, 
"If  I  were  in  your  place,  sir,  I  would  only  let  him  in  here 
with  an  escort  of  soldiers." 

"What !  you — Goguet,  you,  an  old  clerk — make  such  a  prop- 
osition!     Can  it  be  that  you're  frightened?" 

"Frightened!     No,   certainly  not;  but — " 


MONSIEUR    LECOQ  103 

''Nonsense !"  interrupted  Lecoq,  in  a  tone  that  betrayed 
superlative  confidence  in  his  own  muscles;  "Am  I  not  here?" 

If  M.  Segmuller  had  seated  himself  at  his  desk,  that  article 
of  furniture  would  naturally  have  served  as  a  rampart  between 
the  prisoner  and  himself.  For  purposes  of  convenience  he 
usually  did  place  himself  behind  it;  but  after  Goguet's  display 
of  fear,  he  would  have  blushed  to  have  taken  the  slightest 
measure  of  self-protection.  Accordingly,  he  went  and  sat 
down  by  the  fireplace^-as  he  had  done  a  few  moments  previously 
while  questioning  the  Widow  Chupin — and  then  ordered  his 
door-keeper  to  admit  the  prisoner  alone.  He  emphasized  this 
word  "alone." 

A  moment  later  the  door  was  flung  open  with  a  violent  jerk, 
and  the  prisoner  entered,  or  rather  precipitated  himself  into 
the  room.  Goguet  turned  pale  behind  his  table,  and  Lecoq 
advanced  a  step  forward,  ready  to  spring  upon  the  orisoner 
and  pinion  him  should  it  be  requisite.  But  when  the  latter 
reached  the  centre  of  the  room,  he  paused  and  looked  around 
him.  "Where  is  the  magistrate?"  he  inquired,  in  a  hoarse 
voice. 

"I  am  the  magistrate,"  replied  M.  Segmuller. 

"No,  the  other  one." 

"What  other  one?" 

"The  one  who  came  to  question  me  last  evening." 

"He  has  met  with  an  accident.  Yesterday,  after  leaving  you, 
he  fell  down  and  broke  his  leg." 

"Oh!" 

"And  I  am  to  take  his  place." 

The  prisoner  was  apparently  deaf  to  the  explanation.  Ex- 
citement had  seemingly  given  way  to  stupor.  His  features, 
hitherto  contracted  with  anger,  now  relaxed.  He  grew  pale 
and  tottered,  as  if  about  to  fall. 

"Compose  yourself,"  said  the  magistrate  in  a  benevolent 
tone;  "if  you  are  too  weak  to  remain  standing,  take  a  seat." 

Already,  with  a  powerful  effort,  the  man  had  recovered  his 
self-possession.  A  momentary  gleam  flashed  from  his  eyes. 
"Many  thanks  for  your  kindness,"  he  replied,  "but  this  is 
nothing.  I  felt  a  slight  sensation  of  dizziness,  but  it  is  over  now." 

"Is  it  long  since  you  have  eaten  anything?" 

"I  have  eaten  nothing  since  that  man" — and  so  saying  he 
pointed  to  Lecoq — "brought  me  some  bread  and  wine  at  the 
station  house." 


104  MONSIEUR   LECOQ 

"Wouldn't  you  like  to  take  something?" 

"No — and  yet — if  you  would  be  so  kind — I  should  like  a 
glass  of  water." 

"Will  you  not  have  some  wine  with  it?" 

"I  should  prefer  pure  water." 

His  request  was  at  once  complied  with.  He  drained  a  first 
glassful  at  a  single  draft ;  the  glass  was  then  replenished  and 
he  drank  again,  this  time,  however,  more  slowly.  One  might 
have  supposed  that  he  was  drinking  in.  life  itself.  Certainly, 
when  he  laid  down  the  empty  glass,  he  seemed  quite  another 
man. 

Eighteen  out  of  every  twenty  criminals  who  appear  before 
our  investigating  magistrates  come  prepared  with  a  more  or 
less  complete  plan  of  defense,  which  they  have  conceived  during 
their  preliminary  confinement.  Innocent  or  guilty,  they  have 
resolved  on  playing  some  part  or  other,  which  they  begin  to  act 
as  soon  as  they  cross  the  threshold  of  the  room  where  the 
magistrate  awaits  them. 

The  moment  they  enter  his  presence,  the  magistrate  needs  to 
bring  all  his  powers  of  penetration  into  play;  for  such  a  culprit's 
first  attitude  as  surely  betrays  his  plan  of  defense  as  an  index 
reveals  a  book's  contents.  In  this  case,  however,  M.  Segmuller 
did  not  think  that  appearances  were  deceitful.  It  seemed 
evident  to  him  that  the  prisoner  was  not  feigning,  but  that  the 
excited  frenzy  which  marked  his  entrance  was  as  real  as  his 
after  stupor. 

At  all  events,  there  seemed  no  fear  of  the  danger  the  gover- 
nor of  the  Depot  had  spoken  of,  and  accordingly  M.  Segmuller 
seated  himself  at  his  desk.  Here  he  felt  stronger  and  more  at 
ease  for  his  back  being  turned  to  the  window,  his  face  was 
half  hidden  in  shadow;  and  in  case  of  need,  he  could,  by  bend- 
ing over  his  papers,  conceal  any  sign  of  surprise  or  discomfiture. 

The  prisoner,  on  the  contrary,  stood  in  the  full  light,  and  not 
a  movement  of  his  features,  not  the  fluttering  of  an  eyelid 
could  escape  the  magistrate's  attention.  He  seemed  to  have 
completely  recovered  from  his  indisposition ;  and  his  features 
assumed  an  expression  which  indicated  either  careless  indiffer- 
ence, or  complete  resignation. 

"Do  you  feel  better?"  asked  M.  Segmuller. 

"I  feel  very  well." 

"I  hope,"  continued  the  magistrate,  paternally,  "that  in  future 
you  will  know  how  to  moderate  your  excitement.     Yesterday 


MONSIEUR    LECOQ  105 

you   tried   to   destroy   yourself.     It   would   have   been  another 
great  crime  added  to  many  others — a  crime  which — " 

With  a  hasty  movement  of  the  hand,  the  prisoner  inter- 
rupted him.  "I  have  committed  no  crime,"  said  he.  in  a  rough, 
but  no  longer  threatening  voice.  "I  was  attacked,  and  I  de- 
fended myself.  Any  one  has  a  right  to  do  that.  There  were 
three  men  against  me.  It  was  a  great  misfortune ;  and  I  would 
give  my  right  hand  to  repair  it ;  but  my  conscience  does  not 
reproach  me — that  much  !" 

The  prisoner's  "that  much,"  was  a  contemptuous  snap  of  his 
finger  and  thumb. 

"And  yet  I've  been  arrested  and  treated  like  an  assassin,"  he 
continued.  "When  I  saw  myself  interred  in  that  living  tomb 
which  you  call  a  secret  cell,  I  grew  afraid ;  I  lost  my  senses.  I 
said  to  myself:  'My  boy,  they've  buried  you  alive;  and  it  is 
better  to  die — to  die  quickly,  if  you  don't  wish  to  suffer.'  So  I 
tried  to  strangle  myself.  My  death  wouldn't  have  caused  the 
slightest  sorrow  to  any  one.  I  have  neither  wife  nor  child 
depending  upon  me  for  support.  However,  my  attempt  was 
frustrated.  I  was  bled:  and  then  placed  in  a  strait-waistcoat, 
as  if  I  were  a  madman.  Mad !  I  really  believed  I  should 
become  so.  All  night  long  the  jailors  sat  around  me,  like 
children  amusing  themselves  by  tormenting  a  chained  animal. 
They  watched  me,  talked  about  me,  and  passed  the  candle  to 
and  fro  before  my  eyes." 

The  prisoner  talked  forcibly,  but  without  any  attempt  at 
oratorical  display ;  there  was  bitterness  but  not  anger  in  his 
tone ;  in  short,  he  spoke  with  all  the  seeming  sincerity  of  a 
man  giving  expression  to  some  deep  emotion  or  conviction.  As 
the  magistrate  and  the  detective  heard  him  speak,  they  were 
seized  with  the  same  idea.  "This  man,"  they  thought,  "is  very 
clever ;  it  won't  be  easy  to  get  the  better  of  him." 

Then,  after  a  moment's  reflection,  M.  Segmuller  added  aloud : 
"This  explains  your  first  act  of  despair;  but  later  on,  for  in- 
stance, even  this  morning,  you  refused  to  eat  the  food  that 
was  offered  you." 

As  the  prisoner  heard  this  remark,  his  lowering  face  suddenly 
brightened,  he  gave  a  comical  wink,  and  finally  burst  into  a 
hearty  laugh,  gay,  frank,  and  sonorous. 

"That,"  said  he,  "is  quite  another  matter.  Certainly.  I 
refused  all  they  offered  me,  and  now  I  will  tell  you  why.  As 
I   had   my   hands   confined   in   the   strait-waistcoat,   the    jailor 


106  MONSIEUR   LECOQ 

tried  to  feed  me  just  as  a  nurse  tries  to  feed  a  baby  with  pap. 
Now  I  wasn't  going  to  submit  to  that,  so  I  closed  my  lips  as 
tightly  as  I  could.  Then  he  tried  to  force  my  mouth  open  and 
push  the  spoon  in,  just  as  one  nu\ght  force  a  sick  dog's  jaws 
apart  and  pour  some  medicine  down  its  throat.  The  deuce  take 
his  impertinence !  I  tried  to  bite  him :  that's  the  truth,  and  if 
I  had  succeeded  in  getting  his  finger  between  my  teeth,  it  would 
have  stayed  there.  However,  because  I  wouldn't  be  fed  like  a 
baby,  all  the  prison  officials  raised  their  hands  to  heaven  in  holy 
horror,  and  pointed  at  me,  saying:  'What  a  terrible  man!  What 
an  awful  rascal !'  " 

The  prisoner  seemed  to  thoroughly  enjoy  the  recollection  of 
the  scene  he  had  described,  for  he  now  burst  into  another 
hearty  laugh,  to  the  great  amazement  of  Lecoq,  and  the  scandal 
of  Goguet,  the  smiling  clerk. 

M.  Segmuller  also  found  it  difficult  to  conceal  his  surprise. 
"You  are  too  reasonable,  I  hope,"  he  said,  at  last,  "to  attach 
any  blame  to  these  men,  who,  in  confining  you  in  a  strait- 
waistcoat,  were  merely  obeying  the  orders  of  their  superior 
officers  with  the  view  of  protecting  you  from  your  own  violent 
passions." 

"Hum !"  responded  the  prisoner,  suddenly  growing  serious. 
"I  do  blame  them,  however,  and  if  I  had  one  of  them  in  a 
corner —  But,  never  mind,  I  shall  get  over  it.  If  I  know 
myself  aright,  I  have  no  more  spite  in  my  composition  than  a 
chicken." 

"Your  treatment  depends  on  your  own  conduct,"  rejoined  M. 
Segmuller,  "If  you  will  only  remain  calm,  you  shan't  be  put  in 
a  strait-waistcoat  again.  But  you  must  promise  me  that  you 
will  be  quiet  and  conduct  yourself  properly." 

The  murderer  sadly  shook  his  head.  "I  shall  be  very  prudent 
hereafter,"  said  he,  "but  it  is  terribly  hard  to  stay  in  prison 
with  nothing  to  do.  If  I  had  some  comrades  with  me,  we  could 
laugh  and  chat,  and  the  time  would  slip  by;  but  it  is  positively 
horrible  to  have  to  remain  alone,  entirely  alone,  in  that  cold, 
damp  cell,  where  not  a  sound  can  be  heard." 

The  magistrate  bent  over  his  desk  to  make  a  note.  The 
word  "comrades"  had  attracted  his  attention,  and  he  pro- 
posed to  ask  the  prisoner  to  explain  it  at  a  later  stage  of  the 
inquiry. 

"If  you  are  innocent,"  he  remarked,  "you  will  soon  be  re- 
leased :  but  it  is  necessary  to  prove  your  innocence." 


MONSIEUR   LECOQ  107 

"What  must  I  do  to  prove  it?" 

"Tell  the  truth,  the  whole  truth :  answer  my  questions  honest- 
ly without  reserve." 

"As  for  that,  you  may  depend  upon  me."  As  he  spoke  the 
prisoner  lifted  his  hand,  as  if  to  call  upon  God  to  witness  his 
sincerity. 

But  M.  Segmuller  immediately  intervened:  "Prisoners  do 
not  take  the  oath,"  said  he. 

"Indeed !"  ejaculated  the  man  with  an  astonished  air,  "that's 
strange !" 

Although  the  magistrate  had  apparently  paid  but  little  atten- 
tion to  the  prisoner,  he  had  in  point  of  fact  carefully  noted  his 
attitude,  his  tone  of  voice,  his  looks  and  gestures.  M.  Segmuller 
had,  moreover,  done  his  utmost  to  set  the  culprit's  mind  at  ease, 
to  quiet  all  possible  suspicion  of  a  trap,  and  his  inspection  of 
the  prisoner's  person  led  him  to  believe  that  this  result  had  been 
attained. 

"Now,"  said  he,  "you  will  give  me  your  attention;  and 
do  not  forget  that  your  liberty  depends  upon  your  frankness 
What  is  your  name?" 

"May." 

"What  is  your  Christian  name?" 

"I   have  none." 

"That  is  impossible." 

"I  have  been  told  that  already  three  times  since  yesterday." 
rejoined  the  prisoner  impatiently.  "And  yet  it's  the  truth.  If 
I  were  a  liar,  I  could  easily  tell  you  that  my  name  was  Peter, 
James,  or  John.  But  lying  is  not  in  my  line.  Really,  I  have 
no  Christian  name.  If  it  were  a  question  of  surnames,  it  would 
be  quite  another  thing.     I  have  had  plenty  of  them." 

"What  were  they?" 

"Let  me  see — to  commence  with,  when  I  was  with  Father 
Fougasse,  I  was  called  Affiloir,  because  you  see — " 

"Who  was  this  Father  Fougasse?" 

"The  great  wild  beast  tamer,  sir.  Ah  !  he  could  boast  of  a 
menagerie  and  no  mistake!  Lions,  tigers,  and  bears,  serpents 
as  big  round  as  your  thigh,  parrakeets  of  every  color  under  the 
sun.     Ah  !  it  was  a  wonderful  collection.     But  unfortunately — " 

Was  the  man  jesting,  or  was  he  in  earnest?  It  was  so  hard 
to  decide,  that  M.  Segmuller  and  Lecoq  were  equally  in  doubt. 
As  for  Goguet,  the  smiling  clerk,  he  chuckled  to  himself  as  bis 
pen  ran  over  the  paper. 


108  MONSIEUR    LECOQ 

"Enough,"  interrupted  the  magistrate.     "How  old  are  you?" 

"Forty-four  or  forty-five  years  of  age." 

"Where  were  you  born?" 

"In  Brittany,  probably." 

M.  Segmuller  thought  he  could  detect  a  hidden  vein  of 
irony  in  this  reply. 

'"I  warn  you,"  said  he,  severely,  "that  if  you  go  on  in 
this  way  your  chances  of  recovering  your  liberty  will  be 
greatly  compromised.  Each  of  your  answers  is  a  breach  of 
propriety." 

As  the  supposed  murderer  heard  these  words,  an  expression 
of  mingled  distress  and  anxiety  was  apparent  in  his  face.  "Ah ! 
I  meant  no  offense,  sir,"  he  sighed.  "You  questioned  me,  and 
I  replied.  You  will  see  that  I  have  spoken  the  truth,  if  you  will 
allow  me  to  recount  the  history  of  the  whole  affair." 

"When  the  prisoner  speaks,  the  prosecution  is  enlightened," 
so  runs  an  old  proverb  frequently  quoted  at  the  Palais  de 
Justice.  It  does,  indeed,  seem  almost  impossible  for  a  culprit 
to  say  more  than  a  few  words  in  an  investigating  magistrate's 
presence,  without  betraying  his  intentions  or  his  thoughts; 
without,  in  short,  revealing  more  or  less  of  the  secret  he  is 
endeavoring  to  conceal.  All  criminals,  even  the  most  simple- 
minded,  understand  this,  and  those  who  are  shrewd  prove  re- 
markably reticent.  Confining  themselves  to  the  few  facts  upon 
which  they  have  founded  their  defense,  they  are  careful  not  to 
travel  any  further  unless  absolutely  compelled  to  do  so,  and 
even  then  they  only  speak  with  the  utmost  caution.  When 
questioned,  they  reply,  of  course,  but  always  briefly;  and  they 
are  very  sparing  of  details. 

In  the  present  instance,  however,  the  prisoner  was  prodigal 
of  words.  He  did  not  seem  to  think  that  there  was  any  danger 
of  his  being  the  medium  of  accomplishing  his  own  decapitation. 
He  did  not  hesitate  like  those  who  are  afraid  of  misplacing  a 
word  of  the  romance  they  are  substituting  for  the  truth.  Under 
other  circumstances,  this  fact  would  have  been  a  strong  argu- 
ment in  his   favor. 

"You  may  tell  your  own  story,  then,"  said  M.  Segmuller 
in  answer  to  the  prisoner's  indirect  request. 

The  presumed  murderer  did  not  try  to  hide  the  satisfaction 
he  experienced  at  thus  being  allowed  to  plead  his  own  cause, 
in  his  own  way.  His  eyes  sparkled  and  his  nostrils  dilated  as 
if  with  pleasure.     He  sat  himself  down,  threw  his  head  back, 


MONSIEUR    LECOQ  109 

passed  his  tongue  over  his  lips  as  if  to  moisten  them,  and  said: 
"Am  I  to  understand  that  vou  wish  to  hear  my  history?" 

"Yes." 

"Then  you  must  know  that  one  day  about  forty-five  years 
ago,  Father  Tringlot,  the  manager  of  a  traveling  acrobatic 
company,  was  going  from  Guingamp  to  Saint  Brieuc,  in  Brit- 
tany. He  had  with  him  two  large  vehicles  containing  his  wife, 
the  necessary  theatrical  paraphernalia,  and  the  members  of 
the  company.  Well,  soon  after  passing  Chatelaudren,  he  per- 
ceived something  white  lying  by  the  roadside,  near  the  edge 
of  a  ditch.  'I  must  go  and  see  what  that  is,'  he  said  to  his  wife. 
He  stopped  the  horses,  alighted  from  the  vehicle  he  was  in, 
went  to  the  ditch,  picked  up  the  object  he  had  noticed,  and 
uttered  a  cry  of  surprise.  You  will  ask  me  what  he  had  found? 
Ah  !  good  heavens !  A  mere  trifle.  He  had  found  your  humble 
servant,   then   about  six  months  old." 

With  these  last  words,  the  prisoner  made  a  low  bow  to  his 
audience. 

"Naturally,  Father  Tringlot  carried  me  to  his  wife.  She 
was  a  kind-hearted  woman.  She  took  me,  examined  me,  fed  me, 
and  said:  'He's  a  strong,  healthy  child;  and  we'll  keep  him 
since  his  mother  has  been  so  wicked  as  to  abandon  him  by  the 
roadside.  I  will  teach  him ;  and  in  five  or  six  years  he  will  be 
a  credit  to  us.'  They  then  asked  each  other  what  name  they 
should  give  me,  and  as  it  happened  to  be  the  first  day  of  May, 
they  decided  to  call  me  after  the  month,  and  so  it  happens  that 
May  has  been  my  name  from  that  day  to  this." 

The  prisoner  paused  again  and  looked  from  one  to  another 
of  his  listeners,  as  if  seeking  some  sign  of  approval.  Xone 
being  forthcoming,  he  proceeded  with  his  story. 

"Father  Tringlot  was  an  uneducated  man,  entirely  ignorant 
of  the  law.  He  did  not  inform  the  authorities  that  he  had  found 
a  child,  and,  for  this  reason,  although  I  was  living,  I  did  not 
legally  exist,  for,  to  have  a  legal  existence  it  is  necessary  that 
one's  name,  parentage,  and  birthplace  should  figure  upon  a 
municipal  register. 

"When  I  grew  older.  I  rather  congratulated  myself  on  Father 
Tringlot's  neglect.  'May,  my  boy,'  said  I,  'you  are  not  put  down 
on  any  government  register,  consequently  there's  no  fear  of 
your  ever  being  drawn  as  a  soldier.'  I  had  a  horror  of  military 
service,  and  a  positive  dread  of  bullets  and  cannon  balls.  Later 
on,  when  I  had  passed  the  proper  age  for  the  conscription,  a 


110  MONSIEUR    LECOQ 

lawyer  told  me  that  I  should  get  into  all  kinds  of  trouble  if  I 
sought  a  place  on  the  civil  register  so  late  in  the  day ;  and  so 
I  decided  to  exist  surreptitiously.  And  this  is  why  I  have  no 
Christian  name,  and  why  I  can't  exactly  say  where  I  was  born." 

If  truth  has  any  particular  accent  of  its  own,  as  moralists 
have  asserted,  the  murderer  had  found  that  accent.  Voice, 
gesture,  glance,  expression,  all  were  in  accord;  not  a  word  of 
his  long  story  had  rung  false. 

"'Now,"  said  M.  Segmuller,  coldly,  "what  are  your  means  of 
subsistence  ?" 

By  the  prisoner's  discomfited  mien  one  might  have  sup- 
posed that  he  had  expected  to  see  the  prison  doors  fly  open  at 
the  conclusion  of  his  narrative.  "I  have  a  profession,"  he 
replied  plaintively.  ''The  one  that  Mother  Tringlot  taught  me. 
I  subsist  by  its  practise;  and  I  have  lived  by  it  in  France  and 
other  countries." 

The  magistrate  thought  he  had  found  a  flaw  in  the  prisoner's 
armor.  "You  say  you  have  lived  in  foreign  countries?"  he 
inquired. 

"Yes ;  during  the  seventeen  years  that  I  was  with  M.  Simp- 
son's company,  I  traveled  most  of  the  time  in  England  and 
Germany." 

"Then  you  are  a  gymnast  and  an  athlete.  How  is  it  that 
your  hands  are  so  white  and  soft?" 

Far  from  being  embarrassed,  the  prisoner  raised  his  hands 
from  his  lap  and  examined  them  with  evident  complacency. 
"It  is  true  they  are  pretty,"  said  he,  "but  this  is  because  I  take 
good  care  of  them  and  scarcely  use  them." 

"Do  they  pay  you,  then,  for  doing  nothing?" 

"Ah,  no,  indeed  !  But,  sir,  my  duty  consists  in  speaking  to 
the  public,  in  turning  a  compliment,  in  making  things  pass  off 
pleasantly,  as  the  saying  is ;  and,  without  boasting,  I  flatter  my- 
self that  I  have  a  certain  knack — " 

M.  Segmuller  stroked  his  chin,  according  to  his  habit  when- 
ever he  considered  that  a  prisoner  had  committed  some  grave 
blunder.  "In  that  case,"  said  he,  "will  you  give  me  a  specimen 
of  your  talent?" 

"Ah,  ha !"  laughed  the  prisoner,  evidently  supposing  this  to 
be  a  jest  on  the  part  of  the  magistrate.     "Ah,  ha!" 

"Obey  me,  if  you  please,"  insisted  M.  Segmuller. 

The  supposed  murderer  made  no  objection.  His  face  at 
once   assumed   a  different  expression,   his   features  wearing  a 


MONSIEUR   LECOQ  111 

mingled  air  of  impudence,  conceit,  and  irony.  He  caught  up  a 
ruler  that  was  lying  on  the  magistrate's  desk,  and,  flourishing 
it  wildly,  began  as  follows,  in  a  shrill  falsetto  voice:  "Silence, 
music  !  And  you,  big  drum,  hold  your  peace !  Now  is  the  hour, 
now  is  the  moment,  ladies  and  gentlemen,  to  witness  the  grand, 
unique  performance  of  these  great  artists,  unequaled  in  the 
world  for  their  feats  upon  the  trapeze  and  the  tight-rope,  and 
in  innumerable  other  exercises  of  grace,  suppleness,  and 
strength  !" 

"That  is  sufficient,"  interrupted  the  magistrate.  "You  can 
speak  like  that  in  France ;  but  what  do  you  say  in  Germany  ?"' 

"Of  course,  I  use  the  language  of  that  country." 

"Let  me  hear,  then !"  retorted  M.  Segmuller,  whose  mother 
tongue  was  German. 

The  prisoner  ceased  his  mocking  manner,  assumed  an  air 
of  comical  importance,  and  without  the  slightest  hesitation 
began  to  speak  as  follows,  in  very  emphatic  tones :  "Mit  Be- 
willigung  der  hochloeblichen  Obrigkeit,  wird  heute,  vor  hiesiger 
ehrenwerthen  Burgerschaft,  zum  erstenmal  aufgefuhrt — 
Genovesa,  oder — " 

This  opening  of  the  prisoner's  German  harangue  may  be 
thus  rendered :  "With  the  permission  of  the  local  authorities 
there  will  now  be  presented  before  the  honorable  citizens,  for 
the  first  time — Genevieve,  or  the — " 

"Enough,"  said  the  magistrate,  harshly.  He  rose,  perhaps  to 
conceal  his  chargin,  and  added :  "We  will  send  for  an  in- 
terpreter to  tell  us  whether  you  speak  English  as  fluently." 

On  hearing  these  words,  Lecoq  modestly  stepped  forward. 
"I  understand  English,"  said  he. 

"Very  well.     You  hear,  prisoner?" 

But  the  man  was  already  transformed.  British  gravity 
and  apathy  were  written  upon  his  features ;  his  gestures  were 
stiff  and  constrained,  and  in  the  most  ponderous  tones  he 
exclaimed :  "Walk  up  !  ladies  and  gentlemen,  walk  up  !  Long 
life  to  the  queen  and  to  the  honorable  mayor  of  this  town !  No 
country,  England  excepted — our  glorious  England  ! — could  pro- 
duce such  a  marvel,  such  a  paragon — "  For  a  minute  or  two 
longer  he  continued  in  the  same  strain. 

M.  Segmuller  was  leaning  upon  his  desk,  his  face  hidden  by 
his  hands.  Lecoq,  standing  in  front  of  the  prisoner,  could  not 
conceal  his  astonishment.  Goguet,  the  smiling  clerk,  alone 
found  the  scene  amusing. 


112 


MONSIEUR   LECOQ 


THE  governor  of  the  depot,  a  functionary  who  had  gained 
the  reputation  of  an  oracle  by  twenty  years'  experience  in 
prisons  and  with  prisoners — a  man  whom  it  was  most  difficult 
to  deceive — had  advised  the  magistrate  to  surround  himself 
with  every  precaution  before  examining  the  prisoner,  May. 

And  yet  this  man,  characterized  as  a  most  dangerous  crimi- 
nal, and  the  very  announcement  of  whose  coming  had  made  the 
clerk  turn  pale,  had  proved  to  be  a  practical,  harmless,  and 
jovial  philosopher,  vain  of  his  eloquence,  a  bohemian  whose 
existence  depended  upon  his  ability  to  turn  a  compliment;  in 
short,  a  somewhat  erratic  genius. 

This  was  certainly  strange,  but  the  seeming  contradiction 
did  not  cause  M.  Segmuller  to  abandon  the  theory  propounded 
by  Lecoq.  On  the  contrary,  he  was  more  than  ever  convinced 
of  its  truth.  If  he  remained  silent,  with  his  elbows  leaning  on 
the  desk,  and  his  hands  clasped  over  his  eyes,  it  was  only  that 
he  might  gain  time  for  reflection. 

The  prisoner's  attitude  and  manner  were  remarkable.  When 
his  English  harangue  was  finished,  he  remained  standing  in  the 
centre  of  the  room,  a  half-pleased,  half-anxious  expression  on 
his  face.  Still,  he  was  as  much  at  ease  as  if  he  had  been  on 
the  platform  outside  some  stroller's  booth,  where,  if  one  could 
believe  bis  story,  he  had  passed  the  greater  part  of  his  life.  It 
was  in  vain  that  the  magistrate  sought  for  some  indication  of 
weakness  on  his  features,  which  in  their  mobility  were  more 
enigmatical  than  the  lineaments  of  the  Sphinx. 

Thus  far,  M.  Segmuller  had  been  worsted  in  the  encounter. 
It  is  true,  however,  that  he  had  not  as  yet  ventured  on  any  direct 
attack,  nor  had  he  made  use  of  any  of  the  weapons  which  Lecoq 
had  forged  lor  his  use.  Still  he  was  none  the  less  annoyed  at 
his  defeat,  as  it  was  easy  to  see  by  the  sharp  manner  in  which 
he  raised  his  head  after  a  few  moments'  silence.  "I  see  that 
you  speak  three  European  languages  correctly,"  said  he.  "It 
is  a  rare  talent." 


MONSIEUR   LECOQ  113 

The  prisoner  bowed,  and  smiled  complacently.  "Still  that 
does  not  establish  your  identity,"  continued  the  magistrate. 
"Have  you  any  acquaintances  in  Paris?  Can  you  indicate  any 
respectable  person  who  will  vouch  for  the  truth  of  this  story?" 

"Ah  !  sir,  it  is  seventeen  years  since  I  left  France." 

"That  is  unfortunate,  but  the  prosecution  can  not  content 
itself  with  such  an  explanation.  What  about  your  last  em- 
ployer, M.  Simpson?     Who  is  he?" 

"M.  Simpson  is  a  rich  man,"  replied  the  prisoner,  rather 
coldly,  "worth  more  than  two  hundred  thousand  francs,  and 
honest  besides.  In  Germany  he  traveled  with  a  show  of  mario- 
nettes, and  in  England  with  a  collection  of  phenomena  to  suit 
the  tastes  of  that  country." 

"Very  well !  Then  this  millionaire  could  testify  in  your 
favor;  it  would  be  easy  to  find  him,  I  suppose?" 

"Certainly,"  responded  May,  emphatically.  "M.  Simpson 
would  willingly  do  me  this  favor.  It  would  not  be  difficult 
for  me  to  find  him,  only  it  would  require  considerable  time." 

"Why  ?" 

"Because  at  the  present  moment  he  must  be  on  his  way  to 
America.  It  was  on  account  of  this  journey  that  I  left  his 
company — I  detest  the  ocean." 

A  moment  previously  Lecoq's  anxiety  had  been  so  intense 
that  his  heart  almost  stopped  beating ;  on  hearing  these  last 
words,  however,  he  regained  all  his  self-possession.  As  for  the 
magistrate,  he  merely  greeted  the  murderer's  reply  with  a  brief 
but  significant  ejaculation. 

"When  I  say  that  he  is  on  his  way,"  resumed  the  prisoner, 
"I  may  be  mistaken.  He  may  not  have  started  yet,  though  he 
had  certainly  made  all  his  arrangements  before  we  separated." 

"What  ship  was  he  to  sail  by?" 

"He  did  not  tell  me." 

"Where  was  he  when  you  left  him?" 

"At  Leipsic." 

"When  was  this?" 

"Last  Wednesday." 

M.  Segmuller  shrugged  his  shoulders  disdainfully.  "So  you 
say  you  were  in  Leipsic  on  Wednesday?  How  long  have  you 
been  in  Paris?" 

"Since  Sunday  afternoon,  at  four  o'clock." 

"It  will  be  necessary  to  prove  that." 

Judging  by  the  murderer's  contracted  brow  it  might  be  con- 


114  MONSIEUR   LECOQ 

lectured  that  he  was  making  a  strenuous  effort  to  remember 
something.  He  cast  questioning  glances  first  toward  the  ceil- 
ing and  then  toward  the  floor,  scratching  his  head  and  tapping 
his  foot  in  evident  perplexity.  "How  can  I  prove  it — how?" 
he  murmured. 

The  magistrate  did  not  appear  disposed  to  wait.  "Let  me 
assist  you,"  said  he.  "The  people  at  the  inn  where  you  boarded 
while  in  Leipsic  must  remember  you." 

"We  did  not  stop  at  an  inn." 

"Where  did  you  eat  and  sleep,  then?" 

"In  M.  Simpson's  large  traveling-carriage;  it  had  been  sold, 
but  he  was  not  to  give  it  up  until  he  reached  the  port  he  was 
to  sail  from." 

"What  port  was  that?" 

"I  don't  know." 

At  this  reply  Lecoq,  who  had  less  experience  than  the  magis- 
trate in  the  art  of  concealing  one's  impressions,  could  not  help 
rubbing  his  hands  with  satisfaction.  The  prisoner  was  plainly 
convicted  of  falsehood,  indeed  driven  into  a  corner. 

"So  you  have  only  your  own  word  to  offer  in  support  of  this 
story?"  inquired  M.  Segmuller. 

"Wait  a  moment,"  said  the  prisoner,  extending  his  arm  as  if 
to  clutch  at  a  still  vague  inspiration — "wait  a  moment.  When 
I  arrived  in  Paris  I  had  with  me  a  trunk  containing  my  clothes. 
The  linen  is  all  marked  with  the  first  letter  of  my  name,  and 
besides  some  ordinary  coats  and  trousers,  there  were  a  couple 
of  costumes  I  used  to  wear  when  I  appeared  in  public." 

"Well,  what  have  you  done  with  all  these  things?" 

"When  I  arrived  in  Paris,  I  took  the  trunk  to  a  hotel,  close 
by  the  Northern  railway  station — " 

"Go  on.  Tell  us  the  name  of  this  hotel,"  said  M.  Segmuller, 
perceiving  that  the  prisoner  had  stopped  short,  evidently  embar- 
rassed. 

"That's  just  what  I'm  trying  to  recollect.  I've  forgotten  it. 
But  I  haven't  forgotten  the  house.  I  fancy  I  can  see  it  now; 
and,  if  some  one  would  only  take  me  to  the  neighborhood,  I 
should  certainly  recognize  it.  The  people  at  the  hotel  would 
know  me,  and,  besides,  my  trunk  would  prove  the  truth  of  what 
I've  told  you." 

On  hearing  this  statement,  Lecoq  mentally  resolved  to  make 
a  tour  of  investigation  through  the  various  hotels  surrounding 
the  Gare  du  Nord. 


MONSIEUR   LECOQ  115 

"Very  well,"  retorted  the  magistrate.  "Perhaps  we  will  do 
as  you  request.  Now,  there  are  two  questions  I  desire  to  ask. 
If  you  arrived  in  Paris  at  four  o'clock  in  the  afternoon,  how 
did  it  happen  that  by  midnight  of  the  same  day  you  had  dis- 
covered the  Poivriere,  which  is  merely  frequented  by  suspicious 
characters,  and  is  situated  in  such  a  lonely  spot  that  it  would 
be  impossible  to  find  it  at  night-time,  if  one  were  not  familiar 
with  the  surrounding  localities?  In  the  second  place,  how  does 
it  happen,  if  you  possess  such  clothing  as  you  describe,  that 
you  are  so  poorly  dressed  ?"   ■ 

The  prisoner  smiled  at  these  questions.  "I  can  easily  explain 
that,"  he  replied.  "One's  clothes  are  soon  spoiled  when  one 
travels  third-class,  so  on  leaving  Leipsic  I  put  on  the  worst 
things  I  had.  When  I  arrived  here,  and  felt  my  feet  on  the 
pavements  of  Paris,  I  went  literally  wild  with  delight.  I  acted 
like  a  fool.  I  had  some  money  in  my  pocket — it  was  Shrove 
Sunday — and  my  only  thought  was  to  make  a  night  of  it.  I 
did  not  think  of  changing  my  clothes.  As  I  had  formerly  been 
in  the  habit  of  amusing  myself  round  about  the  Barriere  d'ltalie. 
I  hastened  there  and  entered  a  wine-shop.  While  I  was  eating 
a  morsel,  two  men  came  in  and  began  talking  about  spending 
the  night  at  a  ball  at  the  Rainbow.  I  asked  them  to  take  me 
with  them ;  they  agreed,  I  paid  their  bills,  and  we  started.  But 
soon  after  our  arrival  there  these  young  men  left  me  and  joined 
the  dancers.  It  was  not  long  before  I  grew  weary  of  merely 
looking  on.  Rather  disappointed,  I  left  the  inn,  and  being  fool- 
ish enough  not  to  ask  my  way,  I  wandered  on  till  I  lost  myself, 
while  traversing  a  tract  of  unoccupied  land.  I  was  about  to 
go  back,  when  I  saw  a  light  in  the  distance.  I  walked  straight 
toward  it,  and  reached  that  cursed  hovel." 

"What  happened  then?" 

"Oh !  I  went  in ;  called  for  some  one.  A  woman  came  down- 
stairs, and  I  asked  her  for  a  glass  of  brandy.  When  she 
brought  it,  I  sat  down  and  lighted  a  cigar.  Then  I  looked 
about  me.  The  interior  was  almost  enough  to  frighten  one 
Three  men  and  two  women  were  drinking  and  chatting  in  low 
tones  at  another  table.  My  face  did  not  seem  to  suit  them. 
One  of  them  got  up,  came  toward  me,  and  said :  'You  are  a 
police  agent ;  you've  come  here  to  play  the  spy ;  that's  very 
plain.'  I  answered  that  I  wasn't  a  police  agent.  He  replied 
that  I  was.  I  again  declared  that  I  wasn't.  In  short,  he  swore 
that  he  was  sure  of  it,  and  that  my  beard  was  false.    So  saying. 


116  MONSIEUR   LECOQ 

he  caught  hold  of  my  beard  and  pulled  it.  This  made  me  mad. 
I  jumped  up,  and  with  a  blow  of  my  fist  I  felled  him  to  the 
ground.  In  an  instant  all  the  others  were  upon  me !  I  had 
my  revolver — you  know  the  rest." 

"And  while  all  this  was  going  on  what  were  the  two  women 
doing?" 

"Ah !  I  was  too  busy  to  pay  any  attention  to  them.  They 
disappeared!" 

"But  you  saw  them  when  you  entered  the  place — what  were 
they  like?" 

"Oh  !  they  were  big,  ugly  creatures,  as  tall  as  grenadiers,  and 
as  dark  as  moles  !" 

Between  plausible  falsehood,  and  improbable  truth,  justice 
— human  justice,  and  therefore  liable  to  error — is  compelled  to 
decide  as  best  it  can.  For  the  past  hour  M.  Segmuller  had  not 
been  free  from  mental  disquietude.  But  all  his  doubts  van- 
ished when  he  heard  the  prisoner  declare  that  the  two  women 
were  tall  and  dark.  If  he  had  said :  "The  women  were  fair," 
M.  Segmuller  would  not  have  known  what  to  believe,  but  in 
the  magistrate's  opinion  the  audacious  falsehood  he  had  just 
heard  proved  that  th^re  was  a  perfect  understanding  between 
the  supposed  murderer  and  Widow  Chupin. 

Certainly,  M.  Segmuller's  satisfaction  was  great;  but  his  face 
did  not  betray  it.  It  was  of  the  utmost  importance  that  the 
prisoner  should  believe  that  he  had  succeeded  in  deceiving  his 
examiner.  "You  must  understand  how  necessary  it  is  to  find 
these  women,"  said  the  magistrate  kindly. 

"If  their  testimony  corresponds  with  your  allegations,  your 
innocence  will  be  proved  conclusively." 

"Yes,  I  understand  that;  but  how  can  I  put  my  hand  upon 
them  ?" 

"The  police  can  assist  you — our  agents  are  always  at  the 
service  of  prisoners  who  desire  to  make  use  of  them  in  estab- 
lishing their  innocence.  Did  you  make  any  observations  which 
might  aid  in  the  discovery  of  these  women?" 

Lecoq,  whose  eyes  never  wandered  from  the  prisoner's  face, 
fancied  that  he  saw  the  faint  shadow  of  a  smile  on  the  man's 
lips. 

"I  remarked  nothing,"  said  the  prisoner  coldly. 

M.  Segmuller  had  opened  the  drawer  of  his  desk  a  moment 
before.  He  now  drew  from  it  the  earring  which  had  been 
found  on  the  scene  of  the  tragedy,  and  handing  it  abruptly  to 


MONSIEUR   LECOQ  117 

the  prisoner,  he  asked:  "So  you  didn't  notice  this  in  the  ear 
of  one  of  the  women?" 

The  prisoner's  imperturbable  coolness  of  demeanor  did  not 
forsake  him.  He  took  the  jewel  in  his  hand,  examined  it 
attentively,  held  it  up  to  the  light,  admired  its  brilliant  scin- 
tillations, and  said :  "It  is  a  very  handsome  stone,  but  I  didn't 
notice  it." 

"This  stone,"  remarked  the  magistrate,  "is  a  diamond." 

"Ah !" 

"Yes;  and  worth  several  thousand  francs." 

"So  much  as  that!" 

This  exclamation  may  have  been  in  accordance  with  the 
spirit  of  the  part  assumed  by  the  prisoner ;  though,  at  the  same 
time,  its  simplicity  was  undoubtedly  far-fetched.  It  was  strange 
that  a  nomad,  such  as  the  murderer  pretended  to  have  been, 
acquainted  with  most  of  the  countries  and  capitals  of  Europe, 
should  have  displayed  this  astonishment  on  learning  the  value 
of  a  diamond.  Still,  M.  Segmuller  did  not  seem  to  notice  the 
discrepancy. 

"Another  thing,"  said  he.  "When  you  threw  down  your 
pistol,  crying,  'Come  and  take  me,'  what  did  you  intend  to  do?" 

"I  intended  to  make  my  escape." 

"In  what  way?" 

"Why,  of  course,  by  the  door,  sir — by — " 

"Yes,  by  the  back  door,"  retorted  the  magistrate,  with  freez- 
ing irony.  "It  remains  for  you  to  explain  how  you — you  who 
had  just  entered  that  hovel  for  the  first  time — could  have  known 
of  this  door's  existence." 

For  once,  in  the  course  of  the  examination,  the  prisoner 
seemed  troubled.  For  an  instant  all  his  assurance  forsook  him. 
He  evidently  perceived  the  danger  of  his  position,  and  after  a 
considerable  effort  he  contrived  to  burst  out  in  a  laugh.  His 
laugh  was  a  poor  one,  however;  it  rang  false,  and  failed  to 
conceal  a  sensation  of  deep  anxiety.  Growing  gradually  bolder, 
he  at  length  exclaimed :  "That's  nonsense,  I  had  just  seen  these 
two  women  go  out  by  that  very  door." 

"Excuse  me,  you  declared  a  minute  ago  that  you  did  not  see 
these  women  leave:  that  you  were  too  busy  to  watch  their 
movements." 

"Did  I  say  that?" 

"Word  for  word;  the  passage  shall  be  shown  you.  Goguet. 
find  it." 


118  MONSIEUR   LECOQ 

The  clerk  at  once  read  the  passage  referred  to,  whereupon  the 
prisoner  undertook  to  show  that  the  remark  had  been  misun- 
derstood. He  had  not  said — at  least,  he  did  not  intend  to  say 
— that;  they  had  quite  misinterpreted  his  words.  With  such 
remarks  did  he  try  to  palliate  the  effect  of  his  apparent 
blunders. 

In  the  mean  while,  Lecoq  was  jubilant.  "Ah,  my  fine  fel- 
low," thought  he,  "you  are  contradicting  yourself — you  are  in 
deep  water  already — you  are  lost.     There's  no  hope  for  you." 

The  prisoner's  situation  was  indeed  not  unlike  that  of  a 
bather,  who,  unable  to  swim,  imprudently  advances  into  the  sea 
until  the  water  rises  above  his  chin.  He  may  for  a  while 
have  preserved  his  equilibrium,  despite  the  buffeting  of  the 
waves,  but  now  he  totters,  loses  his  footing — another  second, 
and  he  will  sink  ! 

"Enough — enough !"  said  the  magistrate,  cutting  the  pris- 
oner's embarrassed  explanation  short.  "Now,  if  you  started  out 
merely  with  the  intention  of  amusing  yourself,  how  did  it 
happen  that  you  took  your  revolver  with  you?" 

"I  had  it  with  me  while  I  was  traveling,  and  did  not  think 
of  leaving  it  at  the  hotel  any  more  than  I  thought  of  changing 
my  clothes." 

"Where  did  you  purchase  it?" 

"It  was  given  me  by  M.  Simpson  as  a  souvenir." 

"Confess  that  this  M.  Simpson  is  a  very  convenient  person- 
age," said  the  magistrate  coldly.  "Still,  go  on  with  your  story. 
Only  two  chambers  of  this  murderous  weapon  were  discharged, 
but  three  men  were  killed.  You  have  not  told  me  the  end  of 
the  affair." 

"What's  the  use?"  exclaimed  the  prisoner,  in  saddened  tones. 
"Two  of  my  assailants  had  fallen ;  the  struggle  became  an  equal 
one.  I  seized  the  remaining  man,  the  soldier,  round  the  body, 
and  threw  him  down.  He  fell  against  a  corner  of  the  table, 
and  did  not  rise  again." 

M.  Segmuller  had  unfolded  upon  his  desk  the  plan  of  the 
Poivriere  drawn  by  Lecoq.  "Come  here,"  he  said,  addressing 
the  prisoner,  "and  show  me  on  this  paper  the  precise  spot  you 
and  your  adversaries  occupied." 

May  obeyed,  and  with  an  assurance  of  manner  a  little  sur- 
prising in  a  man  in  his  position,  he  proceeded  to  explain  the 
drama.  "I  entered,"  said  he,  "by  this  door,  marked  C;  I  seated 
myself  at  the  table,  H,  to  the  left  of  the  entrance:  my  assail- 


MONSIEUR   LECOQ  119 

ants  occupied  the  table  between  the  fireplace,  F,  and  the 
window,  B." 

"I  must  admit,"  said  the  magistrate,  "that  your  assertions 
fully  agree  with  the  statements  of  the  physicians,  who  say  that 
one  of  the  shots  must  have  been  fired  about  a  yard  off,  and 
the  other  about  two  yards  off." 

This  was  a  victory  for  the  prisoner,  but  he  only  shrugged 
his  shoulders  and  murmured :  "That  proves  that  the  physicians 
knew  their  business." 

Lecoq  was  delighted.  This  part  of  the  prisoner's  narrative 
not  merely  agreed  with  the  doctor's  statements,  but  also  con- 
firmed his  own  researches.  The  young  detective  felt  that,  had 
he  been  the  examiner,  he  would  have  conducted  the  investiga- 
tion in  precisely  the  same  way.  Accordingly,  he  thanked  heaven 
that  M.  Segmuller  had  supplied  the  place  of  M.  d'Escorval. 

"This  admitted,"  resumed  the  magistrate,  "it  remains  for 
you  to  explain  a  sentence  you  uttered  when  the  agent  you  see 
here  arrested  you." 

"What  sentence?" 

"You  exclaimed:  'Ah,  it's  the  Prussians  who  are  coming; 
I'm  lost !'    What  did  you  mean  by  that?" 

A  fleeting  crimson  tinge  suffused  the  prisoner's  cheek.  It 
was  evident  that  if  he  had  anticipated  the  other  questions,  and 
had  been  prepared  for  them,  this  one,  at  least,  was  unexpected. 
"It's  very  strange,"  said  he,  with  ill-disguised  embarrassment, 
"that  I  should  have  said  such  a  thing!" 

"Five  persons  heard  you,"  insisted  the  magistrate. 

The  prisoner  did  not  immediately  reply.  He  was  evidently 
trying  to  gain  time,  ransacking  in  his  mind  for  a  plausible  ex- 
planation. "After  all,"  he  ultimately  said,  "the  thing's  quite 
possible.  When  I  was  with  M.  Simpson,  we  had  with  us  an 
old  soldier  who  had  belonged  to  Napoleon's  body-guard  and  had 
fought  at  Waterloo.  I  recollect  he  was  always  repeating  that 
phrase.     I  must  have  caught  the  habit  from  him." 

This  explanation,  though  rather  slow  in  coming,  was  none 
the  less  ingenious.  At  least,  M.  Segmuller  appeared  to  be  per- 
fectly satisfied.  "That's  very  plausible,"  said  he;  "but  there  is 
one  circumstance  that  passes  my  comprehension.  Were  you 
freed  from  your  assailants  before  the  police  entered  the  place? 
Answer  me,  yes  or  no." 

"Yes." 

"Then  why,  instead  of  making  your  escape  by  the  back  door, 


120 


MONSIEUR   LECOQ 


the  existence  of  which  you  had  divined,  did  you  remain  on  the 
threshold  of  the  door  leading  into  the  back  room,  with  a  table 
before  you  to  serve  as  a  barricade,  and  your  revolver  leveled 
at  the  police,  as  if  to  keep  them  at  bay?" 

The  prisoner  hung  his  head,  and  the  magistrate  had  to  wait 
for  his  answer.  "I  was  a  fool,"  he  stammered  at  last.  "I 
didn't  know  whether  these  men  were  police  agents  or  friends 
of  the  fellows  I  had  killed." 

"In  either  case  your  own  interest  should  have  induced  you 
to  fly." 

The  prisoner  remained  silent. 

"Ah,  well !"  resumed  M.  Segmuller,  "let  me  tell  you  my 
opinion.  I  believe  you  designedly  and  voluntarily  exposed  your- 
self to  the  danger  of  being  arrested  in  order  to  protect  the 
retreat  of  the  two  women  who  had  just  left." 

"Why  should  I  have  risked  my  own  safety  for  two  hussies  I 
did  not  even  know?" 

"Excuse  me.  The  prosecution  is  strongly  inclined  to  believe 
that  you  know  these  two  women  very  well." 

"I  should  like  to  see  any  one  prove  that !"  So  saying,  the 
prisoner  smiled  sneeringly,  but  at  once  changed  countenance 
when  the  magistrate  retorted  in  a  tone  of  assurance:  "I  will 
prove  it." 


MAGISTRATES  are  frequently  nonplussed  when  dealing 
with  these  difficult  and  delicate  questions  of  personal 
identity.  Railroads,  photography,  and  telegraphic  communication 
have  multiplied  the  means  of  investigation  in  vain.  Every  day 
it  happens  that  criminals  succeed  in  deceiving  justice  in  regard 
to  their  true  personality,  and  thus  escape  the  consequences  of 
former  crimes.  This  is  indeed  so  frequently  the  case  that  an 
eminent  French  public  prosecutor  once  ventured  to  remark: 
"Uncertainty  as  regards  a  criminal's  identity  will  only  cease 
when  the  law  prescribes  the  branding  of  a  number  on  the 
shoulder  of  every  child  whose  birth  is  reported  to  the  mayor." 


MONSIEUR   LECOQ  121 

M.  Segmuller  certainly  wished  that  a  number  had  been 
branded  upon  the  enigmatical  prisoner  before  him.  And  vet 
he  did  not  by  any  means  despair,  and  his  confidence,  exag- 
gerated though  it  might  be,  was  not  at  all  feigned.  He  was 
of  opinion  that  the  weakest  point  of  the  prisoner's  defense 
so  far  was  his  pretended  ignorance  concerning  the  two  women. 
He  proposed  to  return  to  this  subject  later  on.  In  the  mean 
while,  however,  there  were  other  matters  to  be  dealt  with. 

When  he  felt  that  his  threat  as  regards  the  women  had  had 
time  to  produce  its  full  effect,  the  magistrate  continued :  "So, 
prisoner,  you  assert  that  you  were  acquainted  with  none  of 
the  persons  you  met  at  the  Poivriere." 

"I  swear  it." 

"Have  you  never  had  occasion  to  meet  a  person  called 
Lacheneur,  an  individual  whose  name  is  connected  with  this 
unfortunate  affair?" 

"I  heard  the  name  for  the  first  time  when  it  was  pronounced 
by  the  dying  soldier.  Poor  fellow !  I  had  just  dealt  him  his 
death  blow ;  and  yet  his  last  words  testified  to  my  innocence." 

This  sentimental  outburst  produced  no  impression  whatever 
upon  the  magistrate.  "In  that  case,"  said  he,  "I  suppose  you 
are  willing  to  accept  this  soldier's  statement." 

The  man  hesitated,  as  if  conscious  that  he  had  fallen  into 
a  snare,  and  that  he  would  be  obliged  to  weigh  each  answer 
carefully.    "I  accept  it,"  said  he  at  last.    "Of  course  I  accept  it." 

"Very  well,  then.  This  soldier,  as  you  must  recollect,  wished 
to  revenge  himself  on  Lacheneur,  who,  by  promising  him  a 
sum  of  money,  had  inveigled  him  into  a  conspiracy.  A  con- 
spiracy against  whom?  Evidently  against  you;  and  yet  you 
pretend  that  you  had  only  arrived  in  Paris  that  evening,  and 
that  mere  chance  brought  you  to  the  Poivriere.  Can  you  recon- 
cile such  conflicting  statements?" 

The  prisoner  had  the  hardihood  to  shrug  his  shoulders  dis- 
dainfully. "I  see  the  matter  in  an  entirely  different  light." 
said  he.  "These  people  were  plotting  mischief  against  I  don't 
know  whom — and  it  was  because  I  was  in  their  way  that  they 
sought  a  quarrel  with  me,  without  any  cause  whatever." 

Skilfully  as  the  magistrate  had  delivered  this  thrust,  it  had 
been  as  skilfully  parried ;  so  skilfully,  indeed,  that  Goguet,  the 
smiling  clerk,  could  not  conceal  an  approving  grimace.  Be- 
sides, on  principle,  he  always  took  the  prisoner's  part,  in  a 
mild,  Platonic  way,  of  course. 

fc — Vol.  I — Gab. 


122  MONSIEUR   LECOQ 

"Let  us  consider  the  circumstances  that  followed  your  arrest," 
resumed  M.  Segmuller.  "Why  did  you  refuse  to  answer  all  the 
questions  put  to  you?" 

A  gleam  of  real  or  assumed  resentment  shone  in  the  prisoner's 
eyes. 

"This  examination,"  he  growled,  "will  alone  suffice  to  make 
a  culprit  out  of  an  innocent  man !" 

"I  advise  you,  in  your  own  interest,  to  behave  properly. 
Those  who  arrested  you  observed  that  you  were  conversant 
with  all  the  prison  formalities  and  rules." 

"Ah  !  sir,  haven't  I  told  you  that  I  have  been  arrested  and 
put  in  prison  several  times — always  on  account  of  my  papers? 
I  told  you  the  truth,  and  you  shouldn't  taunt  me  for  having 
done  so." 

The  prisoner  had  dropped  his  mask  of  careless  gaiety,  and 
had  assumed  a  surly,  discontented  tone.  But  his  troubles  were 
by  no  means  ended ;  in  fact,  the  battle  had  only  just  begun. 
Laying  a  tiny  linen  bag  on  his  desk,  M.  Segmuller  asked  him  if 
he  recognized  it. 

"Perfectly !  It  is  the  package  that  the  governor  of  the  Depot 
placed  in  his  safe." 

The  magistrate  opened  the  bag,  and  poured  the  dust  that  it 
contained  on  to  a  sheet  of  paper.  "You  are  aware,  prisoner," 
said  he,  "that  this  dust  comes  from  the  mud  that  was  sticking 
to  your  feet.  The  police  agent  who  collected  it  has  been  to  the 
station-house  where  you  spent  the  night  of  the  murder,  and 
has  discovered  that  the  composition  of  this  dust  is  identical 
with  that  of  the  floor  of  the  cell  you  occupied." 

The  prisoner  listened  with  gaping  mouth. 

"Hence,"  continued  the  magistrate,  "it  was  certainly  at  the 
station-house,  and  designedly,  that  you  soiled  your  feet  with 
that  mud.    In  doing  so  vou  had  an  object." 

"I  wished—" 

"Let  me  finish.  Being  determined  to  keep  your  identity 
secret,  and  to  assume  the  character  of  a  member  of  the  lower 
classes — of  a  mountebank,  if  you  please — you  reflected  that  the 
care  you  bestow  upon  your  person  might  betray  you.  You 
foresaw  the  impression  that  would  be  caused  when  the  coarse, 
ill-fitting  boots  you  wore  were  removed,  and  the  officials  per- 
ceived your  trim,  clean  feet,  which  are  as  well  kept  as  your 
hands.  Accordingly,  what  did  you  do?  You  poured  some  of 
the  water  that  was  in  the  pitcher  in  your  cell  on  to  the  ground 


MONSIEUR   LECOQ  123 

and  then  dabbled   your  feet  in  the   mud  that   had  thus  been 
formed." 

During  these  remarks  the  prisoner's  face  wore,  by  turns,  an 
expression  of  anxiety,  astonishment,  irony,  and  mirth.  When 
the  magistrate  had  finished,  he  burst  into  a  hearty  laugh. 

"So  that's  the  result  of  twelve  or  fourteen  hours'  research," 
he  at  length  exclaimed,  turning  toward  Lecoq.  "Ah !  Mr. 
Agent,  it's  good  to  be  sharp,  but  not  so  sharp  as  that.  The 
truth  is,  that  when  I  was  taken  to  the  station-house,  forty-eight 
hours — thirty-six  of  them  spent  in  a  railway  carriage — had 
elapsed  since  I  had  taken  off  my  boots.  My  feet  were  red  and 
swollen,  and  they  burned  like  fire.  What  did  I  do?  I  poured 
some  water  over  them.  As  for  your  other  suspicions,  if  I  have 
a  soft  white  skin,  it  is  only  because  I  take  care  of  myself.  Be- 
sides, as  is  usual  with  most  men  of  my  profession,  I  rarely 
wear  anything  but  slippers  on  my  feet.  This  is  so  true  that, 
on  leaving  Leipsic,  I  only  owned  a  single  pair  of  boots,  and 
that  was  an  old  cast-off  pair  given  me  by  M.  Simpson." 

Lecoq  struck  his  chest.  "Fool,  imbecile,  idiot,  that  I  am !" 
he  thought.  "He  was  waiting  to  be  questioned  about  this  cir- 
cumstance. He  is  so  wonderfully  shrewd  that,  when  he  saw 
me  take  the  dust,  he  divined  my  intentions;  and  since  then  he 
has  managed  to  concoct  this  story — a  plausible  story  enough — 
and  one  that  any  jury  would  believe." 

M.  Segmuller  was  saying  the  same  thing  to  himself.  But 
he  was  not  so  surprised  nor  so  overcome  by  the  skill  the  pris- 
oner had  displayed  in  fencing  with  this  point.  "Let  us  con- 
tinue," said  he.  "Do  you  still  persist  in  your  statements, 
prisoner?" 
"Yes." 

"Very  well ;  then  I  shall  be  forced  to  tell  you  that  what  you 
are  saying  is  untrue." 

The  prisoner's  lips  trembled  visibly,  and  it  was  with  difficulty 
that  he  faltered :  "May  my  first  mouthful  of  bread  strangle  me, 
if  I  have  uttered  a  single  falsehood !" 
"A  single  falsehood  !     Wait." 

The  magistrate  drew  from  the  drawer  of  his  desk  the  molds 
of  the  footprints  prepared  by  Lecoq,  and  showing  them  to  the 
murderer,  he  said:  "You  told  me  a  few  minutes  ago  that  the 
two  women  were  as  tall  as  grenadiers;  now,  just  look  at  the 
footprints  made  by  these  female  giants.  They  were  as  'dark  as 
moles,'  you  said;  a  witness  will  tell  you  that  one  of  them  was 


124  MONSIEUR   LECOQ 

a  small,  delicate-featured  blonde,  with  an  exceedingly  sweet 
voice."  He  sought  the  prisoner's  eyes,  gazed  steadily  into 
them,  and  added  slowly:  "And  this  witness  is  the  driver  whose 
cab  was  hired  in  the  Rue  de  Chevaleret  by  the  two  fugitives, 
both  short,  fair-haired  women." 

This  sentence  fell  like  a  thunderbolt  upon  the  prisoner;  he 
grew  pale,  tottered,  and  leaned  against  the  wall  for  support. 

"Ah  !  you  have  told  me  the  truth !"  scornfully  continued  the 
pitiless  magistrate.  "Then,  who  is  this  man  who  was  waiting 
for  you  while  you  were  at  the  Poivriere?  Who  is  this  accom- 
plice who,  after  your  arrest,  dared  to  enter  the  Widow  Chupin's 
den  to  regain  possession  of  some  compromising  object — no 
doubt  a  letter — which  he  knew  he  would  find  in  the  pocket  of 
the  Widow  Chupin's  apron?  Who  is  this  devoted,  courageous 
friend  who  feigned  drunkenness  so  effectually  that  even  the 
police  were  deceived,  and  thoughtlessly  placed  him  in  confine- 
ment with  you?  Dare  you  deny  that  you  have  not  arranged 
your  system  of  defense  in  concert  with  him?  Can  you  affirm 
that  he  did  not  give  the  Widow  Chupin  counsel  as  to  the  course 
she  should  pursue?" 

But  already,  thanks  to  his  power  of  self-control,  the  prisoner 
had  mastered  his  agitation.  "All  this,"  said  he,  in  a  harsh 
voice,  "is  a  mere  invention  of  the  police  f" 

However  faithfully  one  may  describe  an  examination  of  this 
kind,  a  narrative  can  convey  no  more  idea  of  the  real  scene 
than  a  heap  of  cold  ashes  can  give  the  effect  of  a  glowing  fire. 
One  can  note  down  each  word,  each  ejaculation,  but  phrase- 
ology is  powerless  to  portray  the  repressed  animation,  the  im- 
passioned movements,  the  studied  reticence,  the  varied  tones 
of  voice,  the  now  bold,  now  faltering  glances,  full  of  hatred  and 
suspicion,  which  follow  each  other  in  rapid  succession,  mostly 
on  the  prisoner's  side,  but  not  entirely  so,  for  although  the 
magistrate  may  be  an  adept  in  the  art  of  concealing  his  feelings, 
at  times  nature  can  not  be  controlled. 

When  the  prisoner  reeled  beneath  the  magistrate's  last 
words,  the  latter  could  not  control  his  feelings.  "He  yields," 
he  thought,  "he  succumbs — he  is  mine !" 

But  all  hope  of  immediate  success  vanished  when  M.  Seg- 
muller  saw  his  redoubtable  adversary  struggle  against  his 
momentary  weakness,  and  arm  himself  for  the  fight  with  re- 
newed, and,  if  possible,  even  greater  energy.  The  magistrate 
perceived  that  it  would  require  more  than  one  assault  to  over- 


MONSIEUR   LECOQ  125 

come  such  a  stubborn  nature.  So,  in  a  voice  rendered  still 
more  harsh  by  disappointment,  he  resumed:  "It  is  plain  that 
you  are  determined  to  deny  evidence  itself." 

The  prisoner  had  recovered  all  his  self-possession.  He  must 
have  bitterly  regretted  his  weakness,  for  a  fiendish  spite  glit- 
tered in  his  eyes.  "What  evidence !"  he  asked,  frowning. 
"This  romance  invented  by  the  police  is  very  plausible,  I  don't 
deny  it;  but  it  seems  to  me  that  the  truth  is  quite  as  probable. 
You  talk  to  me  about  a  cabman  whose  vehicle  was  hired  by 
two  short,  fair-haired  women:  but  who  can  prove  that  these 
women  were  the  same  that  fled  from  the  Poivriere?" 

"The  police  agent  you  see  here  followed  the  tracks  they  left 
across  the  snow." 

"Ah  !  at  night-time — across  fields  intersected  by  ditches,  and 
up  a  long  street — a  fine  rain  falling  all  the  while,  and  a  thaw 
already  beginning !    Oh,  your  story  is  very  probable  !" 

As  he  spoke,  the  murderer  extended  his  arm  toward  Lecoq, 
and  then,  in  a  tone  of  crushing  scorn,  he  added:  "A  man  must 
have  great  confidence  in  himself,  or  a  wild  longing  for  advance- 
ment, to  try  and  get  a  man  guillotined  on  such  evidence  as 
that !" 

At  these  words,  Goguet,  the  smiling  clerk,  whose  pen  was 
rapidly  flying  across  the  paper,  could  not  help  remarking  to 
himself:  "The  arrow  has  entered  the  bull's-eye  this  time!" 

The  comment  was  not  without  foundation :  for  Lecoq  was 
evidently  cut  to  the  quick.  Indeed,  he  was  so  incensed  that, 
forgetful  of  his  subordinate  position,  he  sprang  to  his  feet,  ex- 
claiming: "This  circumstance  would  be  of  slight  importance 
if  it  were  not  one  of  a  long  chain — " 

"Be  good  enough  to  keep  silent,"  interrupted  the  magistrate, 
who,  turning  to  the  prisoner,  added :  "The  court  does  not  utilize 
the  proofs  and  testimony  collected  by  the  police  until  it  has 
examined  and  weighed  them." 

"No  matter,"  murmured  the  prisoner.  "I  should  like  to  see 
this  cab-driver." 

"Have  no  fear  about  that;  he  shall  repeat  his  evidence  in 
your  presence." 

"Very  well.  I  am  satisfied  then.  I  will  ask  him  how  he  can 
distinguish  people's  faces  when  it  is  as  dark  as — " 

He  checked  himself,  apparently  enlightened  by  a  sudden 
inspiration. 

"How  stupid  I  am !"  he  exclaimed.     "I'm  losing  my  temper 


126  MONSIEUR   LECOQ 

about  these  people  when  you  know  all  the  while  who  they  are. 
For  of  course  the  cabmen  drove  them  home." 

M.  Segmuller  saw  that  the  prisoner  understood  him.  He 
perceived,  moreover,  that  the  latter  was  doing  all  he  could 
to  increase  the  mystery  that  enshrouded  this  essential  point  of 
the  case — a  point  upon  which  the  prosecution  was  particularly 
anxious  to  obtain  information. 

The  prisoner  was  truly  an  incomparable  comedian,  for  his 
last  observation  was  made  in  a  tone  of  remarkable  candor,  just 
tinged  with  sufficient  irony  to  show  that  he  felt  he  had  nothing 
to  fear  in  this  direction. 

"If  you  are  consistent  with  yourself,"  remarked  the  magis- 
trate, "you  will  also  deny  the  existence  of  an  accomplice,  of  a 
— comrade." 

"What  would  be  the  use  denying  it,  since  you  believe  nothing 
that  I  say  ?  Only  a  moment  ago  you  insinuated  that  my  former 
employer  was  an  imaginary  personage ;  so  what  need  I  say 
about  my  pretended  accomplice?  According  to  your  agents, 
he's  at  all  events  a  most  faithful  friend.  Indeed,  this  wonder- 
ful being — invented  by  Monsieur"  (with  these  words  the  pris- 
oner pointed  to  Lecoq) — "was  seemingly  not  satisfied  at  having 
once  escaped  the  police,  for,  according  to  your  account,  he  vol- 
untarily placed  himself  in  their  clutches  a  second  time.  You 
gentlemen  pretend  that  he  conferred  first  of  all  with  me,  and 
next  with  the  Widow  Chupin.  How  did  that  happen  ?  Perhaps 
after  removing  him  from  my  cell,  some  of  your  agents  oblig- 
ingly shut  him  up  with  the  old  woman." 

Goguet,  the  clerk,  wrote  all  this  down  admiringly.  "Here," 
thought  he,  "is  a  man  of  brain,  who  understands  his  case.  He 
won't  need  any  lawyer's  eloquence  to  put  his  defense  favor- 
ably before  a  jury." 

"And  after  all,"  continued  the  prisoner,  "what  are  the  proofs 
against  me  ?  The  name  of  Lacheneur  faltered  by  a  dying  man ; 
a  few  footprints  on  some  melting  snow;  a  sleepy  cab-driver's 
declaration;  and  a  vague  doubt  about  a  drunkard's  identity.  If 
that  is  all  you  have  against  me,  it  certainly  doesn't  amount  to 
much — " 

"Enough !"  interrupted  M.  Segmuller.  "Your  assurance  is 
perfect  now;  though  a  moment  ago  your  embarrassment  was 
most  remarkable.    What  was  the  cause  of  it?" 

"The  cause !"  indignantly  exclaimed  the  prisoner,  whom  this 
query  had  seemingly  enraged ;  "the  cause !     Can't  you  see,  sir, 


MONSIEUR   LECOQ  127 

that  you  are  torturing  me  frightfully,  pitilessly !  I  am  an  inno- 
cent man,  and  you  are  trying  to  deprive  me  of  my  life.  You 
have  been  turning  me  this  way  and  that  way  for  so  many 
hours  that  I  begin  to  feel  as  if  I  were  standing  on  the  guillo- 
tine. Each  time  I  open  my  mouth  to  speak  I  ask  myself,  is  it 
this  answer  that  will  send  me  to  the  scaffold?  My  anxiety  and 
dismay  surprise  you,  do  they?  Why,  since  this  examination 
began,  I've  felt  the  cold  knife  graze  my  neck  at  least  twenty 
times.  I  wouldn't  like  my  worst  enemy  to  be  subjected  to  such 
torture  as  this." 

The  prisoner's  description  of  his  sufferings  did  not  seem  at 
all  exaggerated.  His  hair  was  saturated  with  perspiration,  and 
big  drops  of  sweat  rested  on  his  pallid  brow,  or  coursed  down 
his  cheeks  on  to  his  beard. 

"I  am  not  your  enemy,"  said  the  magistrate  more  gently. 
"A  magistrate  is  neither  a  prisoner's  friend  nor  enemy,  he  is 
simply  the  friend  of  truth  and  the  executor  of  the  law.  I  am 
not  seeking  either  for  an  innocent  man  or  for  a  culprit ;  I  merely 
wish  to  arrive  at  the  truth.  I  must  know  who  you  are — and  I 
do  know — " 

"Ah ! — if  the  assertion  costs  me  my  life — I'm  May  and  none 
other." 

"No,  you  are  not." 

"Who  am  I  then  ?  Some  great  man  in  disguise  ?  Ah  !  I  wish 
I  were !  In  that  case,  I  should  have  satisfactory  papers  to  show 
you;  and  then  you  would  set  me  free,  for  you  know  very  well, 
my  good  sir,  that  I  am  as  innocent  as  you  are." 

The  magistrate  had  left  his  desk,  and  taken  a  seat  by  the 
fireplace  within  a  yard  of  the  prisoner.  "Do  not  insist,"  said 
he.  Then,  suddenly  changing  both  manner  and  tone,  he  added 
with  the  urbanity  that  a  man  of  the  world  displays  when  ad- 
dressing an  equal : 

"Do  me  the  honor,  sir,  to  believe  me  gifted  with  sufficient 
perspicuity  to  recognize,  under  the  difficult  part  you  play  to 
such  perfection,  a  very  superior  gentleman — a  man  endowed 
with  remarkable  talents." 

Lecoq  perceived  that  this  sudden  change  of  manner  had  un- 
nerved the  prisoner.  He  tried  to  laugh,  but  his  merriment  par- 
took somewhat  of  the  nature  of  a  sob,  and  big  tears  glistened 
in  his  eyes. 

"I  will  not  torture  you  any  longer,"  continued  the  magistrate. 
"In   subtle   reasoning  I    confess  that   you   have   conquered   me. 


128 


MONSIEUR   LECOQ 


However,  when  I  return  to  the  charge  I  shall  have  proofs 
enough  in  my  possession  to  crush  you." 

He  reflected  for  a  moment,  then  lingering  over  each  word, 
he  added :  "Only  do  not  then  expect  from  me  the  consideration 
I  have  shown  you  to-day.  Justice  is  human ;  that  is,  she  is 
indulgent  toward  certain  crimes.  She  has  fathomed  the  depth 
of  the  abyss  into  which  blind  passion  may  hurl  even  an  honest 
man.  To-day  I  freely  offer  you  any  assistance  that  will  not 
conflict  with  my  duty.  Speak.  Shall  I  send  this  officer  of  police 
away?  Would  you  like  me  to  send  my  clerk  out  of  the  room, 
on  an  errand?"  He  said  no  more,  but  waited  to  see  the  effect 
of  this  last  effort. 

The  prisoner  darted  upon  him  one  of  those  searching  glances 
that  seem  to  pierce  an  adversary  through.  His  lips  moved;  one 
might  have  supposed  that  he  was  about  to  make  a  revelation. 
But  no;  suddenly  he  crossed  his  arms  over  his  chest,  and  mur- 
mured: "You  are  very  frank,  sir.  Unfortunately  for  me,  I'm 
only  a  poor  devil,  as  I've  already  told  you.  My  name  is  May, 
and  I  earn  my  living  by  speaking  to  the  public  and  turning  a 
compliment." 

"I  am  forced  to  yield  to  your  decision,"  said  the  magistrate 
sadly.  "The  clerk  will  now  read  the  minutes  of  your  examina- 
tion— listen." 

While  Goguet  read  the  evidence  aloud,  the  prisoner  listened 
without  making  any  remark,  but  when  asked  to  sign  the  docu- 
ment, he  obstinately  refused  to  do  so,  fearing,  he  said,  "some 
hidden  treachery." 

A  moment  afterward  the  soldiers  who  had  escorted  him  to 
the  magistrate's  room  conducted  him  back  to  the  Depot. 


VX^HEN  the  prisoner  had  gone,  M.  Segmuller  sank  back  in 
v  v  his  armchair,  literally  exhausted.  He  was  in  that  state 
of  nervous  prostration  which  so  often  follows  protracted  but 
fruitless  efforts.  He  had  scarcely  strength  enough  to  bathe  his 
burning  forehead  and  gleaming  eyes  with  cool,  refreshing  water. 


MONSIEUR   LECOQ  129 

This  frightful  examination  had  lasted  no  less  than  seven  con- 
secutive hours. 

The  smiling  clerk,  who  had  kept  his  place  at  his  desk  busily 
writing  the  whole  while,  now  rose  to  his  feet,  glad  of  an  oppor- 
tunity to  stretch  his  limbs  and  snap  his  fingers,  cramped  by  hold- 
ing the  pen.  Still,  he  was  not  in  the  least  degree  bored.  He 
invariably  took  a  semi-theatrical  interest  in  the  dramas  that 
were  daily  enacted  in  his  presence ;  his  excitement  being  all  the 
greater  owing  to  the  uncertainty  that  shrouded  the  finish  of 
the  final  act — a  finish  that  only  too  often  belied  the  ordinary 
rules  and  deductions  of  writers  for  the  stage. 

"What  a  knave !"  he  exclaimed  after  vainly  waiting  for  the 
magistrate  or  the  detective  to  express  an  opinion,  "what  a 
rascal !" 

M.  Segmuller  ordinarily  put  considerable  confidence  in  his 
clerk's  long  experience.  He  sometimes  even  went  so  far  as  to 
consult  him,  doubtless  somewhat  in  the  same  style  that  Moliere 
consulted  his  servant.  But,  on  this  occasion  he  did  not  accept 
his  opinion. 

"No,"  said  he  in  a  thoughtful  tone,  "that  man  is  not  a  knave. 
When  I  spoke  to  him  kindly  he  was  really  touched;  he  wept, 
he  hesitated.  I  could  have  sworn  that  he  was  about  to  tell  me 
everything." 

"Ah,  he's  a  man  of  wonderful  power!"  observed  Lecoq. 

The  detective  was  sincere  in  his  praise.  Although  the  pris- 
oner had  disappointed  his  plans,  and  had  even  insulted  him,  he 
could  not  help  admiring  his  shrewdness  and  courage.  He — 
Lecoq — had  prepared  himself  for  a  strenuous  struggle  with  this 
man,  and  he  hoped  to  conquer  in  the  end.  Nevertheless  in  his 
secret  soul  he  felt  for  his  adversary,  admiring  that  sympathy 
which  a  "foeman  worthy  of  one's  steel"  always  inspires. 

"What  coolness,  what  courage !"  continued  the  young  detec- 
tive. "Ah !  there's  no  denying  it,  his  system  of  defense — of 
absolute  denial — is  a  masterpiece.  It  is  perfect.  How  well  he 
played  that  difficult  part  of  buffoon !  At  times  I  could  scarcely 
restrain  my  admiration.  What  is  a  famous  comedian  beside  that 
fellow?  The  greatest  actors  need  the  adjunct  of  stage  scenery 
to  support  the  illusion,  whereas  this  man,  entirely  unaided, 
almost  convinced  me  even  against  my  reason." 

"Do  you  know  what  your  very  appropriate  criticism  proves?" 
inquired  the  magistrate. 

"I  am  listening,  sir." 


130  MONSIEUR   LECOQ 

"Ah,  well !  I  have  arrived  at  this  conclusion — either  this 
man  is  really  May,  the  stroller,  earning  his  living  by  paying 
compliments,  as  he  says — or  else  he  belongs  to  the  highest  rank 
of  society,  and  not  to  the  middle  classes.  It  is  only  in  the  lowest 
or  in  the  highest  ranks  that  you  encounter  such  grim  energy 
as  he  has  displayed,  such  scorn  of  life,  as  well  as  such  remark- 
able presence  of  mind  and  resolution.  A  vulgar  tradesman 
attracted  to  the  Poivriere  by  some  shameful  passion  would  have 
confessed  it  long  ago." 

"But,  sir,  this  man  is  surely  not  the  buffoon,  May,"  replied 
the  young  detective. 

"No,  certainly  not,"  responded  M.  Segmuller ;  "we  must, 
therefore,  decide  upon  some  plan  of  action."  He  smiled  kindly, 
and  added,  in  a  friendly  voice :  "It  was  unnecessary  to  tell  you 
that,  Monsieur  Lecoq.  Quite  unnecessary,  since  to  you  belongs 
the  honor  of  having  detected  this  fraud.  As  for  myself,  I  con- 
fess, that  if  I  had  not  been  warned  in  advance,  I  should  have 
been  the  dupe  of  this  clever  artist's  talent." 

The  young  detective  bowed;  a  blush  of  modesty  tinged  his 
cheeks,  but  a  gleam  of  pleased  vanity  sparkled  in  his  eyes. 
What  a  difference  between  this  friendly,  benevolent  magistrate 
and  M.  d'Escorval,  so  taciturn  and  haughty.  This  man,  at 
least,  understood,  appreciated,  and  encouraged  him ;  and  it  was 
with  a  common  theory  and  an  equal  ardor  that  they  were  about 
to  devote  themselves  to  a  search  for  the  truth.  Scarcely  had 
Lecoq  allowed  these  thoughts  to  flit  across  his  mind  than  he 
reflected  that  his  satisfaction  was,  after  all,  a  trifle  premature, 
and  that  success  was  still  extremely  doubtful.  With  this  chill- 
ing conclusion,  presence  of  mind  returned.  Turning  toward 
the  magistrate,  he  exclaimed:  "You  will  recollect,  sir,  that  the 
Widow  Chupin  mentioned  a  son  of  hers,  a  certain  Polyte — " 

"Yes." 

"Why  not  question  him?  He  must  know  all  the  frequenters 
of  the  Poivriere,  and  might  perhaps  give  us  valuable  informa- 
tion regarding  Gustave,  Lacheneur,  and  the  murderer  himself. 
As  he  is  not  in  solitary  confinement,  he  has  probably  heard  of 
his  mother's  arrest ;  but  it  seems  to  me  impossible  that  he  should 
suspect  our  present  perplexity." 

"Ah !  you  are  a  hundred  times  right !"  exclaimed  the  magis- 
trate. I  ought  to  have  thought  of  that  myself.  In  his  position 
he  can  scarcely  have  been  tampered  with  as  yet,  and  I'll  have 
him  up  here  to-morrow  morning;  I  will  also  question  his  wife." 


MONSIEUR   LECOQ  131 

Turning  to  his  clerk,  M.  Segmuller  added:  "Quick,  Goguet, 
prepare  a  summons  in  the  name  of  the  wife  of  Hippolyte  Chupin, 
and  address  an  order  to  the  governor  of  the  Depot  to  produce 
her  husband !" 

But  night  was  coming  on.  It  was  already  too  dark  to  see  to 
write,  and  accordingly  the  clerk  rang  the  bell  for  lights.  Just 
as  the  messenger  who  brought  the  lamps  turned  to  leave  the 
room,  a  rap  was  heard  at  the  door.  Immediately  afterward 
the  governor  of  the  Depot  entered. 

During  the  past  twenty-four  hours  this  worthy  functionary 
had  been  greatly  perplexed  concerning  the  mysterious  prisoner 
he  had  placed  in  secret  cell  No.  3,  and  he  now  came  to  the  mag- 
istrate for  advice  regarding  him.  "I  come  to  ask,"  said  he,  "if  I 
am  still  to  retain  the  prisoner  May  in  solitary  confinement?" 

"Yes." 

"Although  I  fear  fresh  attacks  of  frenzy,  I  dislike  to  confine 
him  in  the  strait-jacket  again." 

"Leave  him  free  in  his  cell,"  replied  M.  Segmuller ;  "and  tell 
the  keepers  to  watch  him  well,  but  to  treat  him  kindly." 

By  the  provisions  of  Article  613  of  the  Code,  accused  parties 
are  placed  in  the  custody  of  the  government,  but  the  investi- 
gating magistrate  is  allowed  to  adopt  such  measures  concern- 
ing them  as  he  may  deem  necessary  for  the  interest  of  the 
prosecution. 

The  governor  bowed  assent  to  M.  Segmuller's  instructions, 
and  then  added:  "You  have  doubtless  succeeded  in  establishing 
the  prisoner's  identity." 

"Unfortunately,  I  have  not." 

The  governor  shook  his  head  with  a  knowing  air.  "In  that 
case,"  said  he,  "my  conjectures  were  correct.  It  seems  to  me 
evident  that  this  man  is  a  criminal  of  the  worst  description — 
an  old  offender  certainly,  and  one  who  has  the  strongest  inter- 
est in  concealing  his  identity.  You  will  find  that  you  have  to 
deal  with  a  man  who  has  been  sentenced  to  the  galleys  for  life, 
and  who  has  managed  to  escape  from  Cayenne." 

"Perhaps  you  are  mistaken." 

"Hum !  I  shall  be  greatly  surprised  if  such  should  prove  the 
case.  I  must  admit  that  my  opinion  in  this  matter  is  identical 
with  that  of  M.  Gevrol,  the  most  experienced  and  the  most  skil- 
ful of  our  inspectors.  I  agree  with  him  in  thinking  that  young 
detectives  are  often  overzealous,  and  run  after  fantoms  orig- 
inated in  their  own  brains." 


132 


MONSIEUR   LECOQ 


Lecoq,  crimson  with  wrath,  was  about  to  make  an  angry  re- 
sponse when  M.  Segmuller  motioned  to  him  to  remain  silent. 
Then  with  a  smile  on  his  face  the  magistrate  replied  to  the 
governor.  "Upon  my  word,  my  dear  friend,"  he  said,  "the  more 
I  study  this  affair,  the  more  convinced  I  am  of  the  correctness 
of  the  theory  advanced  by  the  'overzealous'  detective.  But, 
after  all,  I  am  not  infallible,  and  I  shall  depend  upon  your 
counsel  and  assistance." 

"Oh  !  I  have  means  of  verifying  my  assertion,"  interrupted  the 
governor ;  "and  I  hope  before  the  end  of  the  next  twenty-four 
hours  that  our  man  will  have  been  identified,  either  by  the  police 
or  by  one  of  his  fellow-prisoners." 

With  these  words  he  took  his  leave.  Scarcely  had  he  done 
so  than  Lecoq  sprang  to  his  feet.  The  young  detective  was 
furious.  "You  see  that  Gevrol  already  speaks  ill  of  me;  he 
is  jealous." 

"Ah,  well!  what  does  that  matter  to  you?  If  you  succeed, 
you  will  have  your  revenge.  If  you  are  mistaken — then  I  am 
mistaken,  too." 

Then,  as  it  was  already  late,  M.  Segmuller  confided  to  Lecoq's 
keeping  the  various  articles  the  latter  had  accumulated  in  sup- 
port of  his  theory.  He  also  placed  in  his  hands  the  diamond 
earring,  the  owner  of  which  must  be  discovered ;  and  the  letter 
signed  "Lacheneur,"  which  had  been  found  in  the  pocket  of 
the  spurious  soldier.  Having  given  him  full  instructions,  he 
asked  him  to  make  his  appearance  promptly  on  the  morrow, 
and  then  dismissed  him,  saying:  "Now  go;  and  may  good  luck 
attend  you !" 


TONG,  narrow,  and  low  of  ceiling,  having  on  the  one  side  a 
*~-*  row  of  windows  looking  on  to  a  small  courtyard,  and  on  the 
other  a  range  of  doors,  each  with  a  number  on  its  central  panel, 
thus  reminding  one  of  some  corridor  in  a  second-rate  hotel,  such 
is  the  Galerie  d'Instruction  at  the  Palais  de  Justice  whereby 
admittance  is  gained  into  the  various  rooms  occupied  by  th« 


MONSIEUR   LECOQ  133 

investigating  magistrates.  Even  in  the  daytime,  when  it  is 
thronged  with  prisoners,  witnesses,  and  guards,  it  is  a  sad  and 
gloomy  place.  But  it  is  absolutely  sinister  of  aspect  at  night- 
time, when  deserted,  and  only  dimly  lighted  by  the  smoky  lamp 
of  a  solitary  attendant,  waiting  for  the  departure  of  some  magis- 
trate whom  business  has  detained  later  than  usual. 

Although  Lecoq  was  not  sensitive  to  such  influences,  he  made 
haste  to  reach  the  staircase  and  thus  escape  the  echo  of  his 
footsteps,  which  sounded  most  drearily  in  the  silence  and  dark- 
ness pervading  the  gallery. 

Finding  an  open  window  on  the  floor  below,  he  looked  out 
to  ascertain  the  state  of  the  weather.  The  temperature  was 
much  milder;  the  snow  had  altogether  disappeared,  and  the 
pavement  was  almost  dry.  A  slight  haze,  illumined  by  the 
ruddy  glare  of  the  street  lamps,  hung  like  a  purple  mantle  over 
the  city.  The  streets  below  were  full  of  animation;  vehicles 
were  rolling  rapidly  to  and  fro,  and  the  footways  were  too 
narrow  for  the  bustling  crowd,  which,  now  that  the  labors  of 
the  day  were  ended,  was  hastening  homeward  or  in  search  of 
pleasure. 

The  sight  drew  a  sigh  from  the  young  detective.  "And  it 
is  in  this  great  city,"  he  murmured,  "in  the  midst  of  this  world 
of  people  that  I  must  discover  the  traces  of  a  person  I  don't 
even  know  !    Is  it  possible  to  accomplish  such  a  feat  ?" 

The  feeling  of  despondency  that  had  momentarily  surprised 
him  was  not,  however,  of  long  duration.  "Yes,  it  is  possible," 
cried  an  inward  voice.  "Besides,  it  must  be  done ;  your  future 
depends  upon  it.  Where  there's  a  will,  there's  a  way."  Ten 
seconds  later  he  was  in  the  street,  more  than  ever  inflamed 
with  hope  and  courage. 

Unfortunately,  however,  man  can  only  place  organs  of  limited 
power  at  the  disposal  of  his  boundless  desires ;  and  Lecoq  had 
not  taken  twenty  steps  along  the  streets  before  he  became  aware 
that  if  the  spirit  was  willing,  the  flesh  was  weak.  His  limbs 
trembled,  and  his  head  whirled.  Nature  was  asserting  her 
rights;  during  the  last  forty-eight  hours,  the  young  detective 
had  taken  scarcely  a  moment's  rest,  and  he  had,  moreover,  now 
passed  an  entire  day  without  food. 

"Am  I  going  to  be  ill?"  he  thought,  sinking  on  to  a  bench. 
And  he  groaned  inwardly  on  recapitulating  all  that  he  wished 
to  do  that  evening. 

If  he  dealt  only  with  the  more  important  matters,  must  he 


134  MONSIEUR   LECOQ 

not  at  once  ascertain  the  result  of  Father  Absinthe's  search 
after  the  man  who  had  recognized  one  of  the  victims  at  the 
Morgue ;  test  the  prisoner's  assertions  regarding  the  box  of 
clothes  left  at  one  of  the  hotels  surrounding  the  Northern 
Railway  Station;  and  last,  but  not  the  least,  must  he  not  pro- 
cure the  address  of  Polyte  Chupin's  wife,  in  order  to  serve  her 
with  the  summons  to  appear  before  M.  Segmuller? 

Under  the  power  of  urgent  necessity,  he  succeeded  in  tri- 
umphing over  his  attack  of  weakness,  and  rose,  murmuring:  "I 
will  go  first  to  the  Prefecture  and  to  the  Morgue ;  then  I  will 
see." 

But  he  did  not  find  Father  Absinthe  at  the  Prefecture, 
and  no  one  could  give  any  tidings  of  him.  He  had  not  been 
there  at  all  during  the  day.  Nor  could  any  one  indicate, 
even  vaguely,  the  abode  of  the  Widow  Chupin's  daughter- 
in-law. 

On  the  other  hand,  however,  Lecoq  met  a  number  of  his  col- 
leagues, who  laughed  and  jeered  at  him  unmercifully.  "Ah  ! 
you  are  a  shrewd  fellow !"  they  said,  "it  seems  that  you  have 
just  made  a  wonderful  discovery,  and  it's  said  you  are  going 
to  be  decorated  with  the  Legion  of  Honor." 

Gevrol's  influence  betrayed  itself  everywhere.  The  jealous 
inspector  had  taken  pains  to  inform  all  his  colleagues  and  sub- 
ordinates that  poor  Lecoq,  crazed  by  ambition,  persisted  in 
declaring  that  a  low,  vulgar  murderer  trying  to  escape  justice 
was  some  great  personage  in  disguise.  However,  the  jeers  and 
taunts  of  which  Lecoq  was  the  object  had  but  little  effect  upon 
him,  and  he  consoled  himself  with  the  reflection  that,  "He 
laughs  best  who  laughs  last." 

If  he  were  restless  and  anxious  as  he  walked  along  the  Quai 
des  Orfevres,  it  was  because  he  could  not  explain  Father  Ab- 
sinthe's prolonged  absence,  and  because  he  feared  that  Gevrol, 
mad  with  jealousy,  might  attempt,  in  some  underhand  way,  to 
frustrate  his,  Lecoq's,  efforts  to  arrive  at  a  solution  of  the 
mystery. 

At  the  Morgue  the  young  detective  met  with  no  better  suc- 
cess than  at  the  Prefecture.  After  ringing  three  or  four  times, 
one  of  the  keepers  opened  the  door  and  informed  him  that  the 
bodies  had  not  been  identified,  and  that  the  old  police  agent  had 
not  been  seen  since  he  went  away  early  in  the  morning. 

"This  is  a  bad  beginning,"  thought  Lecoq.  "I  will  go  and 
get  some  dinner — that,  perhaps,  will  change  the  luck;  at  all 


MONSIEUR    LECOQ  135 

events,  I  have  certainly  earned  the  bottle  of  good  wine  to  which 
I  intend  to  treat  myself." 

It  was  a  happy  thought.  A  hearty  meal  washed  down  with 
a  couple  of  glasses  of  Bordeaux  sent  new  courage  and  energy 
coursing  through  his  veins.  If  he  still  felt  a  trifle  weary,  the 
sensation  of  fatigue  was  at  all  events  greatly  diminished  when 
he  left  the  restaurant  with  a  cigar  between  his  lips. 

Just  at  that  moment  he  longed  for  Father  Papillon's  trap 
and  sturdy  steed.  Fortunately,  a  cab  was  passing:  he  hired  it, 
and  as  eight  o'clock  was  striking,  alighted  at  the  corner  of  the 
square  in  front  of  the  Northern  Railway  Station.  After  a  brief 
glance  round,  he  began  his  search  for  the  hotel  where  the  mur- 
derer pretended  to  have  left  a  box  of  clothes. 

It  must  be  understood  that  he  did  not  present  himself  in  his 
official  capacity.  Hotel  proprietors  fight  shy  of  detectives,  and 
Lecoq  was  aware  that  if  he  proclaimed  his  calling  he  would 
probably  learn  nothing  at  all.  By  brushing  back  his  hair  and 
turning  up  his  coat  collar,  he  made,  however,  a  very  consid- 
erable alteration  in  his  appearance ;  and  it  was  with  a  marked 
English  accent  that  he  asked  the  landlords  and  servants  of 
various  hostelries  surrounding  the  station  for  information  con- 
cerning a  "foreign  workman  named  May." 

He  conducted  his  search  with  considerable  address,  but  every- 
where he  received  the  same  reply. 

"We  don't  know  such  a  person ;  we  haven't  seen  any  one 
answering  the  description  you  give  of  him." 

Any  other  answer  would  have  astonished  Lecoq,  so  strongly 
persuaded  was  he  that  the  prisoner  had  only  mentioned  the 
circumstances  of  a  trunk  left  at  one  of  these  hotels  in  order 
to  give  a  semblance  of  truth  to  his  narrative.  Nevertheless  he 
continued  his  investigation.  If  he  noted  down  in  his  memoran- 
dum book  the  names  of  all  the  hotels  which  he  visited,  it  was 
with  a  view  of  making  sure  of  the  prisoner's  discomfiture  when 
he  was  conducted  to  the  neighborhood  and  asked  to  prove  the 
truth  of  his  story. 

Eventually,  Lecoq  reached  the  Hotel  de  Mariembourg,  at  the 
corner  of  the  Rue  St.  Quentin.  The  house  was  of  modest  pro- 
portions; but  seemed  respectable  and  well  kept.  Lecoq  pushed 
open  the  glass  door  leading  into  the  vestibule,  and  entered  the 
office — a  neat,  brightly  lighted  room,  where  he  found  a  woman 
standing  upon  a  chair,  her  face  on  a  level  with  a  large  bird 
cage,  covered  with  a  piece  of  black  silk.     She  was  repeating 


136  MONSIEUR    LECOQ 

three  or  four  German  words  with  great  earnestness  to  the 
inmate  of  the  cage,  and  was  so  engrossed  in  this  occupation  that 
Lecoq  had  to  make  considerable  noise  before  he  could  attract 
her  attention. 

At  length  she  turned  her  head,  and  the  young  detective  ex- 
claimed :  "Ah !  good  evening,  madame ;  you  are  much  interested, 
I  see,  in  teaching  your  parrot  to  talk." 

"It  isn't  a  parrot,"  replied  the  woman,  who  had  not  yet  de- 
scended from  her  perch ;  "but  a  starling,  and  I  am  trying  to 
teach  it  to  say  'Have  you  breakfasted  ?'  in  German." 

"What !  can  starlings  talk  ?" 

"Yes,  sir,  as  well  as  you  or  I,"  rejoined  the  woman,  jumping 
down  from  the  chair. 

Just  then  the  bird,  as  if  it  had  understood  the  question,  cried 
very  distinctly:  "Camille !     Where  is  Camille?" 

But  Lecoq  was  too  preoccupied  to  pay  any  further  attention 
to  the  incident.  "Madame,"  he  began,  "I  wish  to  speak  to  the 
proprietor  of  this  hotel." 

"I  am  the  proprietor." 

"Oh !  very  well.  I  was  expecting  a  mechanic — from  Leipsic 
— to  meet  me  here  in  Paris.  To  my  great  surprise,  he  has  not 
made  his  appearance ;  and  I  came  to  inquire  if  he  was  stopping 
here.     His  name  is  May." 

"May  !"  repeated  the  hostess,  thoughtfully.     "May  !" 

"He  ought  to  have  arrived  last  Sunday  evening." 

The  woman's  face  brightened.  "Wait  a  moment,"  said  she. 
"Was  this  friend  of  yours  a  middle-aged  man,  of  medium  size, 
of  very  dark  complexion — wearing  a  full  beard,  and  having 
very  bright  eyes?" 

Lecoq  could  scarcely  conceal  his  agitation.  This  was  an  ex- 
act description  of  the  supposed  murderer.  "Yes,"  he  stammered, 
"that  is  a  very  good  portrait  of  the  man." 

"Ah,  well !  he  came  here  on  Shrove  Sunday,  in  the  afternoon. 
He  asked  for  a  cheap  room,  and  I  showed  him  one  on  the  fifth 
floor.  The  office-boy  was  not  here  at  the  time,  and  he  insisted 
upon  taking  his  trunk  upstairs  himself.  I  offered  him  some 
refreshments ;  but  he  declined  to  take  anything,  saying  that  he 
was  in  a  great  hurry ;  and  he  went  away  after  giving  me  ten 
francs  as  security  for  the  rent." 

"Where  is  he  now?"  inquired  the  young  detective. 

"Dear  me  !  that  reminds  me,"  replied  the  woman.  "He  has 
never   returned,   and   I   have  been   rather   anxious   about   him. 


MONSIEUR   LECOQ  137 

Paris  is  such  a  dangerous  place  for  strangers !  It  is  true  he 
spoke  French  as  well  as  you  or  I ;  but  what  of  that  ?  Yesterday 
evening  I  gave  orders  that  the  commissary  of  police  should  be 
informed  of  the  matter." 

"Yesterday — the  commissary  ?" 

"Yes.  Still,  I  don't  know  whether  the  toy  obeyed  me.  I  had 
forgotten  all  about  it.  Allow  me  to  ring  for  the  boy,  and  ask 
him." 

A  bucket  of  iced  water  falling  upon  Lecoq's  head  could  not 
have  astonished  him  more  than  did  this  announcement  from  the 
proprietress  of  the  Hotel  de  Mariembourg.  Had  the  prisoner 
indeed  told  the  truth  ?  Was  it  possible  ?  Gevrol  and  the 
governor  of  the  prison  were  right,  then,  and  M.  Segmuller 
and  he,  Lecoq,  were  senseless  fools,  pursuing  a  fantom.  These 
ideas  flashed  rapidly  through  the  young  detective's  brain.  But 
he  had  no  time  for  reflection.  The  boy  who  had  been  sum- 
moned now  made  his  appearance,  and  proved  to  be  a  big  over- 
grown lad  with  frank,  chubby  face. 

"Fritz,"  asked  his  mistress,  "did  you  go  to  the  commissary's 
office?" 

"Yes,  madame." 
"What  did  he  say?" 

"He  was  not  in ;  but  I  spoke  to  his  secretary,  M.  Casimir, 
who  said  you  were  not  to  worry  yourself,  as  the  man  would  no 
doubt  return." 

"But  he  has  not  returned." 

The  boy  rejoined,  with  a  movement  of  the  shoulders  that 
plainly  implied:  "How  can  I  help  that?" 

"You  hear,  sir,"  said  the  hostess,  apparently  thinking  the 
importunate  questioner  would  now  withdraw. 

Such,  however,  was  not  Lecoq's  intention,  and  he  did  not 
even  move,  though  he  had  need  of  all  his  self-possession  to 
retain  his  English  accent.  "This  is  very  annoying,"  said  he, 
"very !  I  am  even  more  anxious  and  undecided  than  I  was 
before,  since  I  am  not  certain  that  this  is  the  man  I  am  seek- 
ing for." 

"Unfortunately,  sir,  I  can  tell  you  nothing  more,"  calmly  re- 
plied the  landlady. 

Lecoq  reflected  for  a  moment,  knitting  his  brows  and  biting 
his  lips,  as  if  he  were  trying  to  discover  some  means  of  solving 
the  mystery.  In  point  of  fact,  he  was  seeking  for  some  adroit 
phrase  which  might  lead  this  woman  to  show  him  the  register 


138  MONSIEUR    LECOQ 

in  which  all  travelers  are  compelled  to  inscribe  their  full  names, 
profession,  and  usual  residence.  At  the  same  time,  however, 
it  was  necessary  that  he  should  not  arouse  her  suspicions. 

"But,  madame,"  said  he  at  last,  "can't  you  remember  the 
name  this  man  gave  you?  Was  it  May?  Try  to  recollect  if 
that  was  the  name — May — May  !" 

"Ah  !  I  have  so  many  things  to  remember.  But  now  I  think 
of  it,  and  the  name  must  be  entered  in  my  book,  which,  if  it 
would  oblige  you,  I  can  show  you.  It  is  in  the  drawer  of  my 
writing-table.     Whatever  can  I  have  done  with  my  keys?" 

And  while  the  hostess,  who  seemed  to  possess  about  as  much 
intelligence  as  her  starling,  was  turning  the  whole  office  upside 
down  looking  for  her  keys,  Lecoq  scrutinized  her  closely.  She 
was  about  forty  years  of  age,  with  an  abundance  of  light  hair, 
and  a  very  fair  complexion.  She  was  well  preserved — that  is 
to  say,  she  was  plump  and  healthy  in  appearance;  her  glance 
was  frank  and  unembarrassed ;  her  voice  was  clear  and  musi- 
cal, and  her  manners  were  pleasing,  and  entirely  free  from 
affectation. 

"Ah  !"  she  eventually  exclaimed,  "I  have  found  those  wretched 
keys  at  last."  So  saying,  she  opened  her  desk,  took  out  the 
register,  laid  it  on  the  table,  and  began  turning  over  the  leaves. 
At  last  she  found  the  desired  page. 

"Sunday,  February  20th,"  said  she.  "Look,  sir:  here  on  the 
seventh  line — May — no  Christian  name — foreign  artist — coming 
from  Leipsic — without  papers." 

While  Lecoq  was  examining  this  record  with  a  dazed  air,  the 
woman  exclaimed:  "Ah!  now  I  can  explain  how  it  happened 
that  I  forgot  the  man's  name  and  strange  profession — 'foreign 
artist.'     I  did  not  make  the  entry  myself." 

"Who  made  it,  then?" 

"The  man  himself,  while  I  was  finding  ten  francs  to  give  him 
as  change  for  the  louis  he  handed  me.  You  can  see  that  the 
writing  is  not  at  all  like  that  of  other  entries." 

Lecoq  had  already  noted  this  circumstance,  which  seemed  to 
furnish  an  irrefutable  argument  in  favor  of  the  assertions  made 
by  the  landlady  and  the  prisoner.  "Are  you  sure,"  he  asked, 
"that  this  is  the  man's  handwriting?" 

In  his  anxiety  he  had  forgotten  his  English  accent.  The  woman 
noticed  this  at  once,  for  she  drew  back,  and  cast  a  suspicious 
glance  at  the  pretended  foreigner.  "I  know  what  I  am  say- 
ing," she  said,  indignantly.    "And  now  this  is  enough,  isn't  it?" 


MONSIEUR   LECOQ  139 

Knowing  that  he  had  betrayed  himself,  and  thoroughly 
ashamed  of  his  lack  of  coolness,  Lecoq  renounced  his  English 
accent  altogether.  "Excuse  me,"  he  said,  "if  I  ask  one  more 
question.     Have  you  this  man's  trunk  in  your  possession?" 

"Certainly." 

"You  would  do  me  an  immense  service  by  showing  it  to  me." 

"Show  it  to  you  !"  exclaimed  the  landlady,  angrily.  "What 
do  you  take  me  for?     What  do  you  want?  and  who  are  you?" 

"You  shall  know  in  half  an  hour,"  replied  the  young  detec- 
tive, realizing  that  further  persuasion  would  be  useless. 

He  hastily  left  the  room,  ran  to  the  Place  de  Roubaix,  jumped 
into  a  cab,  and  giving  the  driver  the  address  of  the  district 
commissary  of  police,  promised  him  a  hundred  sous  over  and 
above  the  regular  fare  if  he  would  only  make  haste.  As  might 
have  been  expected  under  such  circumstances,  the  poor  horse 
fairly  flew  over  the  ground. 

Lecoq  was  fortunate  enough  to  find  the  commissary  at  his 
office.  Having  given  his  name,  he  was  immediately  ushered 
into  the  magistrate's  presence  and  told  his  story  in  a  few  words. 

"It  is  really  true  that  they  came  to  inform  me  of  this  man's 
disappearance,"  said  the  commissary.  "Casimir  told  me  about 
it  this  morning." 

"They — came — to  inform — you — "  faltered  Lecoq. 

"Yes,  yesterday ;  but  I  have  had  so  much  to  occupy  my  time. 
Now,  my  man,  how  can  I  serve  you?" 

"Come  with  me,  sir ;  compel  them  to  show  us  the  trunk,  and 
send  for  a  locksmith  to  open  it.  Here  is  the  authority — a  search 
warrant  given  me  by  the  investigating  magistrate  to  use  in  case 
of  necessity.     Let  us  lose  no  time.     I  have  a  cab  at  the  door." 

"We  will  start  at  once,"  said  the  commissary. 

The  driver  whipped  up  his  horse  once  more,  and  they  were 
soon  rapidly  rolling  in  the  direction  of  the  Rue  St.  Quentin. 

"Now,  sir,"  said  the  young  detective,  "permit  me  to  ask  if 
you  know  this  woman  who  keeps  the  Hotel  de  Mariembourg?" 

"Yes,  indeed.  I  know  her  very  well.  When  I  was  first  ap- 
pointed to  this  district,  six  years  ago,  I  was  a  bachelor,  and  for 
a  long  while  I  took  my  meals  at  her  table  d'hote.  Casimir,  my 
secretary,  boards  there  even  now." 

"And  what  kind  of  woman  is  she  ?" 

"Why,  upon  my  word,  my  young  friend,  Madame  Milner — 
for  such  is  her  name — is  a  very  respectable  widow  (highly  es- 
teemed by  her  neighbors)   and  having  a  very  prosperous  busi- 


140 


MONSIEUR   LECOQ 


ness.  If  she  remains  a  widow,  it  is  only  from  choice,  for  she 
is  very  prepossessing  and  has  plenty  of  suitors." 

"Then  you  don't  think  her  capable  of  serving,  for  the  sake 
of  a  good  round  sum,  the  interests  of  some  wealthy  culprit?" 

"Have  you  gone  mad?"  interrupted  the  commissary.  "What, 
Madame  Milner  perjure  herself  for  the  sake  of  money !  Haven't 
I  just  told  you  that  she  is  an  honest  woman,  and  that  she  is 
very  well  off !  Besides,  she  informed  me  yesterday  that  this 
man  was  missing,  so — " 

Lecoq  made  no  reply ;  the  driver  was  pulling  up ;  they  had 
reached  their  destination. 

On  seeing  her  obstinate  questioner  reappear,  accompanied  by 
the  commissary,  Madame  Milner  seemed  to  vmderstand  every- 
thing. 

"Good  heavens !"  she  exclaimed,  "a  detective  !  I  might  have 
guessed  it  ?  Some  crime  has  been  committed ;  and  now  my 
hotel  has  lost  its  reputation  forever !" 

While  a  messenger  was  despatched  for  a  locksmith,  the  com- 
missary endeavored  to  reassure  and  console  her,  a  task  of  no 
little  difficulty,  and  which  he  was  some  time  in  accomplishing. 

At  last  they  all  went  up  to  the  missing  man's  room,  and 
Lecoq  sprang  toward  the  trunk.  Ah  !  there  was  no  denying  it. 
It  had,  indeed,  come  from  Leipsic ;  as  the  labels  pasted  upon 
it  by  the  different  railroad  companies  only  too  plainly  proved. 
On  being  opened,  it  was,  moreover,  found  to  contain  the  vari- 
ous articles  mentioned  by  the  prisoner. 

Lecoq  was  thunderstruck.  When  he  had  seen  the  commis- 
sary lock  the  trunk  and  its  contents  up  in  a  cupboard  and  take 
possession  of  the  key,  he  felt  he  could  endure  nothing  more. 
He  left  the  room  with  downcast  head ;  and  stumbled  like  a 
drunken  man  as  he  went  down  the  stairs. 


TUI ARDI  GRAS,  or  Shrove  Tuesday,  was  very  gay  that  year ■, 
*y*  that  is  to  say,  all  places  of  public  resort  were  crowded. 
When  Lecoq  left  the  Hotel  de  Mariembourg  about  midnight,  the 


MONSIEUR   LECOQ  HI 

streets  were  as  full  as  if  it  had  been  noonday,  and  the  cafes 
were  thronged  with  customers. 

But  the  young  detective  had  no  heart  for  pleasure.  He  min- 
gled with  the  crowd  without  seemingly  seeing  it,  and  jostled 
against  groups  of  people  chatting  at  the  corners,  without  hear- 
ing the  imprecations  occasioned  by  his  awkwardness.  Where 
was  he  going?  He  had  no  idea.  He  walked  aimlessly,  more 
disconsolate  and  desperate  than  the  gambler  who  had  staked 
his  last  hope  with  his  last  louis,  and  lost. 

"I  must  yield,"  he  murmured ;  "this  evidence  is  conclusive. 
My  presumptions  were  only  chimeras ;  my  deductions  the  play- 
things of  chance !  All  I  can  now  do  is  to  withdraw,  with  the 
least  possible  damage  and  ridicule,  from  the  false  position  I 
have  assumed." 

Just  as  he  reached  the  boulevard,  however,  a  new  idea  en- 
tered his  brain,  an  idea  of  so  startling  a  kind  that  he  could 
scarcely  restrain  a  loud  exclamation  of  surprise.  "What  a  fool 
I  am !"  cried  he,  striking  his  hand  violently  against  his  fore- 
head. "Is  it  possible  to  be  so  strong  in  theory,  and  yet  so 
ridiculously  weak  in  practise?  Ah!  I  am  only  a  child,  a  mere 
novice,  disheartened  by  the  slightest  obstacle.  I  meet  with  a 
difficulty,  and  at  once  I  lose  all  my  courage.  Now,  let  me 
reflect  calmly.  What  did  I  tell  the  judge  about  this  murderer, 
whose  plan  of  defense  so  puzzles  us?  Did  I  not  tell  him  that 
we  had  to  deal  with  a  man  of  superior  talent — with  a  man  of 
consummate  penetration  and  experience — a  bold,  courageous 
fellow  of  imperturbable  coolness,  who  will  do  anything  to 
insure  the  success  of  his  plans?  Yes;  I  told  him  all  that,  and 
yet  I  give  up  the  game  in  despair  as  soon  as  I  meet  with  a 
single  circumstance  that  I  can  not  instantly  explain.  It  is 
evident  that  such  a  prisoner  would  not  resort  to  old.  hackneyed, 
commonplace  expedients.  Time,  patience,  and  research  are 
requisite  to  find  a  flaw  in  his  defense.  With  such  a  man  as 
he  is,  the  more  appearances  are  against  my  presumptions,  and 
in  favor  of  his  narrative,  the  more  certain  it  is  that  I  am  right 
— or  else  logic  is  no  longer  logic." 

At  this  thought,  Lecoq  burst  into  a  hearty  laugh.  "Still." 
continued  he,  "it  would  perhaps  be  premature  to  expose  this 
theory  at  headquarters  in  Gevrol's  presence.  He  would  at  once 
present  me  with  a  crtificate  for  admission  into  some  lunatic 
asylum." 

The  young  detective  paused.     While   absorbed  in   thought, 


142  MONSIEUR   LECOQ 

his  legs,  obeying  an  instinctive  impulse,  had  brought  him  to 
his  lodgings.  He  rang  the  bell;  the  door  opened,  and  he 
groped  his  way  slowly  up  to  the  fourth  floor.  He  had  reached 
his  room,  and  was  about  to  enter,  when  some  one,  whom  he 
could  not  distinguish  in  the  dark,  called  out:  "Is  that  you, 
Monsieur   Lecoq  ?" . 

"Yes,  it's  I!"  replied  the  young  man,  somewhat  surprised; 
"but  who  are  you?" 

"I'm  Father  Absinthe." 

"Oh  !  indeed  !  Well,  you  are  welcome  !  I  didn't  recognize 
your  voice — will  you  come  in  ?" 

They  entered  the  room,  and  Lecoq  lit  a  candle.  Then  the 
young  man  could  see  his  colleague,  and,  good  heavens !  he 
found  him  in  a  most  pitiable  condition. 

He  was  as  dirty  and  as  bespattered  with  mud  as  a  lost 
dog  that  has  been  wandering  about  in  the  rain  and  the  mire 
for  a  week  at  the  very  least.  His  overcoat  bore  the  traces  of 
frequent  contact  with  damp  walls;  his  hat  had  lost  its  form 
entirely.  His  eyes  wore  an  anxious  look,  and  his  mustache 
drooped  despondently.  He  spoke,  moreover,  so  strangely  that 
one  might  have  supposed  his  mouth  was  full  of  sand. 

"Do  you  bring  me  bad  news?"  inquired  Lecoq,  after  a  short 
examination  of  his  companion. 

"Yes,  bad." 

"The  people  you  were  following  escaped  you,  then?" 

The  old  man  nodded  his  head  affirmatively. 

"It  is  unfortunate — very  unfortunate  !"  said  Lecoq.  "But  it 
is  useless  to  distress  ourselves  about  it.  Don't  be  so  cast  down, 
Father  Absinthe.  To-morrow,  between  us,  we  will  repair  the 
damage." 

This  friendly  encouragement  only  increased  the  old  man's 
evident  embarrassment.  He  blushed,  this  veteran,  as  if  he  had 
been  a  schoolgirl,  and  raising  his  hands  toward  heaven,  he 
exclaimed:  "Ah,  you  wretch!  didn't  I  tell  you  so?" 

"Why!  what  is  the  matter  with  you?"  inquired  Lecoq. 

Father  Absinthe  made  no  reply.  Approaching  a  looking- 
glass  that  hung  against  the  wall,  he  surveyed  himself  reproach- 
fully and  began  to  heap  cruel  insults  upon  the  reflection  of  his 
features. 

"You  old  good-for-nothing!"  he  exclaimed.  "You  vile  de- 
serter! have  you  no  shame  left?  You  were  entrusted  with  a 
mission,  were  you  not?    And  how  have  you  fulfilled  it?     You 


MONSIEUR   LECOQ  143 

have  got  drunk,  you  old  wretch,  so  drunk  as  to  have  lost  your 
wits.  Ah,  you  shan't  escape  punishment  this  time,  for  even  if 
M.  Lecoq  is  indulgent,  you  shan't  taste  another  drop  for  a  week. 
Yes,  you  old  sot,  you  shall  suffer  for  this  escapade." 

"Come,  come,"  said  Lecoq,  "you  can  sermonize  by  and  by. 
Now  tell  me  your  story." 

"Ah !  I  am  not  proud  of  it,  believe  me.  However,  never 
mind.  No  doubt  you  received  the  letter  in  which  I  told  you  I 
was  going  to  follow  the  young  men  who  seemed  to  recognize 
Gustave  ?" 

"Yes,  yes — go  on !" 

"Well,  as  soon  as  they  entered  the  cafe,  into  which  I  had 
followed  them,  they  began  drinking,  probably  to  drive  away 
their  emotion.  After  that  they  apparently  felt  hungry.  At  all 
events  they  ordered  breakfast.  I  followed  their  example.  The 
mail,  with  coffee  and  beer  afterward,  took  up  no  little  time, 
and  indeed  a  couple  of  hours  had  elapsed  before  they  were 
ready  to  pay  their  bill  and  go.  Good  !  I  supposed  they  would 
now  return  home.  Not  at  all.  They  walked  down  the  Rue 
Dauphin ;  and  I  saw  them  enter  another  cafe.  Five  minutes 
later  I  glided  in  after  them;  and  found  them  already  engaged 
in  a  game  of  billiards." 

At  this  point  Father  Absinthe  hesitated;  it  is  no  easy  task  to 
recount  one's  blunders  to  the  very  person  who  has  suffered  by 
them. 

"I  seated  myself  at  a  little  table,"  he  eventually  resumed, 
"and  asked  for  a  newspaper.  I  was  reading  with  one  eye  and 
watching  with  the  other,  when  a  respectable-looking  man  en- 
tered, and  took  a  seat  beside  me.  As  soon  as  he  had  seated 
himself  he  asked  me  to  let  him  have  the  paper  when  I  had 
finished  with  it.  I  handed  it  to  him,  and  then  we  began  talking 
about  the  weather.  At  last  he  proposed  a  game  of  bezique.  I 
declined,  but  we  afterward  compromised  the  matter  by  having 
a  game  of  piquet.  The  young  men,  you  understand,  were  still 
knocking  the  balls  about.  We  began  by  playing  for  a  glass  of 
brandy  each.  I  won.  My  adversary  asked  for  his  revenge,  and 
we  played  two  games  more.  I  still  kept  on  winning.  He  in- 
sisted upon  another  game,  and  again  I  won,  and  still  I  drank — 
and  drank  again — " 

"Go  on,  go  on." 

"Ah !  here's  the  rub.  After  that  I  remember  nothing — noth- 
ing either  about  the  man  I  had  been  playing  with  or  the  young 


144  MONSIEUR   LECOQ 

men.  It  seems  to  me,  however,  that  I  recollect  falling  asleep 
in  the  cafe,  and  that  a  long  while  afterward  a  waiter  came  and 
woke  me  and  told  me  to  go.  Then  I  must  have  wandered  about 
along  the  quays  until  I  came  to  my  senses,  and  decided  to  go 
to  your  lodgings  and  wait  on  the  stairs  until  you  returned." 

To  Father  Absinthe's  great  surprise,  Lecoq  seemed  rather 
thoughtful  than  angry.  "What  do  you  think  about  this  chance 
acquaintance  of  yours,  papa?"  asked  the  young  detective. 

"I  think  he  was  following  me  while  I  was  following  the 
others,  and  that  he  entered  the  cafe  with  the  view  of  making 
me  drunk." 

"What  was  he  like  ?" 

"Oh,  he  was  a  tall,  stoutish  man,  with  a  broad,  red  face,  and 
a  flat  nose;  and  he  was  very  unpretending  and  affable  in 
manner. 

"It  was  he !"  exclaimed  Lecoq. 
"He!    Who?" 

"Why,  the  accomplice — the  man  whose  footprints  we  discov- 
ered— the  pretended  drunkard — a  devil  incarnate,  who  will  get 
the  best  of  us  yet,  if  we  don't  keep  our  eyes  open.  Don't  you 
forget  him,  papa ;  and  if  you  ever  meet  him  again — " 

But  Father  Absinthe's  confession  was  not  ended.  Like  most 
devotees,  he  had  reserved  the  worst  sin  for  the  last. 

"But  that's  not  all,"  he  resumed;  "and  as  it's  best  to  make 
a  clean  breast  of  it,  I  will  tell  you  that  it  seems  to  me  this 
traitor  talked  about  the  affair  at  the  Poivriere,  and  that  I  told 
him  all  we  had  discovered,  and  all  we  intended  to  do." 

Lecoq  made  such  a  threatening  gesture  that  the  old  tippler 
drew  back  in  consternation.  "You  wretched  man!"  exclaimed 
the  young  detective,  "to  betray  our  plans  to  the  enemy!" 

But  his  calmness  soon  returned.  If  at  first  sight  the  evil 
seemed  to  be  beyond  remedy,  on  further  thought  it  had  a  good 
side  after  all.  It  sufficed  to  dispel  all  the  doubts  that  had  assailed 
Lecoq's  mind  after  his  visit  to  the  Hotel  de  Mariembourg. 

"However,"  quoth  our  hero,  "this  is  not  the  time  for  delib- 
eration. I  am  overcome  with  fatigue ;  take  a  mattress  from  the 
bed  for  yourself,  my  friend,  and  let  us  get  a  little  sleep." 

Lecoq  was  a  man  of  considerable  forethought.  Hence,  before 
going  to  bed  he  took  good  care  to  wind  up  his  alarm  so  that 
it  might  wake  him  at  six  o'clock.  "With  that  to  warn  us,"  he 
remarked  to  his  companion,  as  he  blew  out  the  candle,  "there 
need  be  no  fear  of  our  missing  the  coach." 


MONSIEUR   LECOQ  145 

He  had  not,  however,  made  allowance  for  his  own  extreme 
weariness  or  for  the  soporific  effect  of  the  alcoholic  fumes  with 
which  his  comrade's  breath  was  redolent.  When  six  o'clock 
struck  at  the  church  of  St.  Eustache,  the  young  detective's 
alarm  resounded  faithfully  enough,  with  a  loud  and  protracted 
whir.  Shrill  and  sonorous  as  was  the  sound,  it  failed,  however, 
to  break  the  heavy  sleep  of  the  two  detectives.  They  would 
indeed,  in  all  probability,  have  continued  slumbering  for  several 
hours  longer,  if  at  half-past  seven  a  sturdy  fist  had  not  begun 
to  rap  loudly  at  the  door.  With  one  bound  Lecoq  was  out  of 
bed,  amazed  at  seeing  the  bright  sunlight,  and  furious  at  the 
futility  of  his  precautions. 

"Come  in !"  he  cried  to  his  early  visitor.  He  had  no 
enemies  to  fear,  and  could,  without  danger,  sleep  with  his  door 
unlocked. 

In  response  to  his  call,  Father  Papillon's  shrewd  face  peered 
into  the  room. 

"Ah !  it  is  m\  worthy  coachman !"  exclaimed  Lecoq.  "Is 
there  anything  new?" 

"Excuse  me,  but  it's  the  old  affair  that  brings  me  here,"  re- 
plied our  eccentric  friend  the  cabman.  "You  know — the  thirty 
francs  those  wretched  women  paid  me.  Really,  I  shan't  sleep 
in  peace  till  you  have  worked  off  the  amount  by  using  my 
vehicle.  Our  drive  yesterday  lasted  two  hours  and  a  half, 
which,  according  to  the  regular  fare,  would  be  worth  a  hundred 
sous;  so  you  see  I've  still  more  than  twelve  hours  at  your 
disposal." 

"That  is  all  nonsense,  my  friend !" 

"Possibly,  but  I  am  responsible  for  it,  and  if  you  won't  use 
my  cab,  I've  sworn  to  spend  those  twelve  hours  waiting  out- 
side your  door.  So  now  make  up  your  mind."  He  gazed  at 
Lecoq  beseechingly,  and  it  was  evident  that  a  refusal  would 
wound  him  keenly. 

"Very  well,"  replied  Le«oq,  "I  will  take  you  for  the  morning, 
only  I  ought  to  warn  you  that  we  are  starting  on  a  long 
journey." 

"Oh,  Cocotte's  legs  may  be  relied  upon." 

"My  companion  and  myself  have  business  in  your  own  neigh- 
borhood. It  is  absolutely  necessary  for  us  to  find  the  Widow 
Chupin's  daughter-in-law ;  and  I  hope  we  shall  be  able  to  obtain 
her  address  from  the  police  commissary  of  the  district  where  the 
Poivriere  is  situated." 

7 — Vol.  i — Gab. 


146  MONSIEUR   LECOQ 

"Very  well,  we  will  go  wherever  you  wish;  I  am  at  your 
orders." 

A  few  moments  later  they  were  on  their  way. 

Papillon's  features  wore  an  air  of  self-satisfied  pride  as,  sit- 
ting erect  on  his  box,  he  cracked  his  whip,  and  encouraged  the 
nimble  Cocotte.  The  vehicle  could  not  have  got  over  the 
ground  more  rapidly  if  its  driver  had  been  promised  a  hundred 
sous'  gratuity. 

Father  Absinthe  alone  was  sad.  He  had  been  forgiven  by 
Lecoq,  but  he  could  not  forget  that  he,  an  old  police  agent,  had 
been  duped  as  easily  as  if  he  had  been  some  ignorant  provincial. 
The  thought  was  humiliating,  and  then  in  addition  he  had  been 
fool  enough  to  reveal  the  secret  plans  of  the  prosecution !  He 
knew  but  too  well  that  this  act  of  folly  had  doubled  the  diffi- 
culties of  Lecoq's  task. 

The  long  drive  in  Father  Papillon's  cab  was  not  a  fruitless 
one.  The  secretary  of  the  commissary  of  police  for  the  thir- 
teenth arrondissement  informed  Lecoq  that  Polyte  Chupin's  wife 
lived  with  her  child,  in  the  suburbs,  in  the  Rue  de  la  Butte- 
aux-Cailles.  He  could  not  indicate  the  precise  number,  but 
he  described  the  house  and  gave  them  some  information  con- 
cerning its  occupants. 

The  Widow  Chupin's  daughter-in-law,  a  native  of  Auvergne, 
had  been  bitterly  punished  for  preferring  a  rakish  Parisian 
ragamuffin  to  one  of  the  grimy  charcoal-burners  of  the  Puy  de 
Dome.  She  was  hardly  more  than  twelve  years  of  age  when 
she  first  came  to  Paris  and  obtained  employment  in  a  large 
factory.  After  ten  years'  privation  and  constant  toil,  she  had 
managed  to  amass,  sou  by  sou,  the  sum  of  three  thousand  francs. 
Then  her  evil  genius  threw  Polyte  Chupin  across  her  path. 
She  fell  in  love  with  this  dissipated,  selfish  rascal ;  and  he  mar- 
ried her  for  the  sake  of  her  little  hoard. 

As  long  as  the  money  lasted,  that  is,  for  some  three  or  four 
months,  matters  went  on  pleasantly  enough.  But  as  soon  as 
the  last  franc  had  been  spent,  Polyte  left  his  wife,  and  com- 
placently resumed  his  former  life  of  idleness,  thieving,  and  de- 
bauchery. When  at  times  he  returned  home,  it  was  merely  with 
the  view  of  robbing  his  wife  of  what  little  money  she  might 
have  saved  in  the  mean  while ;  and  periodically  she  uncomplain- 
ingly allowed  him  to  despoil  her  of  the  last  penny  of  her 
earnings. 

Horrible  to  relate,  this  unworthy  rascal  even  tried  to  trade 


MONSIEUR   LECOQ  147 

on  her  good  looks.  Here,  however,  he  met  with  a  strenuous 
resistance — a  resistance  which  excited  not  merely  his  own  ire, 
but  also  the  hatred  of  the  villain's  mother — that  old  hag,  the 
Widow  Chupin.  The  result  was  that  Polyte's  wife  was  subjected 
to  such  incessant  cruelty  and  persecution  that  one  night  she  was 
forced  to  fly  with  only  the  rags  that  covered  her.  The  Chupins 
— mother  and  son — believed,  perhaps,  that  starvation  would 
effect  what  their  horrible  threats  and  insidious  counsel  had 
failed  to  accomplish.  Their  shameful  expectations  were  not, 
however,  gratified. 

In  mentioning  these  facts  to  Lecoq,  the  commissary's  secre- 
tary added  that  they  had  become  widely  known,  and  that  the 
unfortunate  creature's  force  of  character  had  won  for  her  gen- 
eral respect.  Among  those  she  frequented,  moreover,  she  was 
known  by  the  nickname  of  "Toinon  the  Virtuous" — a  rather 
vulgar  but,  at  all  events,  sincere  tribute  to  her  worth. 

Grateful  for  this  information,  Lecoq  returned  to  the  cab. 
The  Rue  de  la  Butte-aux-Cailles,  whither  Papillon  was  now 
directed  to  drive,  proved  to  be  very  unlike  the  Boulevard 
Malesherbes,  and  one  brief  glance  sufficed  to  show  that  opu- 
lence had  not  here  fixed  its  abode.  Luck  seemed  for  the 
moment  to  have  turned  in  Lecoq's  favor.  At  all  events,  when 
he  and  Father  Absinthe  alighted  at  the  corner  of  the  street,  it 
so  happened  that  the  very  first  person  the  young  detective  ques- 
tioned concerning  the  virtuous  Toinon  was  well  acquainted  with 
her  whereabouts.  The  house  in  which  she  resided  was  pointed 
out,  and  Lecoq  was  instructed  to  go  upstairs  to  the  top  floor, 
and  knock  at  the  door  in  front  of  him.  With  such  precise 
cHrections  the  two  detectives  speedily  reached  Madame  Polyte 
Chupin's  abode. 

This  proved  to  be  a  cold  and  gloomy  attic  of  medium  size, 
windowless,  but  provided  with  a  small  skylight.  A  straw  pallet, 
a  broken  table,  two  chairs,  and  a  few  plain  kitchen  utensils 
constituted  the  sole  appointments  of  this  miserable  garret.  But 
in  spite  of  the  occupant's  evident  poverty,  everything  was  neat 
and  clean,  and  to  use  a  forcible  expression  that  fell  from 
Father  Absinthe,  one  could  have  eaten  off  the  floor. 

The  two  detectives  entered,  and  found  a  woman  busily  en- 
gaged in  making  a  heavy  linen  sack.  She  was  seated  in  the 
centre  of  the  room,  directly  under  the  skylight,  so  that  the  sun's 
rays  might  fall  upon  her  work.  At  the  sight  of  two  strangers, 
she  half  rose  from  her  chair,  surprised,  and  perhaps  a  little 


148  MONSIEUR   LECOQ 

frightened ;  but  when  Lecoq  had  explained  that  they  desired  a 
few  moments'  conversation  with  her,  she  gave  up  her  own  seat, 
and  drawing  the  second  chair  from  a  corner,  invited  both  detec- 
tives to  sit  down.  Lecoq  complied,  but  Father  Absinthe  declared 
that  he  preferred  to  remain  standing. 

With  a  single  glance  Lecoq  took  an  inventory  of  the  humble 
abode,  and,  so  to  speak,  appraised  the  woman.  She  was  short, 
stout,  and  of  commonplace  appearance.  Her  forehead  was  ex- 
tremely low,  being  crowned  by  a  forest  of  coarse,  black  hair; 
while  the  expression  of  her  large,  black  eyes,  set  very  close 
together,  recalled  the  look  of  patient  resignation  one  so  often 
detects  in  ill-treated  and  neglected  animals.  Possibly,  in  former 
days,  she  might  have  possessed  that  fleeting  attraction  called 
the  bcautc  du  diablc;  but  now  she  looked  almost  as  old  as  her 
wretched  mother-in-law.  Sorrow  and  privation,  excessive  toil 
and  ill-treatment,  had  imparted  to  her  face  a  livid  hue,  redden- 
ing her  eyes  and  stamping  deep  furrows  round  about  her 
temples.  Still,  there  was  an  attribute  of  native  honesty  about 
her  which  even  the  foul  atmosphere  in  which  she  had  been 
compelled  to  live  had  not  sufficed  to  taint. 

Her  little  boy  furnished  a  striking  contrast.  He  was  pale 
and  puny ;  his  eyes  gleamed  with  a  phosphorescent  brilliancy ; 
and  his  hair  was  of  a  faded  flaxen  tint.  One  little  circum- 
stance attracted  both  detectives'  attention.  If  the  mother  was 
attired  in  an  old,  thin,  faded  calico  dress,  the  child  was  warmly 
clad  in  stout  woolen  material. 

"Madame,  you  have  doubtless  heard  of  a  dreadful  crime,  com- 
mitted in  your  mother-in-law's  establishment,"  began  Lecoq  in 
a  soft  voice. 

"Alas!  yes,  sir,"  replied  Toinon  the  Virtuous,  quickly  adding: 
"But  my  husband  could  not  have  been  implicated  in  it,  since  he 
is  in  prison." 

Did  not  this  objection,  forestalling,  as  it  were,  suspicion,  be- 
tray the  most  horrible  apprehensions? 

"Yes.  I  am  aware  of  that,"  replied  Lecoq.  "Polyte  was 
arrested  a  fortnight  ago — " 

"Yes,  and  very  unjustly,  sir,"  replied  the  neglected  wife.  "He 
was  led  astray  by  his  companions,  wicked,  desperate  men.  He 
i*  so  weak  when  he  has  taken  a  glass  of  wine  that  they  can  do 
whatever  they  like  with  him.  If  he  were  only  left  to  himself 
he  would  not  harm  a  child.     You  have  only  to  look  at  him — " 

As  she  spoke,  the  virtuous  Toinon  turned  her  red  and  swollen 


MONSIEUR   LECOQ  149 

eyes  to  a  miserable  photograph  hanging  against  the  wall.  This 
blotchy  smudge  portrayed  an  exceedingly  ugly,  dissipated-look- 
ing young  man,  afflicted  with  a  terrible  squint,  and  whose  repul- 
sive mouth  was  partially  concealed  by  a  faint  mustache.  This 
rake  of  the  barrieres  was  Polyte  Chupin.  And  yet  despite  his 
unprepossessing  aspect  there  was  no  mistaking  the  fact  that 
this  unfortunate  woman  loved  him — had  always  loved  him ; 
besides,  he  was  her  husband. 

A  moment's  silence  followed  her  indication  of  the  portrait — 
an  act  which  clearly  revealed  how  deeply  she  worshiped  her 
persecutor ;  and  during  this  pause  the  attic  door  slowly  and 
softly  opened.  Not  of  itself,  however,  for  suddenly  a  man's 
head  peered  in.  The  intruder,  whoever  he  was,  instantly  with- 
drew, uttering  as  he  did  so  a  low  exclamation.  The  door  was 
swiftly  closed  again ;  the  key — which  had  been  left  on  the  out- 
side— grated  in  the  lock,  and  the  occupants  of  the  garret  could 
hear  hurried  steps  descending  the  stairs. 

Lecoq  was  sitting  with  his  back  to  the  door,  and  could  not, 
therefore,  see  the  intruder's  face.  Quickly  as  he  had  turned,  he 
had  failed  to  see  who  it  was:  and  yet  he  was  far  from  being 
surprised  at  the  incident.     Intuition  explained  its  meaning. 

"That  must  have  been  the  accomplice !"  he  cried. 

Thanks  to  his  position,  Father  Absinthe  had  seen  the  man's 
face.  "Yes,"  said  he,  "yes,  it  was  the  same  man  who  made 
me  drink  with  him  yesterday." 

With  a  bound,  both  detectives  threw  themselves  against  the 
door,  exhausting  their  strength  in  vain  attempts  to  open  it. 
It  resisted  all  their  efforts,  for  it  was  of  solid  oak,  having  been 
purchased  by  the  landlord  from  some  public  building  in  process 
of  demolition,  and  it  was,  moreover,  furnished  with  a  strong 
and  massive  fastening. 

"Help  us!"  cried  Father  Absinthe  to  the  woman,  who  stood 
petrified  with  astonishment;  "give  us  a  bar,  a  piece  of  iron,  a 
nail — anything !" 

The  younger  man  was  making  frantic  efforts  to  push  back 
the  bolt,  or  to  force  the  lock  from  the  wood.  He  was  wild 
with  rage.  At  last,  having  succeeded  in  forcing  the  door  open, 
they  dashed  out  in  pursuit  of  their  mysterious  adversary.  On 
reaching  the  street,  they  eagerly  questioned  the  bystanders. 
Having  described  the  man  as  best  they  could,  they  found  two 
persons  who  had  seen  him  enter  the  house  of  Toinon  the  Vir- 
tuous, and  a  third  who  had  seen  him  as  he  left.    Some  children 


150  MONSIEUR   LECOQ 

who  were  playing  in  the  middle  of  the  street  added  that  he  had 
run  off  in  the  direction  of  the  Rue  du  Moulin-des-Pres  as  fast  as 
his  legs  could  carry  him.  It  was  in  this  street,  near  the  corner 
of  the  Rue  de  la  Butte-aux-Cailles,  that  Lecoq  had  left  old 
Papillon  waiting  with  the  cab. 

"Let  us  hasten  there!"  proposed  Father  Absinthe;  "perhaps 
Papillon  can  give  us  some  information." 

But  Lecoq  shook  his  head  despondingly.  He  would  go  no 
further.  "It  would  be  of  no  use,"  he  said.  "He  had  sufficient 
presence  of  mind  to  turn  the  key  in  the  lock,  and  that  saved 
him.  He  is  at  least  ten  minutes  in  advance  of  us,  and  we 
should  never  overtake  him." 

Father  Absinthe  could  not  restrain  his  anger.  He  looked 
upon  this  mysterious  accomplice  who  had  so  cruelly  duped  him 
as  a  personal  enemy,  and  he  would  willingly  have  given  a 
month's  pay  to  be  able  to  lay  his  hand  on  his  shoulder.  Lecoq 
was  quite  as  angry  as  his  subordinate,  and  his  vanity  was  like- 
wise wounded ;  he  felt,  however,  that  coolness  and  deliberation 
were  necessary. 

"Yes,"  said  he  thoughtfully,  "he's  a  shrewd  and  daring  fel- 
low— a  perfect  demon.  He  doesn't  remain  idle.  If  we  are 
working,  he's  at  work  too.  No  matter  what  side  I  turn,  I  find 
him  on  the  defensive.  He  foiled  you,  papa,  in  your  effort  to 
obtain  a  clue  concerning  Gustave's  identity;  and  he  made  me 
appear  a  fool  in  arranging  that  little  comedy  at  the  Hotel  de 
Mariembourg.  His  diligence  has  been  wonderful.  He  has 
hitherto  been  in  advance  of  us  everywhere,  and  this  fact  ex- 
plains the  failures  that  have  attended  all  my  efforts.  Here  we 
arrive  before  him.  But  if  he  came  here,  it  was  because  he 
scented  danger.  Hence,  we  may  hope.  Now  let  us  get  back 
and  question  Polyte's  wife." 

Alas !  poor  Toinon  the  Virtuous  did  not  understand  the  affair 
at  all.  She  had  remained  upstairs,  holding  her  child  by  the 
hand,  and  leaning  over  the  baluster;  her  mind  in  great  per- 
plexity and  her  eyes  and  ears  on  the  alert.  As  soon  as  she 
perceived  the  two  detectives  coming  up  the  stairs  again,  she 
hastened  down  to  meet  them.  "In  the  name  of  heaven,  what 
does  this  all  mean?"  she  asked.     "Whatever  has  happened?" 

But  Lecoq  was  not  the  man  to  tell  his  business  on  a  landing, 
with  inquisitive  ears  all  around  him,  and  before  he  answered 
Toinon  he  made  her  go  up  into  her  own  garret,  and  securely 
close  the  door. 


MONSIEUR   LECOQ  151 

"We  started  in  pursuit  of  a  man  who  is  implicated  in  the 
murders  at  the  Poivriere,"  he  said ;  "one  who  came  here  hoping 
to  find  you  alone,  who  was  frightened  at  seeing  us." 

"A  murderer !"  faltered  Toinon,  with  clasped  hands.  '"What 
could  he  want  of  me?" 

"Who  knows?  It  is  very  probable  that  he  is  one  of  your 
husband's  friends." 

"Oh!  sir." 

"Why,  did  you  not  tell  me  just  now  that  Polyte  had  some  very 
undesirable  acquaintances?  But  don't  be  alarmed;  this  does 
not  compromise  him  in  the  least.  Besides,  you  can  very  easily 
clear  him  of  all  suspicion." 

"How?    In  what  way?    Oh,  tell  me  at  once." 

"Merely  by  answering  me  frankly,  and  by  assisting  me  to 
find  the  guilty  party.  Now,  among  your  husband's  friends, 
don't  you  know  any  who  might  be  capable  of  such  a  deed? 
Give  me  the  names  of  his  acquaintances." 

The  poor  woman's  hesitation  was  evident;  undoubtedly  she 
had  been  present  at  many  sinister  cabals,  and  had  been  threat- 
ened with  terrible  punishment  if  she  dared  to  disclose  the  plans 
formed  by  Polyte  or  his  associates. 

"You  have  nothing  to  fear,"  said  Lecoq,  encouragingly,  "and 
I  promise  you  no  one  shall  ever  know  that  you  have  told  me 
a  word.  Very  probably  you  can  tell  me  nothing  more  than  I 
know  already.  I  have  heard  a  great  deal  about  your  former  life, 
and  the  brutality  with  which  Polyte  and  his  mother  have 
treated  you." 

"My  husband  has  never  treated  me  brutally,"  said  the  young 
woman,  indignantly;  "besides,  that  matter  would  only  concern 
myself." 

"And  your  mother-in-law?" 

"She  is,  perhaps,  a  trifle  quick-tempered;  but  in  reality  she 
has  a  good  heart." 

"Then,  if  you  were  so  happy  at  the  Widow  Chupin's  house, 
why  did  you  fly  from  it?" 

Toinon  the  Virtuous  turned  scarlet  to  the  very  roots  of  her 
hair.  "I  left  for  other  reasons,"  she  replied.  "There  were 
always  a  great  many  drunken  men  about  the  house ;  and,  some- 
times, when  I  was  alone,  some  of  them  tried  to  carry  their 
pleasantry  too  far.  You  may  say  that  I  have  a  solid  fist  of  my 
own,  and  that  I  am  quite  capable  of  protecting  myself.  That's 
true.    But  while  I  was  away  one  day  some  fellows  were  wicked 


152  MONSIEUR   LECOQ 

enough  to  make  this  child  drink  to  such  an  excess  that  when 
I  came  home  I  found  him  as  stiff  and  cold  as  if  he  were  dead. 
It  was  necessary  to  fetch  a  doctor  or  else — " 

She  suddenly  paused ;  her  eyes  dilated.  From  red  she  turned 
livid,  and  in  a  hoarse,  unnatural  voice,  she  cried :  "Toto ! 
wretched  child  I" 

Lecoq  looked  behind  him,  and  shuddered.  He  understood 
everything.  This  child — Jiot  yet  five  years  old — had  stolen  up 
behind  him,  and,  ferreting  in  the  pockets  of  his  overcoat,  had 
rifled  them  of  their  contents. 

"Ah,  well — yes  !"  exclaimed  the  unfortunate  mother,  bursting 
into  tears.  "That's  how  it  was.  Directly  the  child  was  out 
of  my  sight,  they  used  to  take  him  into  town.  They  took  him 
into  the  crowded  streets,  and  taught  him  to  pick  people's  pockets, 
and  bring  them  everything  he  could  lay  his  hands  on.  If  the 
child  was  detected  they  were  angry  with  him  and  beat  him ; 
and  if  he  succeeded  they  gave  him  a  sou  to  buy  some  sweets, 
and  kept  what  he  had  taken." 

The  luckless  Toinon  hid  her  face  in  her  hands,  and  sobbed 
in  an  almost  unintelligible  voice :  "Ah,  I  did  not  wish  my 
little  one  to  be  a  thief." 

But  what  this  poor  creature  did  not  tell  was  that  the  man 
who  had  led  the  child  out  into  the  streets,  to  teach  him  to  steal, 
was  his  own  father,  and  her  husband — the  ruffian,  Polyte  Chu- 
pin.  The  two  detectives  plainly  understood,  however,  that 
such  was  the  case,  and  the  father's  crime  was  so  horrible,  and 
the  woman's  grief  so  great,  that,  familiar  as  they  were  with  all 
the  phases  of  crime,  their  very  hearts  were  touched.  Lecoq's 
main  thought,  however,  was  to  shorten  this  painful  scene.  The 
poor  mother's  emotion  was  a  sufficient  guarantee  of  her 
sincerity. 

"Listen."  said  he,  with  affected  harshness.  "Two  questions 
only,  and  then  I  will  leave  you.  Was  there  a  man  named 
Gustave  among  the  frequenters  of  the  Poivriere?" 

"No,  sir,  I'm  quite  sure  there  wasn't." 

"Very  well.     But  Lacheneur — you  must  know  Lacheneur!" 

"Yes,  sir;  I  know  him." 

The  young  police  agent  could  not  repress  an  exclamation  of 
delight.  "At  last,"  thought  he,  "I  have  a  clue  that  may  lead 
me  to  the  truth.  What  kind  of  man  is  he?"  he  asked  with 
intense  anxiety. 

"Oh  !  he  is  not  at  all  like  the  other  men  who  come  to  drink 


MONSIEUR   LECOQ 


153 


at  my  mother-in-law's  shop.  I  have  only  seen  him  once ;  but 
I  remember  him  perfectly.  It  was  on  a  Sunday.  He  was  in 
a  cab.  He  stopped  at  the  corner  of  the  waste  ground  and 
spoke  to  Polyte.  When  he  went  away,  my  husband  said  to 
me:  'Do  you  see  that  old  man  there?  he  will  make  all  our  for- 
tunes.' [  thought  him  a  very  respectable-locking  gentleman — " 
"That's  enough,"  interrupted  Lecoq.  "Now  it  is  necessary 
for  you  to  tell  the  investigating  magistrate  all  you  know  about 
him.  I  have  a  cab  downstairs.  Take  your  child  with  you,  if 
you  like ;  but  make  haste ;  come,  come  quickly !" 


MSEGMULLER  was  one  of  those  magistrates  whose  pro- 
•  fession  is  their  only  love,  and  who  devote  to  its  duties  all 
the  energy,  intelligence,  and  sagacity  they  possess.  As  an  inves- 
tigator, he  displayed,  in  his  constant  searches  after  truth,  the 
same  tenacity  and  zeal  that  distinguishes  a  conscientious  physi- 
cian struggling  against  some  unknown  disease,  the  same  enthu- 
siasm that  is  shown  by  the  artist,  enamored  of  the  beautiful,  who 
seeks  to  realize  the  ideal  of  art.  Hence,  it  is  easy  to  understand 
how  greatly  this  mysterious  case  attracted  and  interested  him. 
The  magnitude  of  the  crime,  the  peculiar  circumstances  attend- 
ing it,  the  mystery  that  enshrouded  the  identity  of  both  the 
victims  and  the  murderer,  the  strange  attitude  the  latter  had 
assumed,  everything  combined  to  make  a  profound  impression 
on  his  mind.  Even  the  romantic  element  was  not  lacking  in  this 
strange  case ;  being  represented  by  the  two  women  who  had 
disappeared. 

The  extreme  uncertainty  of  the  result  was  another  attraction 
for  M.  Segmuller's  investigating  mind.  Given  the  magnitude  of 
the  difficulties  that  were  to  be  overcome,  he  rightly  considered 
that  if  his  efforts  proved  successful,  he  would  have  achieved  a 
really  wonderful  victory.  And,  assisted  by  such  a  man  as  Lecoq, 
who  had  a  positive  genius  for  his  calling,  and  in  whom  he  recog- 
nized a  most  valuable  auxiliary,  he  really  felt  confident  of 
ultimate  success. 


154  MONSIEUR   LECOQ 

Even  on  returning  home  after  the  fatiguing  labors  of  the 
day  he  did  not  think  of  freeing  himself  from  the  burden  of  re- 
sponsibility in  relation  to  the  business  he  had  on  hand,  or  of 
driving  away  care  until  the  morrow.  He  dined  in  haste,  and  as 
soon  as  he  had  swallowed  his  coffee  began  to  study  the  case  with 
renewed  ardor.  He  had  brought  from  his  office  a  copy  of  the 
prisoner's  narrative,  which  he  attentively  perused,  not  once  or 
twice,  but  several  times,  seeking  for  some  weak  point  that 
might  be  attacked  with  a  probability  of  success.  He  analyzed 
every  answer,  and  weighed  one  expression  after  another,  striv- 
ing, as  he  did  so,  to  find  some  flaw  through  which  he  might  slip 
a  question  calculated  to  shatter  the  structure  of  defense.  He 
worked  thus,  far  into  the  night,  and  yet  he  was  on  his  legs 
again  at  an  early  hour  in  the  morning.  By  eight  o'clock  he  was 
not  merely  dressed  and  shaved,  he  had  not  merely  taken  his 
matutinal  chocolate  and  arranged  his  papers,  but  he  was  actually 
on  his  way  to  the  Palais  de  Justice.  He  had  quite  forgotten 
that  his  own  impatience  was  not  shared  by  others. 

In  point  of  fact,  the  Palais  de  Justice  was  scarcely  awake 
when  he  arrived  there.  The  doors  had  barely  opened.  The 
attendants  were  busy  sweeping  and  dusting;  or  changing 
their  ordinary  garments  for  their  official  costumes.  Some 
of  them  standing  in  the  windows  of  the  long  dressing  room 
were  shaking  and  brushing  the  judges'  and  advocates'  gowns ; 
while  in  the  great  hall  several  clerks  stood  in  a  group,  chaffing 
each  other  while  waiting  for  the  arrival  of  the  head  registrar 
and  the  opening  of  the  investigation  offices. 

M.  Segmuller  thought  that  he  had  better  begin  by  consulting 
the  public  prosecutor,  but  he  discovered  that  this  functionary 
had  not  yet  arrived.  Angry  and  impatient,  he  proceeded  to  his 
own  office;  and  with  his  eyes  fixed  on  the  clock,  growled  at  the 
slowness  of  the  minute  hand.  Just  after  nine  o'clock,  Goguet, 
the  smiling  clerk,  put  in  an  appearance  and  speedily  learned  the 
kind  of   humor  his   master  was  in. 

"Ah,  you've  come  at  last,"  gruffly  ejaculated  M.  Segmuller, 
momentarily  oblivious  of  the  fact  that  he  himself  scarcely 
ever  arrived  before  ten,  and  that  a  quarter-past  nine  was  cer- 
tainly early  for  his  clerk. 

Goguet's  curiosity  had  indeed  prompted  him  to  hurry  to 
the  Palais;  still,  although  well  aware'  that  he  did  not  deserve 
a  reprimand,  he  endeavored  to  mumble  an  excuse — an  excuse 
cut  short  by  M.  Segmuller  in  such  unusually  harsh  tones  that 


MONSIEUR   LECOQ  155 

for  once  in  a  way  Goguet's  habitual  smile  faded  from  his  face. 
"It's  evident,"  thought  he,  "that  the  wind's  blowing  from  a 
bad  quarter  this  morning,"  with  which  reflection  he  philosophi- 
cally put  on  his  black  sleeves  and  going  to  his  table  pretended 
to  be  absorbed  in  the  task  of  mending  his  pens  and  preparing 
his  paper. 

In  the  mean  while,  M.  Segmuller  who  was  usually  calmness 
personified,  and  dignity  par  excellence,  paced  restlessly  to  and 
fro.  At  times  he  would  sit  down  and  then  suddenly  spring  to 
his  feet  again,  gesticulating  impatiently  as  he  did  so.  Indeed, 
he  seemed  unable  to  remain  quiet  for  a  moment. 

"The  prosecution  is  evidently  making  no  headway,"  thought 
the  clerk.  "May's  prospects  are  encouraging."  Owing  to  the 
magistrate's  harsh  reception  the  idea  delighted  him ;  and,  indeed, 
letting  his  rancor  have  the  upper  hand,  Goguet  actually 
offered  up  a  prayer  that  the  prisoner  might  get  the  better  of 
the  fight. 

From  half-past  nine  till  ten  o'clock  M.  Segmuller  rang  for 
his  messenger  at  least  five  times,  and  each  time  he  asked  him 
the  same  questions :  "Are  you  sure  that  M.  Lecoq  has  not  been 
here  this  morning?  Inquire!  If  he  has  not  been  here  he  must 
certainly  have  sent  some  one,  or  else  have  written  to  me." 

Each  time  the  astonished  doorkeeper  replied:  "No  one  has 
been  here,  and  there  is  no  letter  for  you." 

Five  identical  negative  answers  to  the  same  inquiries  only 
increased  the  magistrate's  wrath  and  impatience.  "It  is  incon- 
ceivable !''  he  exclaimed.  "Here  I  am  upon  coals  of  fire,  and 
that  man  dares  to  keep  me  waiting.    Where  can  he  be  ?" 

At  last  he  ordered  a  messenger  to  go  and  see  if  he  could 
not  find  Lecoq  somewhere  in  the  neighborhood ;  perhaps  in 
some  restaurant  or  cafe.  "At  all  events,  he  must  be  found 
and  brought  back  immediately,"  said  he. 

When  the  man  had  started,  M.  Segmuller  began  to  recover 
his  composure.  "We  must  not  lose  valuable  time,"  he  said  to 
his  clerk.  "I  was  to  examine  the  widow  Chupin's  son.  I  had 
better  do  so  now.  Go  and  tell  them  to  bring  him  to  me.  Lecoq 
left  the  order  at  the  prison." 

In  less  than  a  quarter  of  an  hour  Polyte  entered  the  room. 
From  head  to  foot,  from  his  lofty  silk  cap  to  his  gaudy  colored 
carpet  slippers,  he  was  indeed  the  original  of  the  portrait  upon 
which  poor  Toinon  the  Virtuous  had  lavished  such  loving 
glances.     And  yet  the   photograph   was   flattering.     The   lens 


i66  MONSIEUR   LECOQ 

had  failed  to  convey  the  expression  of  low  cunning  that  dis- 
tinguished the  man's  features,  the  impudence  of  his  leering 
smile,  and  the  mingled  cowardice  and  ferocity  of  his  eyes,  which 
never  looked  another  person  in  the  face.  Nor  could  the  portrait 
depict  the  unwholesome,  livid  pallor  of  his  skin,  the  restless 
blinking  of  his  eyelids,  and  the  constant  movement  of  his  thin 
lips  as  he  drew  them  tightly  over  his  short,  sharp  teeth.  There 
was  no  mistaking  his  nature;  one  glance  and  he  was  estimated 
at  his  worth. 

When  he  had  answered  the  preliminary  questions,  telling  the 
magistrate  that  he  was  thirty  years  of  age,  and  that  he  had 
been  born  in  Paris,  he  assumed  a  pretentious  attitude  and  waited 
to  see  what  else  was  coming.    - 

But  before  proceeding  with  the  real  matter  in  hand.  M. 
Segmuller  wished  to  relieve  the  complacent  scoundrel  of  some 
of  his  insulting  assurance.  Accordingly,  he  reminded  Polyte, 
in  forcible  terms,  that  his  sentence  in  the  affair  in  which  he 
was  now  implicated  would  depend  very  much  upon  his  behavior 
and  answers  during  the  present  examination. 

Polyte  listened  with  a  nonchalant  and  even  ironical  air.  In 
fact,  this  indirect  threat  scarcely  touched  him.  Having  pre- 
viously made  inquiries  he  had  ascertained  that  he  could  not  be 
condemned  to  more  than  six  months'  imprisonment  for  the 
offense  for  which  he  had  been  arrested ;  and  what  did  a  month 
more  or  less  matter  to  him  ? 

The  magistrate,  who  read  this  thought  in  Polyte's  eyes,  cut 
his  preamble  short.  "Justice,"  said  he,  "now  requires  some 
information  from  you  concerning  the  frequenters  of  your 
mother's  establishment." 

"There  are  a  great  many  of  them,  sir."  answered  Polyte  in  a 
harsh  voice. 

"Do  you  know  one  of  them  named  Gustave?" 

"No,  sir." 

To  insist  would  probably  awaken  suspicion  in  Polyte's  mind; 
accordingly,  M.  Segmuller  continued :  "You  must,  however, 
remember  Lacheneur  ?" 

"Lacheneur?    No,  this  is  the  first  time  I've  heard  that  name." 

"Take  care.  The  police  have  means  of  finding  out  a  great 
many   things." 

The  scapegrace  did  not  flinch.  "I  am  telling  the  truth,  sir," 
he  retorted.  "What  interest  could  I  possibly  have  in  deceiving 
you?" 


MONSIEUR   LECOQ  157 

Scarcely  had  he  finished  speaking  than  the  door  suddenly 
opened  and  Toinon  the  Virtuous  entered  the  room,  carrying  her 
child  in  her  arms.  On  perceiving  her  husband,  she  uttered  a 
joyful  exclamation,  and  sprang  toward  him.  But  Polyte, 
stepping  back,  gave  her  such  a  threatening  glance  that  she  re- 
mained rooted  to  the  spot. 

"It  must  be  an  enemy  who  pretends  that  I  know  any  one 
named  Lacheneur !"  cried  the  barriere  bully.  "I  should  like  to 
kill  the  person  who  uttered  such  a  falsehood.  Yes,  kill  him;  I 
will  never  forgive  it." 

The  messenger  whom  M.  Segmuller  had  instructed  to  go  in 
search  of  Lecoq  was  not  at  all  displeased  with  the  errand; 
for  it  enabled  him  to  leave  his  post  and  take  a  pleasant  little 
stroll  through  the  neighborhood.  He  first  of  all  proceeded  to 
the  Prefecture  of  Police,  going  the  longest  way  round  as  a 
matter  of  course,  but,  on  reaching  his  destination,  he  could 
find  no  one  who  had  seen  the  young  detective. 

Accordingly,  M.  Segmuller's  envoy  retraced  his  steps,  and 
leisurely  sauntered  through  the  restaurants,  cafes,  and  wine 
shops  installed  in  the  vicinity  of  the  Palais  de  Justice,  and 
dependent  on  the  customers  it  brought  them.  Being  of  a  con- 
scientious turn  of  mind,  he  entered  each  establishment  in  suc- 
cession and  meeting  now  and  again  various  acquaintances,  he 
felt  compelled  to  proffer  and  accept  numerous  glasses  of  the 
favorite  morning  beverage — white  wine.  Turn  which  way  he 
would,  however,  loiter  as  long  as  he  might,  there  were  still  no 
signs  of  Lecoq.  He  was  returning  in  haste,  a  trifle  uneasy  on 
account  of  the  length  of  his  absence,  when  he  perceived  a  cab 
pull  up  in  front  of  the  Palais  gateway.  A  second  glance,  and 
oh,  great  good  fortune,  he  saw  Lecoq,  Father  Absinthe,  and  the 
virtuous  Toinon  alight  from  this  very  vehicle.  His  peace  of 
mind  at  once  returned :  and  it  was  in  a  very  important  and 
somewhat  husky  tone  that  he  delivered  the  order  for  Lecoq  to 
follow  him  without  a  minute's  delay.  "M.  Segmuller  has  asked 
for  you  a  number  of  times,"  said  he,  "He  has  been  extremely 
impatient,  and  he  is  in  a  very  bad  humor,  so  you  may  expect 
to  have  your  head  snapped  off  in  the  most  expeditious  manner." 

Lecoq  smiled  as  he  went  up  the  stairs.  Was  he  not  bringing 
with  him  the  most  potent  of  justifications?  He  thought  of  the 
agreeable  surprise  he  had  in  store  for  the  magistrate,  and 
fancied  he  could  picture  the  sudden  brightening  of  that  func- 
tionary's gloomy  face. 


158  MONSIEUR   LECOQ 

And  yet,  fate  so  willed  it  that  the  doorkeeper's  message  and 
his  urgent  appeal  that  Lecoq  should  not  loiter  on  the  way,  pro- 
duced the  most  unfortunate  results.  Believing  that  M.  Seg- 
muller  was  anxiously  waiting  for  him,  Lecoq  saw  nothing 
wrong  in  opening  the  door  of  the  magistrate's  room  without 
previously  knocking;  and  being  anxious  to  justify  his  absence, 
he  yielded,  moreover,  to  the  impulse  that  led  him  to  push 
forward  the  poor  woman  who?e  testimony  might  prove  so 
decisive.  When  he  saw,  however,  that  the  magistrate  was  not 
alone,  and  when  he  recognized  Polyte  Chupin — the  original  of 
the  photograph — in  the  man  M.  Segmuller  was  examining,  his 
stupefaction  became  intense.  He  instantly  perceived  his  mistake 
and  understood  its  consequences. 

There  was  only  one  thing  to  be  done:  He  must  prevent  any 
exchange  of  words  between  the  two.  Accordingly,  springing 
toward  Toinon  and  seizing  her  roughly  by  the  arm,  he  ordered 
her  to  leave  the  room  at  once.  But  the  poor  creature  was  quite 
overcome,  and  trembled  like  a  leaf.  Her  eyes  were  fixed  upon 
her  unworthy  husband,  and  the  happiness  she  felt  at  seeing  him 
again  shone  plainly  in  her  anxious  gaze.  Just  for  one  second; 
and  then  she  caught  his  withering  glance  and  heard  his  words 
of  menace.  Terror-stricken,  she  staggered  back,  and  then  Lecoq 
seized  her  around  the  waist,  and,  lifting  her  with  his  strong 
arms,  carried  her  out  into  the  passage.  The  whole  scene  had 
been  so  brief  that  M.  Segmuller  was  still  forming  the  order  for 
Toinon  to  be  removed  from  the  room,  when  he  found  the  door 
closed  again,  and  himself  and  Goguet  alone  with  Polyte. 

"Ah.  ah !"  thought  the  smiling  clerk,  in  a  flutter  of  delight, 
"this  is  something  new."  But  as  these  little  diversions  never 
made  him  forget  his  duties,  he  leaned  toward  the  magistrate 
and  asked:  "Shall  I  take  down  the  last  words  the  witness 
uttered  ?" 

"Certainly,"  replied  M.  Segmuller,  "and  word  for  word,  if 
you  please." 

He  paused ;  the  door  opened  again,  this  time  to  admit  the 
magistrate's  messenger,  who  timidly,  and  with  a  rather  guilty 
air,  handed  his  master  a  note,  and  then  withdrew.  This  note, 
scribbled  in  pencil  by  Lecoq  on  a  leaf  torn  from  his  memoran- 
dum book,  gave  the  magistrate  the  name  of  the  woman  who 
had  just  entered  his  room,  and  recapitulated  briefly  but  clearly 
the  information  obtained  in  the  Rue  de  la  Butte-aux-Cailles. 

"That  young   fellow  thinks  of  everything!"   murmured   M. 


MONSIEUR   LECOQ  159 

Segmuller.  The  meaning  of  the  scene  that  had  just  occurred 
was  now  explained  to  him.     He  understood  everything. 

He  bitterly  regretted  this  unfortunate  meeting;  at  the  same 
time  casting  the  blame  on  his  own  impatience  and  lack  of 
caution,  which,  as  soon  as  the  messenger  had  started  in  search 
of  Lecoq,  had  induced  him  to  summon  Polyte  Chupin.  Although 
he  could  not  conceal  from  himself  the  enormous  influence  this 
seemingly  trivial  incident  might  have,  still  he  would  not  allow 
himself  to  be  cast  down,  but  prepared  to  resume  his  exami- 
nation of  Polyte  Chupin  in  hopes  of  yet  obtaining  the  infor- 
mation  he   desired. 

"Let  us  proceed,"  he  said  to  Polyte,  who  had  not  moved  since 
his  wife  had  been  taken  from  the  room,  being  to  all  appearances 
sublimely  indifferent  to  everything  passing  around  him.  To 
the  magistrate's  proposal  he  carelessly  nodded  assent. 

"Was  that  your  wife  who  came  in  just  now?"  asked  M. 
Segmuller. 

"Yes." 

"She  wished  to  embrace  you,  and  you  repulsed  her." 

"I  didn't  repulse  her." 

"You  kept  her  at  a  distance  at  all  events.  If  you  had  a 
spark  of  affection  in  your  nature,  you  would  at  least  have 
looked  at  your  child,  which  she  held  out  to  you.  Why  did  you 
behave  in  that  manner?" 

"It  wasn't  the  time  for  sentiment." 

"You  are  not  telling  the  truth.  You  simply  desired  to  attract 
her  attention,  to  influence  her  evidence." 

"I — I  influence  her  evidence !    I  don't  understand  you." 

"But  for  that  supposition,  your  words  would  have  been 
meaningless?" 

"What  words?" 

The  magistrate  turned  to  his  clerk :  "Goguet,"  said  he,  "read 
the  last  remark  you  took  down." 

In  a  monotonous  voice,  the  smiling  clerk  repeated :  "I  should 
like  to  kill  the  person  who  dared  to  say  that  I  knew  Lacheneur." 

"Well,  then!"  insisted  M.  Segmuller,  "what  did  you  mean 
by  that?" 

"It's  very  easy  to  understand,  sir." 

M.  Segmuller  rose.  "Don't  prevaricate  any  longer,"  he  said. 
"You  certainly  ordered  your  wife  not  to  say  anything  about 
Lacheneur.  That's  evident.  Why  did  you  do  so?  What  are 
you  afraid  of  her  telling  us?     Do  you  suppose  the  police  are 


160  MONSIEUR   LECOQ 

ignorant  of  your  acquaintance  with  Lacheneur — of  your  con- 
versation with  him  when  he  came  in  a  cab  to  the  corner  of  the 
waste  ground  near  your  mother's  wine-shop;  and  of  the  hopes 
of  fortune  you  based  upon  his  promises?  Be  guided  by  me; 
confess  everything,  while  there  is  yet  time ;  and  abandon  the 
present  course  which  may  lead  you  into  serious  danger.  One 
may  be  an  accomplice  in  more  ways  than  one." 

As  these  words  fell  on  Polyte's  ears,  it  was  evident  his  im- 
pudence and  indifference  had  received  a  severe  shock.  He  seemed 
confounded,  and  hung  his  head  as  if  thoroughly  abashed.  Still, 
he  preserved  an  obstinate  silence;  and  the  magistrate  finding 
that  this  last  thrust  had  failed  to  produce  any  effect,  gave  up 
the  fight  in  despair.  He  rang  the  bell,  and  ordered  the  guard 
to  conduct  the  witness  back  to  prison,  and  to  take  every  pre- 
caution to  prevent  him  seeing  his  wife  again. 

When  Polyte  had  departed,  Lecoq  reentered  the  room.  "Ah, 
sir,"  said  he,  despondently,  "to  think  that  I  didn't  draw  out 
of  this  woman  everything  she  knew,  when  I  might  have  done 
so  easily.  But  I  thought  you  would  be  waiting  for  me,  and 
made  haste  to  bring  her  here.  I  thought  I  was  acting  for 
the  best—" 

"Never  mind,  the  misfortune  can  be  repaired." 

"No,  sir,  no.  Since  she  has  seen  her  husband,  it  is  quite 
impossible  to  get  her  to  speak.  She  loves  that  rascal  intensely, 
and  he  has  a  wonderful  influence  over  her.  You  heard  what  he 
said.  He  threatened  her  with  death  if  she  breathed  a  word 
about  Lacheneur,  and  she  is  so  terrified  that  there  is  no  hope 
of  making  her   speak." 

Lecoq's  apprehension  was  based  on  fact,  as  M,  Segmuller 
himself  perceived  the  instant  Toinon  the  Virtuous  again  set 
foot  in  his  office.  The  poor  creature  seemed  nearly  heartbroken, 
and  it  was  evident  she  would  have  given  her  life  to  retract  the 
words  that  had  escaped  her  when  first  questioned  by  Lecoq. 
Polyte's  threat  had  aroused  the  most  sinister  apprehensions  in 
her  mind.  Not  understanding  his  connection  with  the  affair, 
she  asked  herself  if  her  testimony  might  not  prove  his  death- 
warrant.  Accordingly,  she  answered  all  M.  Segmuller's 
questions  with  "no"  or  "I  don't  know" ;  and  retracted  everything 
she  had  previously  stated  to  Lecoq.  She  swore  that  she  had 
been  misunderstood,  that  her  words  had  been  misconstrued ; 
and  vowed  on  her  mother's  memory,  that  she  had  never  heard 
the  name  of  Lacheneur  before.     At  last,  she  burst  into  wild, 


MONSIEUR   LECOQ  161 

despairing  sobs,  and  pressed  her  frightened  child  against  her 
breast. 

What  could  be  done  to  overcome  this  foolish  obstinacy,  as 
blind  and  unreasoning  as  a  brute's?  M.  Segmuller  hesitated. 
"You  may  retire,  my  good  woman,"  said  he  kindly,  after 
a  moment's  pause,  "but  remember  that  your  strange  silence 
injures  your  husband  far  more  than  anything  you  could 
say." 

She  left  the  room — or  rather  she  rushed  wildly  from  it  as 
though  only  too  eager  to  escape — and  the  magistrate  and  the 
detective  exchanged  glances  of  dismay  and  consternation. 

"I  said  so  before,"  thought  Goguet,  "the  prisoner  knows  what 
he's  about.  I  would  be  willing  to  bet  a  hundred  to  one  in  his 
favor." 

A  French  investigating  magistrate  is  possessed  of  almost 
unlimited  powers.  No  one  can  hamper  him,  no  one  can  give  him 
orders.  The  entire  police  force  is  at  his  disposal.  One  word 
from  him  and  twenty  agents,  or  a  hundred  if  need  be,  search 
Paris,  ransack  France,  or  explore  Europe.  If  there  be  any  one 
whom  he  believes  able  to  throw  light  upon  an  obscure  point, 
he  simply  sends  an  order  to  that  person  to  appear  before  him, 
and  the  man  must  come  even  if  he  lives  a  hundred  leagues 
away. 

Such  is  the  magistrate,  such  are  his  powers.  On  the  other 
hand,  the  prisoner  charged  with  a  crime,  but  as  yet  un- 
convicted, is  confined,  unless  his  offense  be  of  a  trivial  descrip- 
tion, in  what  is  called  a  "secret  cell."  He  is,  so  to  say,  cut  off 
from  the  number  of  the  living.  He  knows  nothing  of  what 
may  be  going  on  in  the  world  outside.  He  can  not  tell  what 
witnesses  may  have  been  called,  or  what  they  may  have  said, 
and  in  his  uncertainty  he  asks  himself  again  and  again  how  far 
the  prosecution  has  been  able  to  establish  the  charges  against 
him. 

Such  is  the  prisoner's  position,  and  yet  despite  the  fact 
that  the  two  adversaries  are  so  unequally  armed,  the  man  in  the 
secret  cell  not  unfrequently  wins  the  victory.  If  he  is  sure  that 
he  has  left  behind  him  no  proof  of  his  having  committed  the 
crime;  if  he  has  no  guilty  antecedents  to  be  afraid  of.  he  can — 
impregnable  in  a  defense  of  absolute  denial — brave  all  the 
attacks  of  justice. 

Such  was,  at  this  moment,  the  situation  of  May,  the  myste- 
rious murderer;  as  both  M.  Segmuller  and  Lecoq  were  forced 


162  MONSIEUR   LECOQ 

to  admit,  with  mingled  grief  and  anger.  They  had  hoped  to 
arrive  at  a  solution  of  the  problem  by  examining  Polyte  Chupin 
and  his  wife,  and  they  had  been  disappointed ;  for  the  prisoner's 
identity  remained  as  problematical  as  ever. 

"And  yet,"  exclaimed  the  magistrate  impatiently,  "these  people 
know  something  about  this  matter,  and  if  they  would  only 
speak — " 

"But  they  won't." 

"What  motive  is  it  that  keeps  them  silent?  This  is  what  we 
must  discover.  Who  will  tell  us  the  price  that  has  been  prom- 
ised Polyte  Chupin  for  his  silence?  What  recompense  can  he 
count  upon?  It  must  be  a  great  one,  for  he  is  braving  real 
danger !" 

Lecoq  did  not  immediately  reply  to  the  magistrate's  successive 
queries,  but  it  was  easy  to  see  from  his  knit  brows  that  his 
mind  was  hard  at  work.  "You  ask  me,  sir,"  he  eventually  re- 
marked, "what  reward  has  been  promised  Chupin?  I  ask  on 
my  part  who  can  have  promised  him  this  reward?" 

"Who  has  promised  it?  Why.  plainly  the  accomplice  who 
has  beaten  us  on  every  point." 

"Yes,"  rejoined  Lecoq,  "I  suppose  it  must  have  been  he. 
It  certainly  looks  like  his  handiwork — now,  what  artifice  can 
he  have  used  ?  We  know  how  he  managed  to  have  an  interview 
with  the  Widow  Chupin,  but  how  has  he  succeeded  in  getting 
at  Polyte,  who  is  in  prison,  closely  watched?" 

The  young  detective's  insinuation,  vague  as  it  was,  did  not 
escape  M.  Segmuller.  "What  do  you  mean?"  asked  the  latter, 
with  an  air  of  mingled  surprise  and  indignation.  "You  can't 
suppose  that  one  of  the  keepers  has  been  bribed?" 

Lecoq  shook  his  head,  in  a  somewhat  equivocal  manner.  "I 
mean  nothing,"  he  replied,  "I  don't  suspect  any  one.  All  I 
want  is  information.     Has  Chupin  been  forewarned  or  not?" 

"Yes,  of  course  he  has." 

"Then  if  that  point  is  admitted  it  can  only  be  explained  in 
two  ways.  Either  there  are  informers  in  the  prison,  or  else 
Chupin  has  been  allowed  to  see  some  visitor." 

These  suppositions  evidently  worried  M.  Segmuller,  who 
for  a  moment  seemed  to  hesitate  between  the  two  opinions; 
then,  suddenly  making  up  his  mind,  he  rose  from  his  chair, 
took  up  his  hat,  and  said:  "This  matter  must  be  cleared  up. 
Come  with  me,  Monsieur  Lecoq." 

A  couple  of  minutes  later,  the  magistrate  and  the  detective 


MONSIEUR   LECOQ  163 

had  reached  the  Depot,  which  is  connected  with  the  Palais  de 
Justice  by  a  narrow  passage,  especially  reserved  for  official  use. 
The  prisoners'  morning  rations  had  just  been  served  to  them, 
and  the  governor  was  walking  up  and  down  the  courtyard,  in 
the  company  of  Inspector  Gevrol.  As  soon  as  he  perceived  M. 
Segmuller  he  hastened  toward  him  and  asked  if  he  had  not 
come  about  the  prisoner  May. 

As  the  magistrate  nodded  assent,  the  governor  at  once  added : 
"Well  I  was  only  just  now  telling  Inspector  Gevrol  that  I  was 
very  well  satisfied  with  May's  behavior.  It  has  not  only  been 
quite  unnecessary  to  place  him  in  the  strait-waistcoat  again, 
but  his  mood  seems  to  have  changed  entirely.  He  eats  with  a 
good  appetite ;  he  is  as  gay  as  a  lark,  and  he  constantly  laughs 
and  jests  with  his  keeper." 

Gevrol  had  pricked  up  his  ears  when  he  heard  himself  named 
by  the  governor,  and  considering  this  mention  to  be  a  sufficient 
introduction,  he  thought  there  would  be  no  impropriety  in  his 
listening  to  the  conversation.  Accordingly,  he  approached  the 
others,  and  noted  with  some  satisfaction  the  troubled  glances 
which  Lecoq  and  the  magistrate  exchanged. 

M.  Segmuller  was  plainly  perplexed.  May's  gay  manner  to 
which  the  governor  of  the  Depot  alluded  might  perhaps  have 
been  assumed  for  the  purpose  of  sustaining  his  character  as  a 
jester  and  buffoon,  it  might  be  due  to  a  certainty  of  defeating 
the  judicial  inquiry,  or,  who  knows?  the  prisoner  had  perhaps 
received  some  favorable  news  from  outside. 

With  Lecoq's  last  words  still  ringing  in  his  ears,  it  is  no 
wonder  that  the  magistrate  should  have  dwelt  on  this  last  sup- 
position. "Are  you  quite  sure,"  he  asked,  "that  no  com- 
munication from  outside  can  reach  the  inmates  of  the  secret 
cells  ?" 

The  governor  of  the  Depot  was  cut  to  the  quick  by  M. 
Segmuller's  implied  doubt.  What !  were  his  subordinates  sus- 
pected? Was  his  own  professional  honesty  impugned?  He 
could  not  help  lifting  his  hands  to  heaven  in  mute  protest 
against  such  an  unjust  charge. 

"Am  I  sure?"  he  exclaimed.  "Then  you  can  never  have 
visited  the  secret  cells.  You  have  no  idea,  then,  of  their  situa- 
tion; you  are  unacquainted  with  the  triple  bolts  that  secure 
the  doors ;  the  grating  that  shuts  out  the  sunlight,  to  say  nothing 
of  the  guard  who  walks  beneath  the  windows  day  and  night. 
Why,  a  bird  couldn't  even  reach  the  prisoners  in  those  cells." 


164  MONSIEUR   LECOQ 

Such  a  description  was  bound  to  reassure  the  most  skeptical 
mind,  and  M.  Segmuller  breathed  again:  "Now  that  I  am  easy 
on  that  score,"  said  he,  "I  should  like  some  information  about 
another  prisoner — a  fellow  named  Chupin,  who  isn't  in  the 
secret  cells.  I  want  to  know  if  any  visitor  came  for  him 
yesterday." 

"I  must  speak  to  the  registrar,"  replied  the  governor,  "before 
I  can  answer  you  with  certainty.  Wait  a  moment  though,  here 
comes  a  man  who  can  perhaps  tell  us.  He  is  usually  on  guard 
at  the  entrance.     Here,  Ferraud,  this  way !" 

The  man  to  whom  the  governor  called  hastened  to  obey 
the  summons. 

"Do  you  know  whether  any  one  asked  to  see  the  prisoner 
Chupin  yesterday?" 

"Yes,  sir,  I  went  to  fetch  Chupin  to  the  parlor  myself." 

"And  who  was  his  visitor?"  eagerly  asked  Lecoq,  "wasn't 
he  a  tall  man ;  very  red  in  the  face — " 

"Excuse  me,  sir,  the  visitor  was  a  lady — his  aunt,  at  least  so 
Chupin  told  me." 

Neither  M.  Segmuller  nor  Lecoq  could  restrain  an  excla- 
mation of  surprise.  "What  was  she  like?"  they  both  asked  at 
the  same  time. 

"She  was  short,"  replied  the  attendant,  "with  a  very  fair 
complexion  and  light  hair;  she  seemed  to  be  a  very  respectable 
woman." 

"It  must  have  been  one  of  the  female  fugitives  who  escaped 
from  the  Widow  Chupin's  hovel,"  exclaimed  Lecoq. 

Gevrol,  hitherto  an  attentive  listener,  burst  into  a  loud  laugh. 
"Still  that  Russian  princess,"  said  he. 

Neither  the  magistrate  nor  the  young  detective  relished  this 
unseasonable  jest.  "You  forget  yourself,  sir,"  said  M.  Seg- 
muller severely.  "You  forget  that  the  sneers  you  address  to 
your  comrade  also  apply  to  me !" 

The  General  saw  that  he  had  gone  too  far;  and  while  glanc- 
ing hatefully  at  Lecoq,  he  mumbled  an  apology  to  the  magistrate. 
The  latter  did  not  apparently  hear  him,  for,  bowing  to  the 
governor,  he  motioned  Lecoq  to  follow  him  away. 

"Run  to  the  Prefecture  of  Police,"  he  said  as  soon  as  they 
were  out  of  hearing,  "and  ascertain  how  and  under  what  pre- 
text this  woman  obtained  permission  to  see  Polyte  Chupin." 


MONSIEUR    LECOQ 


165 


/"VN  his  way  back  to  his  office,  M.  Segmuller  mentally  reviewed 
^-^  the  position  of  affairs;  and  came  to  the  conclusion  that 
as  he  had  failed  to  take  the  citadel  of  defense  by  storm,  he 
must  resign  himself  to  a  regular  protracted  siege.  He  was 
exceedingly  annoyed  at  the  constant  failures  that  had  attended 
all  Lecoq's  efforts;  for  time  was  on  the  wing,  and  he  knew 
that  in  a  criminal  investigation  delay  only  increased  the  un- 
certainty of  success.  The  more  promptly  a  crime  is  followed 
by  judicial  action  the  easier  it  is  to  find  the  culprit,  and  prove 
his  guilt.  The  longer  investigation  is  delayed  the  more  difficult 
it  becomes  to  adduce  conclusive  evidence. 

In  the  present  instance  there  were  various  matters  that  M. 
Segmuller  might  at  once  attend  to.  With  which  should  he 
begin?  Ought  he  not  to  confront  May,  the  Widow  Chupin, 
and  Polyte  with  the  bodies  of  their  victims?  Such  horrible 
meetings  have  at  times  the  most  momentous  results,  and  more 
than  one  murderer  when  unsuspectedly  brought  into  the  pres- 
ence of  his  victim's  lifeless  corpse  has  changed  color  and  lost 
his  assurance. 

Then  there  were  other  witnesses  whom  M.  Segmuller  might 
examine.  Papillon,  the  cab-driver ;  the  concierge  of  the  house 
in  the  Rue  de  Bourgogne — where  the  two  women  flying  from 
the  Poivriere  had  momentarily  taken  refuge ;  as  well  as  a  cer- 
tain Madame  Milner,  landlady  of  the  Hotel  de  Mariembourg. 
In  addition,  it  would  also  be  advisable  to  summon,  with  the 
least  possible  delay,  some  of  the  people  residing  in  the  vicinity 
of  the  Poivriere;  together  with  some  of  Polyte's  habitual  com- 
panions, and  the  landlord  of  the  Rainbow,  where  the  victims 
and  the  murderer  had  apparently  passed  the  evening  of  the 
crime.  Of  course,  there  was  no  reason  to  expect  any  great 
revelations  from  any  of  these  witnesses,  still  they  might  know 
something,  they  might  have  an  opinion  to  express,  and  in  the 
present  darkness  one  single  ray  of  light,  however  faint,  might 
mean  salvation. 


166  MONSIEUR    LECOQ 

Obeying  the  magistrate's  orders,  Goguet,  the  smiling  clerk, 
had  just  finished  drawing  up  at  least  a  dozen  summonses,  when 
Lecoq  returned  from  the  Prefecture.  M.  Segmuller  at  once 
asked  him  the  result  of  his  errand. 

"Ah,  sir,"  replied  the  young  detective,  "I  have  a  fresh  proof 
of  that  mysterious  accomplice's  skill.  The  permit  that  was 
used  yesterday  to  see  young  Chupin  was  in  the  name  of  his 
mother's  sister,  a  woman  named  Rose  Pitard.  A  visiting  card 
was  given  her  more  than  a  week  ago,  in  compliance  with  a 
request  indorsed  by  the  commissary  of  police  of  her  district." 

The  magistrate's  surprise  was  so  intense  that  it  imparted  to 
his  face  an  almost  ludicrous  expression.  "Is  this  aunt  also  in 
the  plot?"  he  murmured. 

"I  don't  think  so,"  replied  Lecoq,  shaking  his  head.  "At  all 
events,  it  wasn't  she  who  went  to  the  prison  parlor  yesterday. 
The  clerks  at  the  Prefecture  remember  the  widow's  sister  very 
well,  and  gave  me  a  full  description  of  her.  She's  a  woman 
over  five  feet  high,  with  a  very  dark  complexion ;  and  very 
wrinkled  and  weatherbeaten  about  the  face.  She's  quite  sixty 
years  old ;  whereas,  yesterday's  visitor  was  short  and  fair,  and 
not  more  than  forty-five." 

"If  that's  the  case,"  interrupted  M.  Segmuller,  "this  visitor 
must  be  one  of  our  fugitives." 

"I  don't  think  so." 

"Who  do  you  suppose  she  was,  then?" 

"Why,  the  landlady  of  the  Hotel  de  Mariembourg — that 
clever  woman  who  succeeded  so  well  in  deceiving  me.  But 
she  had  better  take  care !  There  are  means  of  verifying  my 
suspicions." 

The  magistrate  scarcely  heard  Lecoq's  last  words,  so  enraged 
was  he  at  the  inconceivable  audacity  and  devotion  displayed 
by  so  many  people:  all  of  whom  were  apparently  willing  to 
run  the  greatest  risks  so  long  as  they  could  only  assure  the 
murderer's  incognito. 

"But  how  could  the  accomplice  have  known  of  the  existence 
of  this  permit?"  he  asked  after  a  pause. 

"Oh,  nothing  could  be  easier,  sir,"  replied  Lecoq.  "When 
the  Widow  Chupin  and  the  accomplice  had  that  interview  at 
the  station-house  near  the  Barriere  d'ltalie,  they  both  realized 
the  necessity  of  warning  Polyte.  While  trying  to  devise  some 
means  of  getting  to  him,  the  old  woman  remembered  her  sister's 
visiting  card,  and  the  man  made  some  excuse  to  borrow  it." 


MONSIEUR   LECOQ  167 

"Yes,  such  must  be  the  case,"  said  M.  Segmuller,  approv- 
ingly.   "It  will  be  necessary  to  ascertain,  however — " 

"And  I  will  ascertain,''  interrupted  Lecoq,  with  a  resolute 
air,  "if  you  will  only  intrust  the  matter  to  me,  sir.  If  you 
will  authorize  me  I  will  have  two  spies  on  the  watch  before 
to-night,  one  in  the  Rue  de  la  Butte-aux-Cailles,  and  the 
other  at  the  door  of  the  Hotel  de  Mariembourg.  If  the  accom- 
plice ventured  to  visit  Toinon  or  Madame  Milner  he  would  be 
arrested ;  and  then  we  should  have  our  turn !" 

However,  there  was  no  time  to  waste  in  vain  words  and  idle 
boasting.  Lecoq  therefore  checked  himself,  and  took  up  his 
hat  preparatory  to  departure.  "Now,"  said  he,  "I  must  ask 
you,  sir,  for  my  liberty;  if  you  have  any  orders,  you  will  find 
a  trusty  messenger  in  the  corridor.  Father  Absinthe,  one  of 
mj  colleagues.  I  want  to  find  out  something  about  Lache- 
neur's  letter  and  the  diamond  earring." 

"Go,  then,"  replied  M.  Segmuller.  "and  good  luck  to  you!*' 

Good  luck !  Yes,  indeed.  Lecoq  looked  for  it.  If  up  to  the 
present  moment  he  had  taken  his  successive  defeats  good- 
humoredly,  it  was  because  he  believed  that  he  had  a  talisman 
in  his  pocket  which  was  bound  to  insure  ultimate  victory. 

"I  shall  be  very  stupid  if  I  can't  discover  the  owner  of  such 
a  valuable  jewel,"  he  soliloquized,  referring  to  the  diamond 
earring.  "And  when  I  find  the  owner  I  shall  at  the  same  time 
discover  our  mysterious  prisoner's  identity." 

The  first  step  to  be  taken  was  to  ascertain  whom  the  earring 
had  been  bought  from.  It  would  naturally  be  a  tedious  proc- 
ess to  go  from  jeweler  to  jeweler  and  ask:  "Do  you  know  this 
jewel,  was  it  set  by  you,  and  if  so  whom  did  you  sell  it  to?" 
But  fortunately  Lecoq  was  acquainted  with  a  man  whose  knowl- 
edge of  the  trade  might  at  once  throw  light  on  the  matter. 
This  individual  was  an  old  Hollander,  named  Van  Numen, 
who,  as  a  connoisseur  in  precious  stones,  was  probably  with- 
out his  rival  in  Paris.  He  was  employed  by  the  Prefecture  of 
Police  as  an  expert  in  all  such  matters.  He  was  considered 
rich.  Despite  his  shabby  appearance,  he  was  rightly  considered 
rich,  and,  in  point  of  fact,  he  was  indeed  far  more  wealthy 
than  people  generally  supposed.  Diamonds  were  his  especial 
passion,  and  he  always  had  several  in  his  pocket,  in  a  little 
box  which  he  would  pull  out  and  open  at  least  a  dozen  times 
an  hour,  just  as  a  snuff -taker  continually  produces  his  snuff- 
box. 


168  MONSIEUR   LECOQ 

This  worthy  man  greeted  Lecoq  very  affably.  He  put  on  his 
glasses,  examined  the  jewel  with  a  grimace  of  satisfaction,  and, 
in  the  tone  of  an  oracle,  remarked:  "That  stone  is  worth  eight 
thousand  francs,  and  it  was  set  by  Doisty,  in  the  Rue  de  la 
Paix." 

Twenty  minutes  later  Lecoq  entered  this  well-known  jeweler's 
establishment.  Van  Numen  had  not  been  mistaken.  Doisty 
immediately  recognized  the  earring,  which  had,  indeed,  come 
from  his  shop.  But  whom  had  he  sold  it  to?  He  could  not 
recollect,  for  it  had  passed  out  of  his  hands  three  or  four  years 
before. 

"Wait  a  moment  though,"  said  he,  "I  will  just  ask  my  wife, 
who  has  a  wonderful  memory." 

Madame  Doisty  truly  deserved  this  eulogium.  A  single  glance 
at  the  jewel  enabled  her  to  say  that  she  had  seen  this  earrmg 
before,  and  that  the  pair  had  been  purchased  from  them  by  the 
Marchioness  d'Arlange. 

"You  must  recollect,"  she  added,  turning  to  her  husband, 
"that  the  Marchioness  only  gave  us  nine  thousand  francs  on 
account,  and  that  we  had  all  the  trouble  in  the  world  to  make 
her  pay  the  balance." 

Her  husband  did  remember  this  circumstance;  and  in  record- 
ing his  recollection,  he  exchanged  a  significant  glance  with  his 
wife. 

"Now,"  said  the  detective,  "I  should  like  to  have  this 
marchioness's  address." 

"She  lives  in  the  Faubourg  St.  Germain,"  replied  Madame 
Doisty,  "near  the  Esplanade  des  Invalides." 

Lecoq  had  refrained  from  any  sign  of  satisfaction  while  he 
was  in  the  jeweler's  presence.  But  directly  he  had  left  the 
shop  he  evinced  such  delirious  joy  that  the  passers-by  asked 
themselves  in  amazement  if  he  were  not  mad.  He  did  not 
walk,  but  fairly  danced  over  the  stones,  gesticulating  in  the 
most  ridiculous  fashion  as  he  addressed  this  triumphant  mono- 
logue to  the  empty  air:  "At  last,"  said  he,  "this  affair  emerges 
from  the  mystery  that  h^=  enshrou.ied  it.  At  /ast  I  reach  the 
veritable  actors  in  the  drama,  the  txaited  personages  whose 
existence  I  had  suspected.  Ah !  Gevrol,  my  illustrious  Gen- 
eral !  you  talked  about  a  Russian  princess,  but  you  will  be 
obliged  to  content  yourself  with  a  simple  marchioness." 

But  the  vertigo  that  had  seized  the  young  detective  gradually 
disappeared.      His   good    sense   reasserted   itself,    and,    looking 


MONSIEUR   LECOQ  169 

calmly  at  the  situation,  he  felt  that  he  should  need  all  his 
presence  of  mind,  penetration,  and  sagacity  to  bring  the  expe- 
dition to  a  successful  finish.  What  course  should  he  pursue, 
on  entering  the  marchioness's  presence,  in  order  to  draw  from 
her  a  full  confession  and  to  obtain  full  particulars  of  the  mur- 
der, as  well  as  the  murderer's  name ! 

"It  will  be  best  to  threaten  her,  to  frighten  her  into  con- 
fession," he  soliloquized.  "If  I  give  her  time  for  reflection, 
I  shall  learn  nothing." 

He  paused  in  his  cogitations,  for  he  had  reached  the  resi- 
dence of  the  Marchioness  d'Arlange — a  charming  mansion  with 
a  courtyard  in  front  and  garden  in  the  rear.  Before  entering, 
he  deemed  it  advisable  to  obtain  some  information  concerning 
the  inmates. 

"It  is  here,  then,"  he  murmured,  "that  I  am  to  find  the  solu- 
tion of  the  enigma !  Here,  behind  these  embroidered  curtains, 
dwells  the  frightened  fugitive  of  the  other  night.  What  agony 
of  fear  must  torture  her  since  she  has  discovered  the  loss  of 
her  earring !" 

For  more  than  an  hour,  standing  under  a  neighbor's  porte 
cochere,  Lecoq  remained  watching  the  house.  He  would  have 
liked  to  see  the  face  of  any  one ;  but  the  time  passed  by  and 
not  even  a  shadow  could  be  detected  behind  the  curtain;  not 
even  a  servant  passed  across  the  courtyard.  At  last,  losing 
patience,  the  young  detective  determined  to  make  inquiries  in 
the  neighborhood,  for  he  could  not  take  a  decisive  step  without 
obtaining  some  knowledge  of  the  people  he  was  to  encounter. 
While  wondering  where  he  could  obtain  the  information  he 
required,  he  perceived,  on  the  opposite  side  of  the  street,  the 
keeper  of  a  wine-shop  smoking  on  his  doorstep. 

At  once  approaching  and  pretending  that  he  had  forgotten 
an  address,  Lecoq  politely  asked  for  the  house  where  March- 
ioness d'Arlange  resided.  Without  a  word,  and  Avithout  con- 
descending to  take  his  pipe  from  his  mouth,  the  man  pointed 
to  the  mansion  which  Lecoq  had  previously  watched. 

There  was  a  way,  however,  to  make  him  more  communica- 
tive, namely,  to  enter  the^shop,  call  for  something  to  drink,  and 
invite  the  landlord  to  drink  as  well.  This  was  what  Lecoq  did, 
and  the  sight  of  two  well-filled  glasses  unbound,  as  by  enchant- 
ment, the  man's  hitherto  silent  tongue.  The  young  detective 
could  not  have  found  a  better  person  to  question,  for  this 
same  individual  had  been  established  in  the  neighborhood  for 

8 — Vol.  I — Gab. 


170  MONSIEUR    LECOQ 

ten  years,  and  enjoyed  among  the  servants  of  the  aristocratic 
families  here  residing  a  certain  amount  of  confidence. 

"I  pity  you  if  you  are  going  to  the  marchioness's  house  to 
collect  a  bill,"  he  remarked  to  Lecoq.  "You  will  have  plenty 
of  time  to  learn  the  way  here  before  you  see  your  money.  You 
will  only  be  another  of  the  many  creditors  who  never  let  her 
bell  alone." 

"The  deuce!     Is  she  as  poor  as  that?" 

"Poor !  Why,  every  one  knows  that  she  has  a  comfortable 
income,  without  counting  this  house.  But  when  one  spends 
double  one's  income  every  year,  you  know — " 

The  landlord  stopped  short,  to  call  Lecoq's  attention  to  two 
ladies  who  were  passing  along  the  street,  one  of  them,  a  woman 
of  forty,  dressed  in  black ;  the  other,  a  girl  half-way  through 
her  teens.  "There,"  quoth  the  wine-seller,  "goes  the  march- 
ioness's granddaughter,  Mademoiselle  Claire,  with  her  gover- 
ness, Mademoiselle  Smith." 

Lecoq's  head  whirled.     "Her  granddaughter !"  he  stammered. 

"Yes — the  daughter  of  her  deceased  son,  if  you  prefer  it." 

"How  old  is  the  marchioness,  then?" 

"At  least  sixty :  but  one  would  never  suspect  it.  She  is  one 
of  those  persons  who  live  a  hundred  years.  And  what  an  old 
wretch  she  is  too.  She  would  think  no  more  of  knocking  me 
over  the  head  than  I  would  of  emptying  this  glass  of  wine — " 

"Excuse  me,"  interrupted  Lecoq,  "but  does  she  live  alone 
in  that  great  house?" 

"Yes — that  is — with  her  granddaughter,  the  governess,  and 
two  servants.     But  what  is  the  matter  with  you?" 

This  last  question  was  not  uncalled  for ;  for  Lecoq  had  turned 
deadly  white.  The  magic  edifice  of  his  hopes  had  crumbled 
beneath  the  weight  of  this  man's  words  as  completely  as  if  it 
were  some  frail  house  of  cards  erected  by  a  child.  He  had  only 
sufficient  strength  to  murmur :  "Nothing — nothing  at  all." 

Then,  as  he  could  endure  this  torture  of  uncertainty  no 
longer,  he  went  toward  the  marchioness's  house  and  rang  the 
bell.  The  servant  who  came  to  open  the  door  examined  him 
attentively,  and  then  announced  that 'Madame  d'Arlange  was 
in  the  country.  He  evidently  fancied  that  Lecoq  was  a 
creditor. 

But  the  young  detective  insisted  so  adroitly,  giving  the  lackey 
to  understand  so  explicitly  that  he  did  not  come  to  collect 
money,  and  speaking  so  earnestly  of  urgent  business,  that  the 


MONSIEUR   LECOQ  171 

servant  finally  admitted  him  to  the  hall,  saying  that  he  would 
go  and  see  if  madame  had  really  gone  out. 

Fortunately  for  Lecoq,  she  happened  to  be  at  home,  and  an 
instant  afterward  the  valet  returned  requesting  the  young  de- 
tective to  follow  him.  After  passing  through  a  large  and 
magnificently  furnished  drawing-room,  they  reached  a  charming 
boudoir,  hung  with  rose-colored  curtains,  where,  sitting  by  the 
fireside,  in  a  large  easy-chair,  Lecoq  found  an  old  woman,  tall, 
bony,  and  terrible  of  aspect,  her  face  loaded  with  paint,  and 
her  person  covered  with  ornaments.  Th  aged  coquette  was 
Madame,  the  Marchioness,  who,  for  the  time  being,  was  engaged 
in  knitting  a  stripe  of  green  wool.  She  turned  toward  her 
visitor  just  enough  to  show  him  the  rouge  on  one  cheek,  and 
then,  as  he  seemed  rathe/  frightened — ..  fact  flattering  to  her 
vanity — she  spoke  in  an  affable  tone.  "Ah,  well !  young  man," 
said  she,  "what  brings  you  here?" 

In  point  of  fact,  Lecoq  was  not  frightened,  but  he  was  in- 
tensely disappointed  to  find  that  Madame  d'Arlange  could  not 
possibly  be  one  of  the  women  who  hau  escaped  fr^m  the  Widow 
Chupin's  hovel  on  the  night  of  the  murder.  There  was  nothing 
about  her  appearance  that  corresponded  iu  the  least  degree  with 
the  descriptions  given  by  Papillon. 

Remembering  the  small  footprints  left  in  the  snow  by  the 
two  fugitives,  the  young  detective  glanced,  moreover,  at  the 
marchioness's  feet,  just  perceivabk  beneati.  her  skirt,  and  his 
disappointment  reached  its  climax  when  he  found  that  they 
were  truly  colossal  in  size. 

"Well,  are  you  dumb?"  inquired  the  old  lady,  raising  her 
voice. 

Without  making  a  direct  reply,  Lecoq  produced  the  precious 
earring,  and,  placing  it  upon  the  table  beside  the  marchioness, 
remarked:  "I  bring  you  this  jewel,  madame,  which  I  have 
found,  and  which,  I  am  told,  belongs  to  you." 

Madame  de'Arlange  laid  down  her  knitting  and  proceeded 
to  examine  the  earring.  "It  is  true,"  she  said,  after  a  moment, 
"that  this  ornament  formerly  belonged  to  me.  It  was  a  fancy 
I  had,  about  four  years  ago,  and  it  cost  me  dear — at  least 
twenty  thousand  francs.  Ah!  Doisty,  the  man  who  sold  me 
those  diamonds,  must  make  a  handsome  income.  But  I  had  a 
granddaughter  to  educate !  and  pressing  need  of  money  com- 
pelled me  to  sell  them." 

"To  whom?"  asked  Lecoq,  eagerly. 


172  MONSIEUR   LECOQ 

"Eh?"  exclaimed  the  old  lady,  evidently  shocked  at  his 
audacity,  "you  are  very  inquisitive  upon  my  word !" 

"Excuse  me.  madame,  but  I  am  anxious  to  find  the  owner 
of  this  valuable  ornament." 

Madame  d'Arlange  regarded  her  visitor  with  an  air  of  min- 
gled curiosity  and  surprise.  "Such  honesty !"  said  she.  "Oh, 
oh !  And  of  course  you  don't  hope  for  a  sou  by  way  of 
reward — " 

"Madame !" 

"Good,  good !  There  is  not  the  least  need  for  you  to  turn 
as  red  as  a  poppy,  young  man.  I  sold  these  diamonds  to  a 
great  Austrian  lady — the  Baroness  de  Watchau." 

"And  where  does  this  lady  reside?-' 

"At  the  Pere  la  Chaise,  probably,  since  she  died  about  a 
year  ago.  Ah  !  these  women  of  the  present  day — an  extra  waltz, 
or  the  merest  draft,  and  it's  all  over  with  them  !  In  my  time, 
after  each  gallop,  we  girls  used  to  swallow  a  tumbler  of  sweet- 
ened wine,  and  sit  down  between  two  open  doors.  And  we  did 
very  well,  as  you  see." 

"But,  madame,"  insisted  Lecoq,  "the  Baroness  de  Watchau 
must  have  left  some  one  behind  her — a  husband,  or  children — " 

"No  one  but  a  brother,  who  holds  a  court  position  at  Vienna : 
and  who  could  not  leave  even  to  attend  the  funeral.  He  sent 
orders  that  all  his  sister's  personal  property  should  be  sold — 
not  even  excepting  her  wardrobe — and  the  money  sent  to  him." 

Lecoq  could  not  repress  an  exclamation  of  disappointment. 
"How  unfortunate !"  he  murmured. 

"Why?"  asked  the  old  lady.  "Under  these  circumstances,  the 
diamond  will  probably  remain  in  your  hands,  and  I  am  rejoiced 
that  it  should  be  so.  It  will  be  a  fitting  reward  for  your 
honesty." 

Madame  d'Arlange  was  naturally  not  aware  that  her  remark 
implied  the  most  exquisite  torture  for  Lecoq.  Ah  !  if  it  should 
be  as  she  said,  if  he  should  never  find  the  lady  who  had  lost 
this  costly  jewel !  Smarting  under  the  marchioness's  unintended 
irony,  he  would  have  liked  to  apostrophize  her  in  angry  terms ; 
but  it  could  not  be,  for  it  was  advisable  if  not  absolutely  neces- 
sary that  he  should  conceal  his  true  identity.  Accordingly,  he 
contrived  to  smile,  and  even  stammered  an  acknowledgment 
of  Madame  d'Arlange's  good  wishes.  Then,  as  if  he  had  no 
more  to  expect,  he  made  her  a  low  bow  and  withdrew. 

This  new  misfortune  well-nigh  overwhelmed  him.     One  by 


MONSIEUR   LECOQ  173 

one  all  the  threads  upon  which  he  had  relied  to  guide  him  out 
of  this  intricate  labyrinth  were  breaking  in  his  hands.  In  the 
present  instance  he  could  scarcely  be  the  dupe  of  some  fresh 
comedy,  for  if  the  murderer's  accomplice  had  taken  Doisty.  the 
jeweler,  into  his  confidence  he  would  have  instructed  him  to 
say  that  the  earring  had  never  come  from  his  establishment, 
and  that  he  could  not  consequently  tell  whom  it  had  been  sold  to. 
On  the  contrary,  however,  Doisty  and  his  wife  had  readily  given 
Madame  d'Arlange's  name,  and  all  the  circumstances  pointed  in 
favor  of  their  sincerity.  Then,  again,  there  was  good  reason 
to  believe  in  the  veracity  of  the  marchioness's  assertions.  They 
were  .sufficiently  authenticated  by  a  significant  glance  which 
Lecoq  had  detected  between  the  jeweler  and  his  wife.  The 
meaning  of  this  glance  could  not  Lj  doubted.  It  implied  plainly 
that  both  husband  and  wife  were  of  opinion  that  in  buying 
these  earrings  the  marchioness  engaged  in  one  of  those  little 
speculations  which  are  more  common  than  many  people  might 
suppose  among  ladies  moving  in  high-class  society.  Being  in 
urgent  want  of  ready  money,  she  had  bought  on  credit  at  a  high 
price  to  sell  for  cash  at  a  loss. 

As  Lecoq  was  anxious  to  investigate  the  matter  as  far  as 
possible,  he  returned  to  Doisty'^  establishment,  and,  by  a  plaus- 
ible pretext,  succeeded  in  gaining  a  sight  of  the  books  in  which 
the  jeweler  recorded  his  transactions.  He  soon  found  the  sale 
of  the  earrings  duly  recorded — specified  by  Madame  Doisty  at 
the  date — both  in  the  day-book  and  the  ledger.  Madame  d'Ar- 
lange  first  paid  9,000  francs  on  account  and  the  balance  of 
the  purchase  money  (an  equivalent  sum)  haa  been  received 
in  instalments  at  long  intervals  subsequently.  Now,  if  it  had 
been  easy  for  Madame  Milner  tc  make  a  false  entry  in  her 
traveler's  registry  at  the  Hotel  de  Mariembourg,  it  was  absurd 
to  suppose  that  the  jeweler  had  falsified  all  his  accounts  for 
four  years.  Hence,  the  facts  were  indisputable;  and  yet,  the 
young  detective  was  not  satisfied. 

He  hurried  to  the  Faubourg  Saint  Honore,  to  the  house  for- 
merly occupied  by  the  Baroness  de  Watchau,  and  there  found 
a  good-natured  concierge,  who  at  once  informed  him  that  after 
the  Baroness's  death  her  furniture  and  personal  effects  had 
been  taken  to  the  great  auction  mart  in  the  Rue  Drouot ;  the 
sale  being  conducted  by  M.  Petit,  the  eminent  auctioneer. 

Without  losing  a  minute,  Lecoq  hastened  to  this  individual's 
office.     M.  Petit  remembered  the  Watchau  sale  very  well;  it 


174  MONSIEUR   LECOQ 

had  made  quite  a  sensation  at  the  time,  and  on  searching 
among  his  papers  he  soon  found  a  long  catalogue  of  the  various 
articles  sold.  Several  lots  of  jewelry  were  mentioned,  with 
the  sums  paid,  and  the  names  of  the  purchasers ;  but  there  was 
not  the  slightest  allusion  to  these  particular  earrings.  When 
Lecoq  produced  the  diamond  he  had  in  his  pocket,  the  auctioneer 
could  not  remember  that  he  had  ever  seen  it;  though  of  course 
this  was  no  evidence  to  the  contrary,  for,  as  he  himself  re- 
marked,— so  many  articles  passed  through  his  hands  !  However, 
this  much  he  could  declare  upon  oath ;  the  baroness's  brother, 
her  only  heir,  had  preserved  nothing — not  so  much  as  a  pin's 
worth  of  his  sister's  effects:  although  he  had  been  in  a  great 
hurry  to  receive  the  proceeds,  which  amounted  to  the  pleasant 
sum  of  one  hundred  and  sixty-seven  thousand  five  hundred  and 
thirty  francs,  all  expenses  deducted. 

"Everything  this  lady  possessed  was  sold?"  inquired  Lecoq. 

"Everything." 

"And  what  is  the  name  of  this  brother  of  hers?" 

"Watchau,  also.  The  baroness  had  probably  married  one  of 
her  relatives.  Until  last  year  her  brother  occupied  a  very  promi- 
nent diplomatic  position.    I  think  he  now  resides  at  Berlin." 

Certainly  this  information  would  not  seem  to  indicate  that 
the  auctioneer  had  been  tampered  with;  and  yet  Lecoq  was 
not  satisfied.  "It  is  very  strange,"  he  thought,  as  he  walked 
toward  his  lodgings,  "that  whichever  side  I  turn,  in  this  affair, 
I  find  mention  of  Germany.  The  murderer  comes  from  Leipsic, 
Madame  Milner  must  be  a  Bavarian,  and  now  here  is  an  Aus- 
trian baroness." 

It  was  too  late  to  make  any  further  inquiries  that  evening, 
and  Lecoq  went  to  bed;  but  the  next  morning,  at  an  early 
hour,  he  resumed  his  investigations  with  fresh  ardor.  There 
now  seemed  only  one  remaining  clue  to  success:  the  letter 
signed  "Lacheneur,"  which  had  been  found  in  the  pocket  of 
the  murdered  soldier.  This  letter,  judging  from  the  half- 
effaced  heading  at  the  top  of  the  note-paper,  must  have  been 
written  in  some  cafe  on  the  Boulevard  Beaumarchais.  To  dis- 
cover which  precise  cafe  would  be  mere  child's  play;  and 
indeed  the  fourth  landlord  to  whom  Lecoq  exhibited  the  letter 
recognized  the  paper  as  his.  But  neither  he,  nor  his  wife,  nor 
the  young  lady  at  the  counter,  nor  the  waiters,  nor  any  of  the 
customers  present  at  the  time,  had  ever  once  heard  mention 
made  of  this  singular  name — Lacheneur. 


MONSIEUR    LECOQ  175 

And  now  what  was  Lecoq  to  do?  Was  the  case  utterly 
hopeless?  Not  yet.  Had  not  the  spurious  soldier  declared 
that  this  Lacheneur  was  an  old  comedian?  Seizing  upon  this 
frail  clue,  as  a  drowning  man  clutches  at  the  merest  fragment 
of  the  floating  wreck,  Lecoq  turned  his  steps  in  another  direc- 
tion, and  hurried  from  theatre  to  theatre,  asking  every  one, 
from  doorkeeper  to  manager:  "Don't  you  know  an  actor  named 
Lacheneur  ?" 

Alas !  one  and  all  gave  a  negative  reply,  at  times  indulging 
in  some  rough  joke  at  the  oddity  of  the  name.  And  when  any 
one  asked  the  young  detective  what  the  man  he  was  seeking 
was  like,  what  could  he  reply?  His  answer  was  necessarily 
limited  to  the  virtuous  Toinon's  phrase :  "I  thought  him  a  very 
respectable-looking  gentleman."  This  was  not  a  very  graphic 
description,  however,  and,  besides,  it  was  rather  doubtful  what 
a  woman  like  Polyte  Chupin's  wife  might  mean  by  the  word 
"respectable."  Did  she  apply  it  to  the  man's  age,  to  his  per- 
sonal aspect,  or  to  his  apparent  fortune. 

Sometimes  those  whom  Lecoq  questioned  would  ask  what 
parts  this  comedian  of  his  was  in  the  habit  of  playing;  and 
then  the  young  detective  could  make  no  reply  whatever.  He 
kept  for  himself  the  harassing  thought  that  the  role  now  being 
performed  by  the  unknown  Lacheneur  was  driving  him — Lecoq 
— wild  with  despair. 

Eventually  our  hero  had  recourse  to  a  method  of  investiga- 
tion which,  strange  to  say,  the  police  seldom  employ,  save  in 
extreme  cases,  although  it  is  at  once  sensible  and  simple,  and 
generally  fraught  with  success.  It  consists  in  examining  all 
the  hotel  and  lodging-house  registers,  in  which  the  landlords 
are  compelled  to  record  the  names  of  their  tenants,  even  should 
the  latter  merely  sojourn  under  their  roofs  for  a  single  night. 

Rising  long  before  daybreak  and  going  to  bed  late  at  night, 
Lecoq  spent  all  his  time  in  visiting  the  countless  hotels  and 
furnished  lodgings  in  Paris.  But  still  and  ever  his  search  was 
vain.  He  never  once  came  across  the  name  of  Lacheneur ;  and 
at  last  he  began  to  ask  himself  if  such  a  name  really  existed, 
or  if  it  were  not  some  pseudonym  invented  for  convenience. 
He  had  not  found  it  even  in  Didot's  directory,  the  so-called 
"Almanach  Boitin,"  where  one  finds  all  the  most  singular  and 
absurd  names  in  France — those  which  are  formed  of  the  most 
fantastic  mingling  of  syllables. 

Still,  nothing  could  daunt  him  or  turn  him  from  the  almost 


176 


MONSIEUR    LECOQ 


impossible  task  he  had  undertaken,  and  his  obstinate  perse- 
verance well-nigh  developed  into  monomania.  He  was  no 
longer  subject  to  occasional  outbursts  of  anger,  quickly  re- 
pressed ;  but  lived  in  a  state  of  constant  exasperation,  which 
soon  impaired  the  clearness  of  his  mind.  No  more  theories, 
or  ingenious  deductions,  no  more  subtle  reasoning.  He  pur- 
sued his  search  without  method  and  without  order — much  as 
Father  Absinthe  might  have  done  when  under  the  influence 
of  alcohol.  Perhaps  he  had  come  to  rely  less  upon  his  own 
shrewdness  than  upon  chance  to  reveal  to  him  the  substance  of 
the  mystery,  of  which  he  had  as  yet  only  detected  the  shadow. 


'fXT'HEN  a  heavy  stone  is  thrown  into  a  lake  a  considerable 
*  v  commotion  ensues,  the  water  spouts  and  seethes  and  bub- 
bles and  frequently  a  tall  jet  leaps  into  the  air.  But  all  this 
agitation  only  lasts  for  a  moment;  the  bubbling  subsides  as  the 
circles  of  the  passing  whirlpool  grow  larger  and  larger;  the 
surface  regains  at  last  its  customary  smoothness ;  and  soon  no 
trace  remains  of  the  passage  of  the  stone,  now  buried  in  the 
depths  below. 

So  it  is  with  the  events  of  our  daily  life,  however  momentous 
they  may  appear  at  the  hour  of  their  occurrence.  It  seems  as 
if  their  impressions  would  last  for  years ;  but  no,  they  speedily 
sink  into  the  depths  of  the  past,  and  time  obliterates  their  pas- 
sage— just  as  the  water  of  the  lake  closes  over  and  hides  the 
stone,  for  an  instant  the  cause  of  such  commotion.  Thus  it  was 
that  at  the  end  of  a  fortnight  the  frightful  crime  committed  in 
the  Widow  Chupin's  drinking-den,  the  triple  murder  which  had 
made  all  Paris  shudder,  which  had  furnished  the  material  for 
so  many  newspaper  articles,  and  the  topic  for  such  indignant 
comments,  was  completely  forgotten.  Indeed,  had  the  tragedy 
at  the  Poivriere  occurred  in  the  times  of  Charlemagne,  it 
could  not  have  passed  more  thoroughly  out  of  people's  minds. 
It  was  remembered  only  in  three  places,  at  the  Depot,  at  the 
Prefecture  de  Police,  and  at  the  Palais  de  Justice. 


MONSIEUR    LECOQ  177 

M.  Segmuller's  repeated  efforts  had  proved  as  unsuccessful 
as  Lecoq's.  Skilful  questioning,  ingenious  insinuations,  forcible 
threats,  and  seductive  promises  had  proved  powerless  to  over- 
come the  dogged  spirit  of  absolute  denial  which  persistently 
animated,  not  merely  the  prisoner  May,  but  also  the  Widow 
Chupin,  her  son  Polyte,  Toinon  the  Viituous,  and  Madame 
Milner.  The  evidence  of  these  various  witnesses  showed  plainly 
enough  that  they  were  all  in  league  with  the  mysterious  accom- 
plice ;  but  what  did  this  knowledge  avail  ?  Their  attitude  never 
varied !  And,  even  if  at  times  their  looks  gave  the  lie  to  their 
denials,  one  could  always  read  in  their  eyes  an  unshaken 
determination  to  conceal  the  truth. 

There  were  moments  when  the  magistrate,  overpowered  by 
a  sense  of  the  insufficiency  of  the  purely  moral  weapons  at  his 
disposal,  almost  regretted  that  the  Inquisition  was  suppressed. 
Yes,  in  presence  of  the  lies  that  were  told  him,  lies  so  impu- 
dent that  they  were  almost  insults,  he  no  longer  wondered  at 
the  judicial  cruelties  of  the  Middle  Ages,  or  at  the  use  of  the 
muscle-breaking  rack,  the  flesh-burning,  red-hot  pincers,  and 
other  horrible  instruments,  which,  by  the  physical  torture  they 
inflicted,  forced  the  most  obstinate  culprit  to  confess.  The 
prisoner  May's  manner  was  virtually  unaltered ;  and  far  from 
showing  any  signs  of  weakness,  his  assurance  had,  if  anything, 
increased,  as  though  he  were  confident  of  ultimate  victory  and 
as  though  he  had  in  some  way  learned  that  the  prosecution 
had  failed  to  make  the  slightest  progress. 

On  one  occasion,  when  summoned  before  M.  Segmuller,  he 
ventured  to  remark  in  a  tone  of  covert  irony :  "Why  do  you 
keep  me  confined  so  long  in  a  secret  cell  ?  Am  I  never  to  be 
set  at  liberty  or  sent  to  the  assizes.  Am  I  to  suffer  much 
longer  on  account  of  your  fantastic  idea  that  I  am  some  great 
personage  in  disguise?" 

"I  shall  keep  you  until  you  have  confessed,"  was  M.  Seg- 
muller's answer. 

"Confessed  what?" 

"Oh !  you  know   very  well." 

The  prisoner  shrugged  his  shoulders  at  these  last  words,  and 
then  in  a  tone  of  mingled  despondency  and  mockery  retorted : 
"In  that  case  there  is  no  hope  of  my  ever  leaving  this  cursed 
prison !" 

It  was  probably  this  conviction  that  induced  him  to  make 
all   seeming  preparations   for   an   indefinite   stay.     He  applied 


178  MONSIEUR   LECOQ 

for  and  obtained  a  portion  of  the  contents  of  the  trunk  found 
at  the  Hotel  de  Mariembourg,  and  evinced  great  joy  when  the 
various  knickknacks  and  articles  of  clothing  were  handed  over 
to  him.  Thanks  to  the  money  found  upon  his  person  when 
arrested,  and  deposited  with  the  prison  registrar,  he  was, 
moreover,  able  to  procure  many  little  luxuries,  which  are 
never  denied  to  unconvicted  prisoners,  no  matter  what 
may  be  the  charges  against  them,  for  they  have  a  right 
to  be  considered  as  innocent  until  a  jury  has  decided  to  the 
contrary.  To  while  away  the  time,  May  next  asked  for  a 
volume  of  Beranger's  songs,  and  his  request  being  granted, 
he  spent  most  of  the  day  in  learning  several  of  the  ditties  by 
heart,  singing  them  in  a  loud  voice  and  with  considerable 
taste.  This  fancy  having  excited  some  comment,  he  pretended 
that  he  was  cultivating  a  talent  which  might  be  useful  to  him 
when  he  was  set  at  liberty.  For  he  had  no  doubt  of  his 
acquittal;  at  least,  so  he  declared;  and  if  he  were  anxious 
about  the  date  of  his  trial,  he  did  not  show  the  slightest  appre- 
hension concerning  its  result. 

He  was  never  despondent  save  when  he  spoke  of  his  pro- 
fession. To  all  appearance  he  pined  for  the  stage,  and,  in 
fact,  he  almost  wept  when  he  recalled  the  fantastic,  many- 
colored  costumes,  clad  in  which  he  had  once  appeared  before 
crowded  audiences — audiences  that  had  been  convulsed  with 
laughter  by  his  sallies  of  wit,  delivered  between  bursts  of 
noisy  music.  He  seemed  to  have  become  altogether  a  better 
fellow ;  more  frank,  communicative,  and  submissive.  He 
eagerly  embraced  every  opportunity  to  babble  about  his  past, 
and  over  and  over  again  did  he  recount  the  adventures  of  the 
roving  life  he  had  led  while  in  the  employ  of  M.  Simpson,  the 
showman.  He  had,  of  course,  traveled  a  great  deal;  and  he 
remembered  everything  he  had  seen ;  possessing,  moreover,  an 
inexhaustible  fund  of  amusing  stories,  with  which  he  enter- 
tained his  custodians.  His  manner  and  his  words  were  so 
natural  that  head  keepers  and  subordinate  turnkeys  alike  were 
quite  willing  to  give  credit  to  his  assertions. 

The  governor  of  the  Depot  alone  remained  unconvinced. 
He  had  declared  that  this  pretended  buffoon  must  be  some 
dangerous  criminal  who  had  escaped  from  Cayenne,  and  who 
for  this  reason  was  determined  to  conceal  his  antecedents. 
Such  being  this  functionary's  opinion,  he  tried  every  means 
to   substantiate   it.     Accordingly,   during   an   entire   fortnight, 


MONSIEUR   LECOQ  179 

May  was  submitted  to  the  scrutiny  of  innumerable  members 
of  the  police  force,  to  whom  were  added  all  the  more  notable 
private  detectives  of  the  capital.  No  one  recognized  him, 
however,  and  although  his  photograph  was  sent  to  all  the 
prisons  and  police  stations  of  the  empire,  not  one  of  the 
officials  could  recognize  his  features. 

Other  circumstances  occurred,  each  of  which  had  its  influ- 
ence, and  one  and  all  of  them  speaking  in  the  prisoner's  favor. 
For  instance,  the  second  bureau  of  the  Prefecture  de  Police 
found  positive  traces  of  the  existence  of  a  strolling  artist, 
named  Tringlot,  who  was  probably  the  man  referred  to  in 
May's  story.  This  Tringlot  had  been  dead  several  years. 
Then  again,  inquiries  made  in  Germany  revealed  the  fact  that 
a  certain  M.  Simpson  was  very  well  known  in  that  country, 
where  he  had  achieved  great  celebrity  as  a  circus  manager. 

In  presence  of  this  information  and  the  negative  result  of 
the  scrutiny  to  which  May  had  been  subjected,  the  governor 
of  the  Depot  abandoned  his  views  and  openly  confessed  that 
he  had  been  mistaken.  "The  prisoner,  May,"  he  wrote  to  the 
magistrate,  "is  really  and  truly  what  he  pretends  to  be.  There 
can  be  no  further  doubt  on  the  subject."  This  message,  it  may 
be  added,  was  sent  at  Gevrol's  instigation. 

So  thus  it  was  that  M.  Segmuller  and  Lecoq  alone  remained 
of  their  opinion.  This  opinion  was  at  least  worthy  of  consid- 
eration, as  they  alone  knew  all  the  detaiL  of  the  investigation 
which  had  been  conducted  with  such  strict  secrecy;  and  yet  this 
fact  was  of  little  import.  It  is  not  merely  unpleasant,  but 
often  extremely  dangerous  to  struggle  on  against  all  the  world, 
and  unfortunately  for  truth  and  logic  one  man's  opinion,  cor- 
rect though  it  may  be,  is  nothing  in  the  balance  of  daily  life 
against  the  faulty  views  of  a  thousand  adversaries. 

The  "May  affair"  had  soon  become  notorious  among  the 
members  of  the  police  force ;  and  whenever  Lecoq  appeared 
at  the  Prefecture  he  had  to  brave  his  colleagues'  sarcastic 
pleasantry.  Nor  did  M.  Segmuller  escape  scot  free ;  for  more 
than  one  fellow  magistrate,  meeting  him  on  the  stairs  or  in  the 
corridor,  inquired,  with  a  smile,  what  he  was  doing  with  his 
Caspar-Hauser,  his  man  in  the  Iron  Mask,  in  a  word,  with 
his  mysterious  mountebank.  When  thus  assailed,  both  M.  Seg- 
muller and  Lecoq  could  scarcely  restrain  those  movements  of 
angry  impatience  which  come  naturally  to  a  person  who  feels 
certain  he  is  in  the  right  and  yet  can  not  prove  it. 


180  MONSIEUR   LECOQ 

"Ah,  me!"  sometimes  exclaimed  the  magistrate,  "why  did 
D'Escorval  break  his  leg?  Had  it  not  been  for  that  cursed 
mishap,  he  would  have  been  obliged  to  endure  all  these  per- 
plexities, and  I — I  should  be  enjoying  myself  like  other  people." 
"And  I  thought  myself  so  shrewd !"  murmured  the  young 
detective  by  his  side. 

Little  by  little  anxiety  did  its  work.  Magistrate  and  detec- 
tive both  lost  their  appetites  and  looked  haggard;  and  yet  the 
idea  of  yielding  never  once  occurred  to  them.  Although  of  very 
different  natures,  they  were  both  determined  to  persevere  in 
the  task  they  had  set  themselves — that  of  solving  this  tantaliz- 
ing enigma.  Lecoq,  indeed,  had  resolved  to  renounce  all  other 
claims  upon  his  time,  and  to  devote  himself  entirely  to  the 
study  of  the  case.  "Henceforth,"  he  said  to  M.  Segmuller,  "I 
also  will  constitute  myself  a  prisoner;  and  although  the  sus- 
pected murderer  will  be  unable  to  see  me,  I  shall  not  lose  sight 
of  him  !" 

It  so  happened  that  there  was  a  loft  between  the  cell  occu- 
pied by  May  and  the  roof  of  the  prison,  a  loft  of  such  diminu- 
tive proportions  that  a  man  of  average  height  could  not  stand 
upright  in  it.     This  loft  had  neither  window  nor  skylight,  and 
the  gloom  would  have  been  intense,  had  not  a  few  faint  sun- 
rays  struggled  through  the  interstices  of  some  ill-adjusted  tiles. 
In  this  unattractive  garret  Lecoq  established  himself  one  fine 
morning,  just  at  the  hour  when  May  was  taking  his  daily  walk 
in  the  courtyard  of  the   prison  accompanied  by   a   couple   of 
keepers.      Under   these    circumstances    there    was    no    fear    of 
Lecoq's  movements  attracting  the  prisoner's  notice  or  suspicion. 
The  garret  had  a  paved  floor,  and  first  of  all  the  young  detec- 
tive removed  one  of  the  stones  with  a  pickax  he  had  brought 
for  the  purpose.     Beneath  this  stone  he  found  a  timber  beam, 
through  which   he  next  proceeded   to   bore   a   hole   of   funnel 
shape,  large  at  the  top  and  gradually  dwindling  until  on  piercing 
the  ceiling  of  the  cell  it  was  no  more  than  two-thirds  of  an 
inch  in  diameter.     Prior  to  commencing  his  operations,  Lecoq 
had   visited  the   prisoner's   quarters   and   had    skilfully   chosen 
the  place   of  the   projected   aperture,   so  that  the   stains   and 
graining  of  the  beam  would  hide  it  from  the  view  of  any  one 
below.     He  was  yet  at  work  when  the  governor  of  the  Depot 
and  his  rival  Gevrol  appeared  upon  the  threshold  of  the  loft. 
"So  this  is  to  be  your  observatory,   Monsieur  Lecoq !"   re- 
marked Gevrol,  with  a  sneering  laugh. 


MONSIEUR    LECOQ  181 

"Yes,  sir." 

"You  will  not  be  very  comfortable  here." 

"I  shall  be  less  uncomfortable  than  you  suppose ;  I  have 
brought  a  large  blanket  with  me,  and  I  shall  stretch  myself 
out  on  the  floor  and  manage  to  sleep  here. 

"So  that,  night  and  day,  you  will  have  your  eye  on  the 
prisoner?" 

"Yes,  night  and  day." 

"Without  giving  yourself  time  to  eat  or  drink?"  inquired 
Gevrol. 

"Excuse  me !  Father  Absinthe  will  bring  me  my  meals, 
execute  any  errand  I  may  have,  and  relieve  me  at  times  if 
necessary." 

The  jealous  General  laughed ;  but  his  laugh,  loud  as  it  was, 
was  yet  a  trifle  constrained.     "Well,  I  pity  you,"  he  said. 

"Very  possibly." 

"Do  you  know  what  you  will  look  like,  with  your  eye  glued 
to  that  hole?" 

"Like  what?    Tell  me,  we  needn't  stand  on  ceremony." 

"Ah,  well!  you  will  look  just  like  one  of  those  silly  natural- 
ists who  put  all  sorts  of  little  insects  under  a  magnifying  glass, 
and  spend  their  lives  in  watching  them." 

Lecoq  had  finished  his  work ;  and  rose  from  his  kneeling 
position.  "You  couldn't  have  found  a  better  comparison,  Gen- 
eral," said  he.  "I  owe  my  idea  to  those  very  naturalists  you 
speak  about  so  slightingly.  By  dint  of  studying  those  little 
creatures — as  you  say— under  a  microscope,  these  patient, 
gifted  men  discover  the  habits  and  instincts  of  the  insect  world. 
Very  well,  then.  What  they  can  do  with  an  insect,  I  will  do 
with  a  man !" 

"Oh,  ho !"  said  the  governor  of  the  prison,  considerably 
astonished. 

"Yes;  that's  my  plan,"  continued  Lecoq.  "I  want  to  learn 
this  prisoner's  secret ;  and  I  will  do  so.  That  I've  sworn ;  and 
success  must  be  mine,  for,  however  strong  his  courage  may 
be,  he  will  have  his  moments  of  weakness,  and  then  I  shall 
be  present  at  them.  I  shall  be  present  if  ever  his  will  fails 
him,  if,  believing  himself  alone,  he  lets  his  mask  fall,  or  for- 
gets his  part  for  an  instant,  if  an  indiscreet  word  escapes  him 
in  his  sleep,  if  his  despair  elicits  a  groan,  a  gesture,  or  a  look 
— I  shall  be  there  to  take  note  of  it." 
The  tone  of  resolution  with  which  the  young  detective  spoke 


182  MONSIEUR    LECOQ 

made  a  deep  impression  upon  the  governor's  mind.  For  an 
instant  he  was  a  believer  in  Lecoq's  theory ;  and  he  was  im- 
pressed by  the  strangeness  of  this  conflict  between  a  prisoner, 
determined  to  preserve  the  secret  of  his  identity,  and  the  agent 
for  the  prosecution,  equally  determined  to  wrest  it  from  him. 
"Upon  my  word,  my  boy,  you  are  not  wanting  in  courage  and 
energy,"  said  he. 

"Misdirected  as  it  may  be,"  growled  Gevrol,  who,  although 
he  spoke  very  slowly  and  deliberately,  was  in  his  secret  soul 
by  no  means  convinced  of  what  he  said.  Faith  is  contagious, 
and  he  was  troubled  in  spite  of  himself  by  Lecoq's  imperturbable 
assurance.  What  if  this  debutant  in  the  profession  should  be 
right,  and  he,  Gevrol,  the  oracle  of  the  Prefecture,  wrong ! 
What  shame  and  ridicule  would  be  his  portion,  then !  But 
once  again  he  inwardly  swore  that  this  inexperienced  youngster 
could  be  no  match  for  an  old  veteran  like  himself,  and  then 
added  aloud :  "The  prefect  of  police  must  have  more  money 
than  he  knows  what  to  do  with,  to  pay  two  men  for  such  a 
nonsensical  job  as  this." 

Lecoq  disdained  to  reply  to  this  slighting  remark.  For  more 
than  a  fortnight  the  General  had  profited  of  every  opportunity 
to  make  himself  as  disagreeable  as  possible,  and  the  young 
detective  feared  he  would  be  unable  to  control  his  temper  if 
the  discussion  continued.  It  would  be  better  to  remain  silent, 
and  to  work  and  wait  for  success.  To  succeed  would  be 
revenge  enough !  Moreover,  he  was  impatient  to  see  these 
unwelcome  visitors  depart;  believing,  perhaps,  that  Gevrol  was 
quite  capable  of  attracting  the  prisoner's  attention  by  some 
unusual  sound. 

As  soon  as  they  went  away,  Lecoq  hastily  spread  his  blanket 
over  the  stones  and  stretched  himself  out  upon  it  in  such  a 
position  that  he  could  alternately  apply  his  eye  and  his  ear  to 
the  aperture.  In  this  position  he  had  an  admirable  view  of  the 
cell  below.  He  could  see  the  door,  the  bed,  the  table,  and  the 
chair;  only  the  small  space  near  the  window  and  the  window 
itself  were  beyond  his  range  of  observation.  He  had  scarcely 
completed  his  survey,  when  he  heard  the  bolts  rattle:  the  pris- 
oner was  returning  from  his  walk.  He  seemed  in  excellent 
spirits,  and  was  just  completing  what  was,  undoubtedly,  a  very 
interesting  story,  since  the  keeper  who  accompanied  him  lin- 
gered for  a  moment  to  hear  the  finish.  Lecoq  was  delighted 
with  the  success  of  his  experiment.     He  could  hear  as  easily 


MONSIEUR   LECOQ  163 

as  he  could  see.  Each  syllable  reached  his  ear  distinctly,  and  he 
had  not  lost  a  single  word  of  the  recital,  which  was  amusing, 
though  rather  coarse. 

The  turnkey  soon  left  the  cell;  the  bolts  rattled  once  more, 
and  the  key  grated  in  the  lock.  After  walking  once  or  twice 
across  his  cell,  May  took  up  his  volume  of  Beranger  and  for 
an  hour  or  more  seemed  completely  engrossed  in  its  contents. 
Finally,  he  threw  himself  down  upon  his  bed.  Here  he  re- 
mained until  meal-time  in  the  evening,  when  he  rose  and 
ate  with  an  excellent  appetite.  He  next  resumed  the  study 
of  his  book,  and  did  not  go  to  bed  until  the  lights  were  ex- 
tinguished. 

Lecoq  knew  well  enough  that  during  the  night  his  eyes  would 
not  serve  him,  but  he  trusted  that  his  ears  might  prove  of  use, 
hoping  that  some  telltale  word  might  escape  the  prisoner's  lips 
during  his  restless  slumber.  In  this  expectation  he  was  disap- 
pointed. May  tossed  to  and  fro  upon  his  pallet;  he  sighed, 
and  one  might  have  thought  he  was  sobbing,  but  not  a  syllable 
escaped  his  lips.  He  remained  in  bed  until  very  late  the  next 
morning;  but  on  hearing  the  bell  sound  the  hour  of  breakfast, 
eleven  o'clock,  he  sprang  from  his  couch  with  a  bound,  and  after 
capering  about  his  cell  for  a  few  moments,  began  to  sing,  in 
a  loud  and  cheerful  voice,  the  old  ditty: 

"Diogene! 
Sous  ton  manteau,  libre  et  content, 
Je  ris,  je  bois,  sans  gene — " 

The  prisoner  did  not  stop  singing  until  a  keeper  entered  his 
cell  carrying  his  breakfast.  The  day  now  beginning  differed 
in  no  respect  from  the  one  that  had  preceded  it,  neither  did 
the  night.  The  same  might  be  said  of  the  next  day,  and  of 
those  which  followed.  To  sing,  to  eat,  to  sleep,  to  attend  to  his 
hands  and  nails — such  was  the  life  led  by  this  so-called  buffoon. 
His  manner,  which  never  varied,  was  that  of  a  naturally  cheer- 
ful man  terribly  bored. 

Such  was  the  perfection  of  his  acting  that,  after  six  days 
and  nights  of  constant  surveillance,  Lecoq  had  detected  nothing 
decisive,  nor  even  surprising.  And  yet  he  did  not  despair.  He 
had  noticed  that  every  morning,  while  the  employees  of  the 
prison  were  busy  distributing  the  prisoner's  food,  May  invari- 
ably began  to  sing  the  same  ditty. 

"Evidently  this  song  is  a  signal,"  thought   Lecoq.     "What 


184  MONSIEUR   LECOQ 

can  be  going  on  there  by  the  window  I  can't  see?     I  must 
know  to-morrow." 

Accordingly  on  the  following  morning  he  arranged  that 
May  should  be  taken  on  his  walk  at  half-past  ten  o'clock,  and 
he  then  insisted  that  the  governor  should  accompany  him  to 
the  prisoner's  cell.  That  worthy  functionary  was  not  very 
well  pleased  with  the  change  in  the  usual  order  of  things. 
"What  do  you  wish  to  show  me?"  he  asked.  "What  is  there 
so  very  curious  to  see?" 

"Perhaps  nothing,"  replied  Lecoq,  "but  perhaps  something 
of  great  importance." 

Eleven  o'clock  sounding  soon  after,  he  began  singing  the 
prisoner's  song,  and  he  had  scarcely  finished  the  second  line, 
when  a  bit  of  bread,  no  larger  than  a  bullet,  adroitly  thrown 
through  the  window,  dropped  at  his  feet. 

A  thunderbolt  falling  in  May's  cell  would  not  have  terrified 
the  governor  as  much  as  did  this  inoffensive  projectile.  He 
stood  in  silent  dismay ;  his  mouth  wide  open,  his  eyes  starting 
from  their  sockets,  as  if  he  distrusted  the  evidence  of  his  own 
senses.  What  a  disgrace  !  An  instant  before  he  would  have 
staked  his  life  upon  the  inviolability  of  the  secret  cells;  and 
now  he  beheld  his  prison  dishonored. 

"A  communication  !  a  communication  !"  he  repeated,  with  a 
horrified  air. 

Quick  as  lightning,  Lecoq  picked  up  the  missile.  "Ah,"  mur- 
mured he,  "I  guessed  that  this  man  was  in  communication  with 
his  friends." 

The  young  detective's  evident  delight  changed  the  governor's 
stupor  into  fury.  "Ah  !  my  prisoners  are  writing !"  he  exclaimed, 
wild  with  passion.  "My  warders  are  acting  as  postmen  !  By 
my  faith,  this  matter  shall  be  looked  into." 

So  saying,  he  was  about  to  rush  to  the  door  when  Lecoq 
stopped  him.     "What  are  you  going  to  do,  sir?"  he  asked. 

"I  am  going  to  call  all  the  employees  of  this  prison  together, 
and  inform  them  that  there  is  a  traitor  among  them,  and  that 
I  must  know  who  he  is,  as  I  wish  to  make  an  example  of  him. 
And  if,  in  twenty-four  hours  'from  now,  the  culprit  has  not 
been  discovered,  every  man  connected  with  this  prison  shall 
be  removed." 

Again  he  started  to  leave  the  room,  and  Lecoq,  this  time, 
had  almost  to  use  force  to  detain  him.  "Be  calm,  sir ;  be  calm," 
he  entreated. 


MONSIEUR   LECOQ  185 

"I  zvill  punish — " 

"Yes,  yes — I  understand  that — but  wait  until  you  have  re- 
gained your  self-possession.  It  is  quite  possible  that  the  guilty 
party  may  be  one  of  the  prisoners  who  assist  in  the  distribution 
of  food  every  morning.'' 

"What  does  that  matter?" 

"Excuse  me,  but  it  matters  a  great  deal.  If  you  noise  this 
discovery  abroad,  we  shall  never  discover  the  truth.  The  traitor 
will  not  be  fool  enough  to  confess  his  guilt.  We  must  be  silent 
and  wait.  We  will  keep  a  close  watch  and  detect  the  culprit  in 
the  very  act." 

These  objections  were  so  sensible  that  the  governor  yielded 
"So  be  it,"  he  sighed,  "I  will  try  and  be  patient.     But  let  me 
see  the  missive  that  was  enclosed  in  this  bit  of  bread." 

Lecoq  could  not  consent  to  this  proposal.  "I  warned  M.  Seg- 
muller,"  said  he,  "that  there  would  probably  be  something  new 
this  morning;  and  he  will  be  waiting  for  me  in  his  office.  We 
must  only  examine  the  letter  in  his  presence." 

This  remark  was  so  correct  that  the  governor  assented :  and 
they  at  once  started  for  the  Palais  de  Justice.  On  their  way, 
Lecoq  endeavored  to  convince  his  companion  that  it  was  wrong 
to  deplore  a  circumstance  which  might  be  of  incalculable  benefit 
to  the  prosecution.  "It  was  an  illusion,"  said  he,  "to  imagine 
that  the  governor  of  a  prison  could  be  more  cunning  than  the 
prisoners  entrusted  to  him.  A  prisoner  is  almost  always  a  match 
in  ingenuity  for  his  custodians." 

The  young  detective  had  not  finished  speaking  when  they 
reached  the  magistrate's  office.  Scarcely  had  Lecoq  opened 
the  door  than  M.  Segmuller  and  his  clerk  rose  from  their  seats. 
They  both  read  important  intelligence  in  our  hero's  troubled 
face.  "What  is  it?"  eagerly  asked  the  magistrate.  Lecoq's  sole 
response  was  to  lay  the  pellet  of  bread  upon  M.  Segmuller's 
desk.  In  an  instant  the  magistrate  had  opened  it,  extracting 
from  the  centre  a  tiny  slip  of  the  thinnest  tissue  paper.  This 
he  unfolded,  and  smoothed  upon  the  palm  of  his  hand.  As 
soon  as  he  glanced  at  it,  his  brow  contracted.  "Ah !  this 
note  is  written  in  cipher,"  he  exclaimed,  with  a  disappointed 
air. 

"We  must  not  lose  patience,"  said  Lecoq  quietly.  He  took 
the  slip  of  paper  from  the  magistrate  and  read  the  numbers 
inscribed  upon  it.  They  ran  as  follows:  "235,  15,  3,  8,  25,  2, 
16,  208,  5,  360,  4,  36,  19,  7,  14,  118,  84,  23,  9,  40,  11,  99." 


186  MONSIEUR    LECOQ 

"And  so  we  shall  learn  nothing  from  this  note,"  murmured 
the  governor. 

"Why  not?"  the  smiling  clerk  ventured  to  remark.  "There 
is  no  system  of  cipher  which  can  not  be  read  with  a  little 
skill  and  patience ;  there  are  some  people  who  make  it  their 
business." 

"You  are  right,"  said  Lecoq,  approvingly.  "And  I,  myself, 
once  had  the  knack  of  it." 

"What!"  exclaimed  the  magistrate;  "do  you  hope  to  find  the 
key  to  this  cipher?" 

"With  time,  yes." 

Lecoq  was  about  to  place  the  paper  in  his  breast-pocket,  when 
the  magistrate  begged  him  to  examine  it  a  little  further.  He 
did  so ;  and  after  a  while  his  face  suddenly  brightened.  Striking 
his  forehead  with  his  open  palm,  he  cried :  "I've  found  it !" 

An  exclamation  of  incredulous  surprise  simultaneously  escaped 
the  magistrate,  the  governor,  and  the  clerk. 

"At  least  I  think  so,"  added  Lecoq,  more  cautiously.  "If  I 
am  not  mistaken,  the  prisoner  and  his  accomplice  have  adopted 
a  very  simple  system  called  the  double  book-cipher.  The  cor- 
respondents first  agree  upon  some  particular  book;  and  both 
obtain  a  copy  of  the  same  edition.  When  one  desires  to  com- 
municate with  the  other,  he  opens  the  book  haphazard,  and 
begins  by  writing  the  number  of  the  page.  Then  he  must  find 
on  the  same  page  the  words  that  will  express  his  thoughts.  If 
the  first  word  he  wishes  to  write  is  the  twentieth  on  the  page, 
he  places  number  20  after  the  number  of  the  page ;  then  he 
begins  to  count  one,  two,  three,  and  so  on,  until  he  finds  the 
next  word  he  wishes  to  use.  If  this  word  happens  to  be  the 
sixth,  he  writes  the  figure  6;  and  he  continues  so  on  till  he  has 
finished  his  letter.  You  see,  now,  how  the  correspondent  who 
receives  the  note  must  begin.  He  finds  the  page  indicated,  and 
then  each  figure  represents  a  word." 

"Nothing  could  be  clearer,"  said  the  magistrate,  approvingly. 

"If  this  note,"  pursued  Lecoq,  "had  been  exchanged  between 
two  persons  at  liberty,  *it  would  be  folly  to  attempt  its  transla- 
tion. This  simple  system  is  the  only  one  which  has  completely 
baffled  inquisitive  efforts,  simply  because  there  is  no  way  of 
ascertaining  the  book  agreed  upon.  But  in  this  instance  such 
is  not  the  case;  May  is  a  prisoner,  and  he  has  only  one  book 
in  his  possession,  'The  Songs  of  Beranger.'  Let  this  book  be 
sent  for — " 


MONSIEUR   LECOQ 


187 


The  governor  of  the  Depot  was  actually  enthusiastic.  "I  will 
run  and  fetch  it  myself,"  he  interrupted. 

But  Lecoq,  with  a  gesture,  detained  him.  "Above  all,  sir," 
said  he,  "take  care  that  May  doesn't  discover  his  book  has  been 
tampered  with.  If  he  has  returned  from  his  promenade,  make 
some  excuse  to  have  him  sent  out  of  his  cell  again ;  and  don't 
allow  him  to  return  there  while  we  are  using  his  book." 

"Oh,  trust  me!"  replied  the  governor,  hastily  leaving  the 
room. 

Less  than  a  quarter  of  an  hour  afterward  he  returned,  carry- 
ing in  triumph  a  little  volume  in  321110.  With  a  trembling  hand 
Lecoq  turned  to  page  235,  and  began  to  count.  The  fifteenth 
word  on  the  page  was  T  ;  the  third  afterward,  'have' ;  the 
eighth  following,  'told' ;  the  twenty-fifth,  'her' ;  the  second,  'your' ; 
the  sixteenth,  'zvishes.'  Hence,  the  meaning  of  those  six  num- 
bers was:  "I  have  told  her  your  wishes." 

The  three  persons  who  had  witnessed  this  display  of  shrewd- 
ness could  not  restrain  their  admiration.  "Bravo !  Lecoq,"  ex- 
claimed the  magistrate.  "I  will  no  longer  bet  a  hundred  to 
one  on  May,"  thought  the  smiling  clerk. 

But  Lecoq  was  still  busily  engaged  in  deciphering  the  missive, 
and  soon,  in  a  voice  trembling  with  gratified  vanity,  he  read 
the  entire  note  aloud.  It  ran  as  follows :  "I  have  told  her  your 
wishes;  she  submits.  Our  safety  is  assured;  we  are  waiting 
your  orders  to  act.    Hope  !    Courage !" 


Vf ET  what  a  disappointment  it  produced  after  the  fever  of 
anxiety  and  expectation  that  had  seized  hold  of  everybody 
present.  This  strange  epistle  furnished  no  clue  whatever  to  the 
mystery;  and  the  ray  of  hope  that  had  sparkled  for  an  instant 
in  M.  Segmuller's  eyes  speedily  faded  away.  As  for  the  ver- 
satile Goguet  he  returned  with  increased  conviction  to  his 
former  opinion,  that  the  prisoner  had  the  advantage  over  his 
accusers. 


188  MONSIEUR   LECOQ 

"How  unfortunate,"  remarked  the  governor  of  the  Depot, 
with  a  shade  of  sarcasm  in  his  voice,  "that  so  much  trouble, 
and  such  marvelous  penetration,  should  be  wasted!" 

"So  you  think,  sir,  that  I  have  wasted  my  time!"  rejoined 
Lecoq  in  a  tone  of  angry  banter,  a  scarlet  flush  mantling  at 
the  same  time  over  his  features.  "Such  is  not  my  opinion. 
This  scrap  of  paper  undeniably  proves  that  if  any  one  has  been 
mistaken  as  regards  the  prisoner's  identity,  it  is  certainly  not  I."' 

"Very  well,"  was  the  reply.  "M.  Gevrol  and  myself  may 
have  been  mistaken :  no  one  is  infallible.  But  have  you  learned 
anything  more  than  you  knew  before  ?  Have  you  made  any 
progress?" 

"Why,  yes.  Now  that  people  know  the  prisoner  is  not  what 
he  pretends  to  be,  instead  of  annoying  and  hampering  me,  per- 
haps they  will  assist  us  to  discover  who  he  really  is." 

Lecoq's  tone,  and  his  allusion  to  the  difficulties  he  had  en- 
countered, cut  the  governor  to  the  quick.  The  knowledge  that 
the  reproof  was  not  altogether  undeserved  increased  his  resent- 
ment and  determined  him  to  bring  this  discussion  with  an 
inferior  to  an  abrupt  close.  "You  are  right,"  said  he,  sarcas- 
tically. "This  May  must  be  a  very  great  and  illustrious  per- 
sonage. Only,  my  dear  Monsieur  Lecoq  (for  there  is  an  only), 
do  me  the  favor  to  explain  how  such  an  important  personage 
could  disappear,  and  the  police  not  be  advised  of  it?  A  man 
of  rank,  such  as  you  suppose  this  prisoner  to  be,  usually  has 
a  family,  friends,  relatives,  proteges,  and  numerous  connec- 
tions ;  and  yet  not  a  single  person  has  made  any  inquiry  during 
the  three  weeks  that  this  fellow  May  has  been  under  my  charge ! 
Come,  admit  you  never  thought  of  that." 

The  governor  had  just  advanced  the  only  serious  objection 
that  could  be  found  to  the  theory  adopted  by  the  prosecution. 
He  was  wrong,  however,  in  supposing  that  Lecoq  had  failed  to 
foresee  it ;  for  it  had  never  once  been  out  of  the  young  detec- 
tive's mind;  and  he  had  racked  his  brain  again  and  again  to 
find  some  satisfactory  explanation.  At  the  present  moment  he 
would  undoubtedly  have  made  some  angry  retort  to  the  gov- 
ernor's sneering  criticism,  as  people  are  wont  to  do  when  their 
antagonists  discover  the  weak  spot  in  their  armor,  had  not 
M.  Segmuller  opportunely  intervened. 

"All  these  recriminations  do  no  good,"  he  remarked,  calmly; 
"we  can  make  no  progress  while  they  continue.  It  would  be 
much  wiser  to  decide  upon  the  course  that  is  now  to  be  pursued." 


MONSIEUR   LECOQ  189 

Thus  reminded  of  the  present  situation  of  affairs,  the  young 
detective  smiled ;  all  his  rancor  was  forgotten.  "There  is,  I 
think,  but  one  course  to  pursue,"  he  replied  in  a  modest  tone ; 
"and  I  believe  it  will  be  successful  by  reason  of  its  simplicity. 
We  must  substitute  a  communication  of  our  own  composition 
for  this  one.  That  will  .'.  be  at  all  difficult,  since  I  have  the 
key  to  the  cipher.  I  shall  only  be  obliged  to  purchase  a  similar 
volume  of  Beranger's  songs;  and  May,  believing  that  he  is 
addressing  his  accomplice,  will  reply  in  all  sincerity — will  reveal 
everything  perhaps — " 

"Excuse  me!"  interrupted  the  governor,  "but  how  will  you 
obtain  possession  of  his  reply?" 

"Ah !  you  ask  me  too  much.  I  know  the  way  in  which  his 
letters  have  reached  him.  For  the  rest,  I  will  watch  and  find 
a  way — never  fear  !" 

Goguet,  the  smiling  clerk,  could  not  conceal  an  approving 
grin.  If  he  had  happened  to  have  ten  francs  in  his  pocket  just 
then  he  would  have  risked  them  all  on  Lecoq  without  ?  moment's 
hesitation. 

"First,"  resumed  the  young  detective,  "I  will  replace  this 
missive  by  one  of  my  own  composition.  To-morrow,  at  break- 
fast time,  if  the  prisoner  gives  the  signal,  Father  Absinthe 
shall  throw  the  morsel  of  bread  enclosing  my  note  through 
the  window  while  I  watch  the  effect  through  the  hole  in  the 
ceiling  of  the  cell." 

Lecoq  was  so  delighted  with  this  plan  of  his  that  he  at  once 
rang  the  bell,  and  when  the  magistrate's  messenger  appeared, 
he  gave  him  half  a  franc  and  requested  him  to  go  at  once  and 
purchase  some  of  the  thinnest  tissue  paper.  When  this  had 
been  procured,  Lecoq  took  his  seat  at  the  clerk's  desk,  and,  pro- 
vided with  the  volume  of  Beranger's  songs,  began  to  compose 
a  fresh  note,  copying  as  closely  as  possible  the  forms  of  the 
figures  used  by  the  unknown  correspondent.  The  task  did  not 
occupy  him  more  than  ten  minutes,  for,  fearing  lest  he  might 
commit  some  blunder,  he  reproduced  most  of  the  words  of 
the  original  letter,  giving  them,  however,  an  entirely  different 
meaning. 

"When  completed,  his  note  read  as  follows :  "I  have  told  her 
your  wishes ;  she  does  not  submit.  Our  safety  is  threatened. 
We  are  awaiting  your  orders.     I  tremble." 

Having  acquainted  the  magistrate  with  the  purport  of  the 
note,  Lecoq  next  rolled  up  the  paper,  and  enclosing  it  in  the 


190  MONSIEUR   LECOQ 

fragment  of  bread,  remarked:  "To-morrow  we  shall  learn  some- 
thing new." 

To-morrow  !  The  twenty-four  hours  that  separated  the  young 
man  from  the  decisive  moment  he  looked  forward  to  seemed  as 
it  were  a  century ;  and  tie  resorted  to  every  possible  expedient 
to  hasten  the  passing  of  the  time.  At  length,  after  giving  pre- 
cise instructions  to  Father  Absinthe,  he  retired  to  his  loft  for 
the  night.  The  hours  seemed  interminable,  and  such  was  his 
nervous  excitement  that  he  found  it  quite  impossible  to  sleep. 
On  rising  at  daybreak  he  discovered  that  the  prisoner  was 
already  awake.  May  was  sitting  on  the  foot  of  his  bed,  appar- 
ently plunged  in  thought.  Suddenly  he  sprang  to  his  feet  and 
paced  restlessly  to  and  fro.  He  was  evidently  in  an  unusually 
agitated  frame  of  mind :  for  he  gesticulated  wildly,  and  at  inter- 
vals repeated:  "What  misery!     My  God!  what  misery!" 

"Ah !  my  fine  fellow,"  thought  Lecoq,  "you  are  anxious  about 
the  daily  letter  you  failed  to  receive  yesterday.  Patience, 
patience !     One  of  my  writing  will  soon  arrive." 

At  last  the  young  detective  heard  the  stir  usually  preceding 
the  distribution  of  the  food.  People  were  running  to  and  fro, 
sabots  clicked  noisily  in  the  corridors,  and  the  keepers  could  be 
heard  engaged  in  loud  conversation.  By  and  by  the  prison  bell 
began  to  toll.  It  was  eleven  o'clock,  and  soon  afterward  the 
prisoner  commenced  to  sing  his  favorite  song: 

"Diogene! 
Sous  ton  manteau,  libre  et  content—" 

Before  he  commenced  the  third  line  the  slight  sound  caused 
by  the  fragment  of  bread  as  it  fell  upon  the  stone  floor  caused 
him  to  pause  abruptly. 

Lecoq,  at  the  opening  in  the  ceiling  above,  was  holding  his 
breath  and  watching  with  both  eyes.  He  did  not  miss  one  of 
the  prisoner's  movements — not  so  much  as  the  quiver  of  an  eye- 
lid. May  looked  first  at  the  window,  and  then  all  round  the 
cell,  as  if  it  were  impossible  for  him  to  explain  the  arrival  of 
this  projectile.  It  was  not  until  some  little  time  had  elapsed 
that  he  decided  to  pick  it  up.  He  held  it  in  the  hollow  of  his 
hand,  and  examined  it  with  apparent  curiosity.  His  features 
expressed  intense  surprise,  and  any  one  would  have  sworn  that 
he  was  innocent  of  all  complicity.  Soon  a  smile  gathered  round 
his  lips,  and  after  a  slight  shrug  of  the  shoulders,  which  might 
be  interpreted,  "Am  I  a  fool?"  he  hastily  broke  the  pellet  in 


MONSIEUR    LECOQ  191 

half.  The  sight  of  the  paper  which  it  contained  seemed  to 
amaze  him. 

"What  does  all  this  mean?"  wondered  Lecoq. 

The  prisoner  had  opened  the  note,  and  was  examining  with 
knitted  brows  the  figures  which  were  apparently  destitute  of 
all  meaning  to  him.  Then,  suddenly  rushing  to  the  door  of  his 
cell,  and  hammering  upon  it  with  clenched  fists,  he  cried  at  the 
top  of  his  voice:  "Here!  keeper!  here!" 

"What  do  you  want?"  shouted  a  turnkey,  whose  footsteps 
Lecoq  could  hear  hastening  along  the  adjoining  passage. 

"I  wish  to  speak  to  the  magistrate." 

"Very  well.     He  shall  be  informed." 

"Immediately,  if  you  please.     I  have  a  revelation  to  make." 

"He  shall  be  sent  for  immediately." 

Lecoq  waited  to  hear  no  more.  He  tore  down  the  narrow 
staircase  leading  from  the  loft,  and  rushed  to  the  Palais  de  Jus- 
tice to  acquaint  M.  Segmuller  with  what  had  happened. 

"What  can  all  this  mean  ?"  he  wondered  as  he  darted  over 
the  pavement.  "Are  we  indeed  approaching  a  denouement? 
This  much  is  certain,  the  prisoner  was  not  deceived  by  my  note. 
He  could  only  decipher  it  with  the  aid  of  his  volume  of 
Beranger,  and  he  did  not  even  touch  the  book ;  plainly,  then, 
he  hasn't  read  the  letter." 

M.  Segmuller  was  no  less  amazed  than  the  young  detective. 
They  both  hastened  to  the  prison,  followed  by  the  smiling  clerk, 
who  was  the  magistrate's  inevitable  shadow.  On  their  way 
they  encountered  the  governor  of  the  Depot,  arriving  all  in  a 
flutter,  having  been  greatly  excited  by  that  important  word 
"revelation."  The  worthy  official  undoubtedly  wished  to  express 
an  opinion,  but  the  magistrate  checked  him  by  the  abrupt 
remark,  "I  know  all  about  it,  and  I  am  coming." 

When  they  had  reached  the  narrow  corridor  leading  to  the 
secret  cells,  Lecoq  passed  on  in  advance  of  the  rest  of  the 
party.  He  said  to  himself  that  by  stealing  upon  the  prisoner 
unawares  he  might  possibly  find  him  engaged  in  surreptitiously 
reading  the  note.  In  any  case,  he  would  have  an  opportunity 
to  glance  at  the  interior  of  the  cell.  May  was  seated  beside 
the  table,  his  head  resting  on  his  hands.  At  the  grating  of  the 
bolt,  drawn  by  the  governor  himself,  the  prisoner  rose  to  his 
feet,  smoothed  his  hair,  and  remained  standing  in  a  respectful 
attitude,  apparently  waiting  for  the  visitors  to  address  him. 

"Did  you  send  for  me?"  inquired  the  magistrate. 


192  MONSIEUR   LECOQ 

"Yes,  sir." 

"You  have,  I  understand,  some  revelation  to  make  to  me." 

"I  have  something  of  importance  to  tell  you." 

"Very  well !  these  gentlemen  will  retire." 

M.  Segmuller  had  already  turned  to  Lecoq  and  the  governor 
to  request  them  to  withdraw,  when  the  prisoner  motioned  him 
not  to  do  so. 

"It  is  not  necessary,"  said  May,  "I  am,  on  the  contrary,  very 
well  pleased  to  speak  before  these  gentlemen." 

"Speak,  then." 

May  did  not  wait  for  the  injunction  to  be  repeated.  Throw- 
ing his  chest  forward,  and  his  head  back  as  had  been  his  wont 
throughout  his  examinations,  whenever  he  wished  to  make  an 
oratorical  display,  he  began  as  follows :  "It  shall  be  for  you 
to  say,  gentlemen,  whether  I'm  an  honest  man  or  not.  The 
profession  matters  little.  One  may,  perhaps,  act  as  the  clown  of 
a  traveling  show,  and  yet  be  an  honest  man — a  man  of  honor." 

"Oh,  spare  us  your  reflections !" 

"Very  well,  sir,  that  suits  me  exactly.  To  be  brief,  then, 
here  is  a  little  paper  which  was  thrown  into  my  cell  a  few 
minutes  ago.  There  are  some  numbers  on  it  which  may  mean 
something;  but  I  have  examined  them,  and  they  are  quite 
Greek  to  me." 

He  paused,  and  then  handing  Lecoq's  missive  to  the  magis- 
trate, quietly  added:    "It  was  rolled  up  in  a  bit  of  bread." 

This  declaration  was  so  unexpected,  that  it  struck  all  the 
officials  dumb  with  surprise,  but  the  prisoner,  without  seeming 
to  notice  the  effect  he  had  produced,  placidly  continued:  "I 
suppose  the  person  who  threw  it,  made  a  mistake  in  the  win- 
dow. I  know  very  well  that  it's  a  mean  piece  of  business  to 
denounce  a  companion  in  prison.  It's  a  cowardly  act  and  one 
may  get  into  trouble  by  doing  so ;  still,  a  fellow  must  be  prudent 
when  he's  charged  with  murder  as  I  am,  and  with  something 
very  unpleasant,  perhaps,  in  store  for  him." 

A  terribly  significant  gesture  of  severing  the  head  from 
the  body  left  no  doubt  whatever  as  to  what  May  meant  by  the 
"something  very  unpleasant." 

"And  yet  I  am  innocent,"  continued  May,  in  a  sorrowful, 
reproachful  tone. 

The  magistrate  had  by  this  time  recovered  the  full  pos- 
session of  his  faculties.  Fixing  his  eyes. upon  the  prisoner 
and  concentrating  in  one  magnetic  glance  all  his  power  of  will, 


MONSIEUR   LECOQ  193 

he  slowly  exclaimed :     "You  speak  falsely !     It  was  for  you 
that  this  note  was  intended." 

"For  me !  Then  I  must  be  the  greatest  of  fools,  or  why 
should  I  have  sent  for  you  to  show  it  you?  For  me?  In  that 
case,  why  didn't  I  keep  it  ?  Who  knew,  who  could  know  that  I 
had  received  it?" 

These  words  were  uttered  with  such  a  marvelous  sem- 
blance of  honesty,  May's  gaze  was  frank  and  open,  his  voice 
rang  so  true,  and  his  reasoning  was  so  specious,  that  all  the 
governor's  doubts  returned. 

"And  what  if  I  could  prove  that  you  are  uttering  a  false- 
hood?" insisted  M.  Segmuller.  "What  if  I  could  prove  it — 
here  and  now?" 

"You  would  have  to  lie  to  do  so !  Oh  !  pardon  !  Excuse  me ; 
I  mean — " 

But  the  magistrate  was  not  in  a  frame  of  mind  to  stickle  for 
nicety  of  expression.  He  motioned  May  to  be  silent;  and, 
turning  to  Lecoq,  exclaimed:  "Show  the  prisoner  that  you  have 
discovered  the  key  to  his  secret  correspondence." 

A  sudden  change  passed  over  May's  features.  "Ah!  it  is 
this  agent  of  police  who  says  the  letter  was  for  me,"  he  re- 
marked in  an  altered  tone.  "The  same  agent  who  asserts  that 
/  am  a  grand  seigneur."  Then,  looking  disdainfully  at  Lecoq, 
he  added:  "Under  these  circumstances  there's  no  hope  for  me. 
When  the  police  are  absolutely  determined  that  a  man  shall 
be  found  guilty,  they  contrive  to  prove  his  guilt ;  everybody 
knows  that.  And  when  a  prisoner  receives  no  letters,  an 
agent,  who  wishes  to  show  that  he  is  corresponding  knows  well 
enough  how  to  write  to  him." 

May's  features  wore  such  an  expression  of  marked  contempt 
that  Lecoq  could  scarcely  refrain  from  making  an  angry  reply. 
He  restrained  his  impulse,  however,  in  obedience  to  a  warning 
gesture  from  the  magistrate,  and  taking  from  the  table  the 
volume  of  Beranger's  songs,  he  endeavored  to  prove  to  the 
prisoner  that  each  number  in  the  note  which  he  had  shown  M. 
Segmuller  corresponded  with  a  word  on  the  page  indicated, 
and  that  these  various  words  formed  several  intelligible  phrases. 
This  overpowering  evidence  did  not  seem  to  trouble  May  in 
the  least.  After  expressing  the  same  admiration  for  this 
novel  system  of  correspondence  that  a  child  would  show  for  a 
new  toy.  he  declared  his  belief  that  no  one  could  equal  the 
police  in  such  machinations. 

9 — Vol.  I — Gab. 


194  MONSIEUR    LECOQ 

What  could  have  been  done  in  the  face  of  such  obstinacy? 
M.  Segmuller  did  not  even  attempt  to  argue  the  point,  but 
quietly  retired,  followed  by  his  companions.  Until  they  reached 
the  governor's  office,  he  did  not  utter  a  word ;  then,  sinking 
down  into  an  armchair,  he  exclaimed:  "We  must  confess 
ourselves  beaten.  This  man  will  always  remain  what  he  is — 
an  inexplicable   enigma." 

"But  what  is  the  meaning  of  the  comedy  he  has  just  played? 
I  do  not  understand  it  at  all,"  remarked  the  governor. 

"Why,"  replied  Lecoq,  "don't  you  see  that  he  wished  to  per- 
suade the  magistrate  that  the  first  note,  the  one  that  fell  into 
the  cell  while  you  and  I  were  there  yesterday,  had  been  written 
by  me  in  a  mad  desire  to  prove  the  truth  of  my  theory  at  any 
cost?  It  was  a  hazardous  project;  but  the  importance  of  the 
result  to  be  gained  must  have  emboldened  him  to  attempt  it. 
Had  he  succeeded.  I  should  have  been  disgraced ;  and  he  would 
have  remained  May — the  stroller,  without  any  further  doubt 
as  to  his  identity.  But  how  could  he  know  that  I  had  dis- 
covered his  secret  correspondence,  and  that  I  was  watching  him 
from  the  loft  overhead  ?    That  will  probably  never  be  explained." 

The  governor  and  the  young  detective  exchanged  glances  of 
mutual  distrust.  "Eh !  eh !"  thought  the  former,  "yes,  indeed, 
that  note  which  fell  into  the  cell  while  I  was  there  the  other 
day  might  after  all  have  been  this  crafty  fellow's  work.  His 
Father  Absinthe  may  have  served  him  in  the  first  instance  just 
as  he  did  subsequently." 

While  these  reflections  were  flitting  through  the  governor's 
mind,  Lecoq  suspiciously  remarked  to  himself:  "Who  knows 
but  what  this  fool  of  a  governor  confided  everything  to  Gevrol  ? 
If  he  did  so,  the  General,  jealous  as  he  is,  would  not  have 
scrupled  to  play  one  such  a  damaging  trick." 

His  thoughts  had  gone  no  further  when  Goguet,  the  smiling 
clerk,  boldly  broke  the  silence  with  the  trite  remark :  "What  a 
pity  such  a  clever  comedy  didn't  succeed." 

These  words  startled  the  magistrate  from  his  reverie.  "Yes, 
a  shameful  farce,"  said  he,  "and  one  I  would  never  have  author- 
ized, had  I  not  been  blinded  by  a  mad  longing  to  arrive  at  the 
truth.  Such  tricks  only  bring  the  sacred  majesty  of  justice 
into  contempt !" 

At  these  bitter  words,  Lecoq  turned  white  with  anger.  This 
was  the  second  affront  within  an  hour.  The  prisoner  had 
first  insulted  him,  and  now  it  was  the  magistrate's  turn.     "I 


MONSIEUR    LECOQ  195 

am  defeated,"  thought  he.     "I  must  confess  it.     Fate  is  against 
me  !    Ah  !  if  I  had  only  succeeded  !" 

Disappointment  alone  had  impelled  M.  Segmuller  to  utter 
tiiese  harsh  words;  they  were  both  cruel  and  unjust,  and  the 
magistrate  soon  regretted  them,  and  did  everything  in  his 
power  to  drive  them  from  Lecoq's  recollection.  They  met 
every  day  after  this  unfortunate  incident;  and  every  morning, 
when  the  young  detective  came  to  give  an  account  of  his  in- 
vestigations, they  had  a  long  conference  together.  For  Lecoq 
still  continued  his  efforts;  still  labored  on  with  an  obstinacy 
intensified  by  constant  sneers;  still  pursued  his  investigations 
with  that  cold  and  determined  zeal  which  keeps  one's  faculties 
on  the  alert  for  years. 

The  magistrate,  however,  was  utterly  discouraged.  "We 
must  abandon  this  attempt,"  said  he.  "All  the  means  of 
detection  have  been  exhausted.  I  give  it  up.  The  prisoner 
will  go  to  the  Assizes,  to  be  acquitted  or  condemned  under  the 
name  of  May.    I  will  trouble  myself  no  more  about  the  matter." 

He  said  this,  but  the  anxiety  and  disappointment  caused  by 
defeat,  sneering  criticism,  and  perplexity,  as  to  the  best  course 
to  be  pursued,  so  affected  his  health  that  he  became  really  ill — 
so  ill  that  he  had  to  take  to  his  bed. 

He  had  been  confined  to  his  room  for  a  week  or  so,  when 
one  morning  Lecoq  called  to  inquire  after  him. 

"You  see,  my  good  fellow,"  quoth  M.  Segmuller,  despondently, 
"that  this  mysterious  murderer  is  fatal  to  us  magistrates. 
Ah !  he  is  too  much  for  us ;  he  will  preserve  the  secret  of  his 
identity." 

"Possibly,"  replied  Lecoq.  "At  all  events,  there  is  now  but 
one  way  left  to  discover  his  secret ;  we  must  allow  him  to 
escape — and  then  track  him  to  his  lair." 

This  expedient,  although  at  first  sight  a  very  startling  one, 
was  not  of  Lecoq's  own  invention,  nor  was  it  by  any  means 
novel.  At  all  times,  in  cases  of  necessity,  have  the  police 
closed  their  eyes  and  opened  the  prison  doors  for  the  release 
of  suspected  criminals.  And  not  a  few,  dazzled  by  liberty  and 
ignorant  of  being  watched,  have  foolishly  betrayed  themselves. 
All  prisoners  are  not  like  the  Marquis  de  Lavalette,  protected 
by  royal  connivance ;  and  one  might  enumerate  many  individuals 
who  have  been  released,  only  to  be  rearrested  after  confessing 
their  guilt  to  police  spies  or  auxiliaries  who  have  won  their 
confidence. 


196  MONSIEUR   LECOO 

Naturally,  however,  it  is  but  seldom,  and  only  in  special 
cases,  and  as  a  last  resort,  that  such  a  plan  is  adopted.  More- 
over, the  authorities  only  consent  to  it  when  they  hope  to 
derive  some  important  advantage,  such  as  the  capture  of  a 
whole  band  of  criminals.  For  instance,  the  police  perhaps  arrest 
one  of  a  band.  Now,  despite  his  criminal  propensities  the 
captured  culprit  often  has  a  certain  sense  of  honor — we  all 
know  that  there  is  honor  among  thieves — which  prompts  him 
to  refuse  all  information  concerning  his  accomplices.  In  such 
a  case  what  is  to  be  done?  Is  he  to  be  sent  to  the  Assizes  by 
himself,  tried  and  convicted,  while  his  comrades  escape  scot 
free?  No;  it  is  best  to  set  him  at  liberty.  The  prison  doors 
are  opened,  and  he  is  told  that  he  is  free.  But  each  after  step 
he  takes  in  the  streets  outside  is  dogged  by  skilful  detectives; 
and  soon,  at  the  very  moment  when  he  is  boasting  of  his  good 
luck  and  audacity  to  the  comrades  he  has  rejoined,  the  whole 
gang  find  themselves  caught  in  the  snare. 

M.   Segmuller  knew  all   this,  and  much   more,   and  yet,  on 
hearing  Lecoq's   proposition,   he  made  an   angry  gesture  and 
exclaimed:     "Are  you  mad?" 
"I  think  not,  sir." 

"At  all  events  your  scheme  is  a  most  foolish  one!" 
"Why  so,  sir?  You  will  recollect  the  famous  murder  of  the 
Chaboiseaus.  The  police  soon  succeeded  in  capturing  the 
guilty  parties;  but  a  robbery  of  a  hundred  and  sixty  thousand 
francs  in  bank-notes  and  coin  had  been  committed  at  the  same 
time,  and  this  large  sum  of  money  couldn't  be  found.  The 
murderers  obstinately  refused  to  say  where  they  had  concealed 
it;  for,  of  course,  it  would  prove  a  fortune  for  them,  if  they 
ever  escaped  the  gallows.  In  the  mean  while,  however,  the 
children  of  the  victims  were  ruined.  Now,  M.  Patrigent,  the 
magistrate  who  investigated  the  affair,  was  the  first  to  con- 
vince the  authorities  that  it  would  be  best  to  set  one  of  the 
murderers  at  liberty.  His  advice  was  followed ;  and  three  days 
later  the  culprit  was  surprised  unearthing  the  money  from 
among  a  bed  of  mushrooms.  Now,  I  believe  that  our  prisoner — " 
"Enough !"  interrupted  M.  Segmuller.  "I  wish  to  hear  no 
more  on  the  matter.  I  have,  it  seems  to  me,  forbidden  you  to 
broach  the  subject." 

The  young  detective  hung  his  head  with  a  hypocritical  air 
of  submission.  But  all  the  while  he  watched  the  magistrate 
out  of  the  corner  of  his  eye  and  noted  his  agitation.     "I  can 


MONSIEUR    LECOQ  197 

afford  to  be  silent,"  he  thought;  "he  will  return  to  the  subject 
of  his   own   accord." 

And  in  fact  M.  Segmuller  did  return  to  it  only  a  moment 
afterward.  "Suppose  this  man  were  released  from  prison," 
said  he,  "what  would  you  do?" 

"What  would  I  do,  sir!  T  would  follow  him  like  grim 
death:  I  would  not  once  let  him  out  of  my  sight;  I  would  be 
his  shadow." 

"And  do  you  suppose  he  wouldn't  discover  this  surveillance?" 

"I  should  take  my  precautions." 

"But  he  would  recognize  you  at  a  single  glance." 

"No,  sir,  he  wouldn't,  for  I  should  disguise  myself.  A  detective 
who  can't  equal  the  most  skilful  actor  in  the  matter  of  make-up 
is  no  better  than  an  ordinary  policeman.  I  have  only  practised 
at  it  for  a  twelvemonth,  but  I  can  easily  make  myself  look  old 
or  young,  dark  or  light,  or  assume  the  manner  of  a  man  of  the 
world,  or  of  some  frightful  ruffian  of  the  barrieres." 

"I  wasn't  aware  that  you  possessed  this  talent,  Monsieur 
Lecoq." 

"Oh!  I'm  very  far  from  the  perfection  I  hope  to  arrive  at; 
though  I  may  venture  to  say  that  in  three  days  from  now  I 
could  call  on  you  and  talk  with  you  for  half  an  hour  without 
being  recognized." 

M.  Segmuller  made  no  rejoinder;  and  it  was  evident  to 
Lecoq  that  the  magistrate  had  offered  this  objection  rather  in 
the  hope  of  its  being  overruled,  than  with  the  wish  to  see  it 
prevail. 

"I  think,  my  poor  fellow,"  he  at  length  observed,  "that 
you  are  strangely  deceived.  We  have  both  been  equally  anxious 
to  penetrate  the  mystery  that  enshrouds  this  strange  man. 
We  have  both  admired  his  wonderful  acuteness — for  his 
sagacity  is  wonderful ;  so  marvelous,  indeed,  that  it  exceeds 
the  limits  of  imagination.  Do  you  believe  that  a  man  of  his 
penetration  would  betray  himself  like  an  ordinary  prisoner? 
He  will  understand  at  once,  if  he  is  set  at  liberty,  that  his 
freedom  is  only  given  him  so  that  we  may  surprise  his  secret." 

"I  don't  deceive  myself,  sir.  May  will  guess  the  truth  of 
course.     I'm  quite  aware  of  that." 

"Very  well.  Then,  what  would  be  the  use  of  attempting 
what  you  propose  ?" 

"I  have  come  to  this  conclusion,"  replied  Lecoq,  "May  will 
find  himself  strangely  embarrassed,  even  when  he's  set   free. 


198  MONSIEUR   LECOQ 

He  won't  have  a  sou  in  his  pocket;  we  know  he  has  no  trade, 
so  what  will  he  do  to  earn  a  living?  He  may  struggle  along 
for  a  while ;  but  he  won't  be  willing  to  suffer  long.  Man  must 
have  food  and  shelter,  and  when  he  finds  himself  without  a 
roof  over  his  head,  without  even  a  crust  of  bread  to  break, 
he  will  remember  that  he  is  rich.  Won't  he  then  try  to  re- 
cover possession  of  his  property?  Yes,  certainly  he  will.  He 
will  try  to  obtain  money,  endeavor  to  communicate  with  his 
friends,  and  I  shall  wait  till  that  moment  arrives.  Months  may 
elapse,  before,  seeing  no  signs  of  my  surveillance,  he  may 
venture  on  some  decisive  step ;  and  then  I  will  spring  forward 
with  a  warrant  for  his  arrest  in  my  hand." 

"And  what  if  he  should  leave  Paris?  What  if  he  should 
go  abroad?" 

"Oh,  I  will  follow  him.  One  of  my  aunts  has  left  me  a  little 
land  in  the  provinces  worth  about  twelve  thousand  francs.  I 
will  sell  it,  and  spend  the  last  sou,  if  necessary,  so  long  as 
I  only  have  my  revenge.  This  man  has  outwitted  me  as  if  I 
were  a  child,  and  I  must  have  my  turn." 

"And  what  if  he  should  slip  through  your  fingers?" 

Lecoq  laughed  like  a  man  that  was  sure  of  himself.  "Let 
him  try,"  he  exclaimed ;  "I  will  answer  for  him  with  my  life." 

"Your  idea  is  not  a  bad  one,"  said  M.  Segmuller,  eventually. 
"But  you  must  understand  that  law  and  justice  will  take  no 
part  in  such  intrigues.  All  I  can  promise  you  is  my  tacit 
approval.  Go,  therefore,  to  the  Prefecture ;  see  your  superiors — " 

With  a  really  despairing  gesture,  the  young  man  interrupted 
M.  Segmuller.  "What  good  would  it  do  for  me  to  make  such 
a  proposition?"  he  exclaimed.  "They  would  not  only  refuse 
my  request,  but  they  would  dismiss  me  on  the  spot,  if  my 
name  is  not  already  erased  from  the  roll." 

"What,  dismissed,  after  conducting  this  case  so  well?" 

"Ah,  sir,  unfortunately  every  one  is  not  of  that  opinion. 
Tongues  have  been  wagging  busily  during  your  illness.  Some- 
how or  other,  my  enemies  have  heard  of  the  last  scene  we  had 
with  May;  and  impudently  declare  that  it  was  /  who  imagined 
all  the  romantic  details  of  this  affair,  being  eager  for  advance- 
ment. They  pretend  that  the  only  reasons  to  doubt  the  prisoner's 
identity  are  those  I  have  invented  myself.  To  hear  them  talk 
at  the  Depot,  one  might  suppose  that  I  invented  the  scene  in 
the  Widow  Chupin's  cabin;  imagined  the  accomplices; 
suborned  the  witnesses;   manufactured  the  articles  of  convic- 


MONSIEUR    LECOQ  199 

tion;  wrote  the  first  note  in  cipher  as  well  as  the  second; 
duped  Father  Absinthe,  and  mystified  the  governor." 

"The  deuce !"  exclaimed  M.  Segmuller ;  "in  that  case,  what 
do  they  think  of  me?" 

The  wily  detective's  face  assumed  an  expression  of  intense 
embarrassment. 

"Ah !  sir,"  he  replied  with  a  great  show  of  reluctance,  "they 
pretend  that  you  have  allowed  yourself  to  be  deceived  by  me, 
and  that  you  haven't  weighed  at  their  proper  worth  the  proofs 
I've  furnished." 

A  fleeting  flush  mantled  over  M.  Segmuller's  forehead.  "In 
a  word,"  said  he,  "they  think  I'm  your  dupe — and  a  fool  besides." 

The  recollection  of  certain  sarcastic  smiles  he  had  often 
detected  on  the  faces  of  colleagues  and  subordinates  alike,  the 
memory  of  numerous  covert  allusions  to  Casper  Hauser,  and 
the  Man  with  the  Iron  Mask — allusions  which  had  stung  him 
to  the  quick — induced  him  to  hesitate  no  longer. 

"Very  well !  I  will  aid  you.  Monsieur  Lecoq,"  he  exclaimed. 
"I  should  like  you  to  triumph  over  your  enemies.  I  will  get 
up  at  once  and  accompany  you  to  the  Palais  de  Justice.  I 
will  see  the  public  prosecutor  myself;  I  will  speak  to  him, 
and  plead  your  case  for  you." 

Lecoq's  joy  was  intense.  Never,  no  never,  had  he  dared  to 
hope  for  such  assistance.  Ah !  after  this  he  would  willingly 
go  through  fire  on  M.  Segmuller's  behalf.  And  yet,  despite 
his  inward  exultation,  he  had  sufficient  control  over  his  feelings 
to  preserve  a  sober  face.  This  victory  must  be  concealed  under 
penalty  of  forfeiting  the  benefits  that  might  accrue  from  it. 
Certainly,  the  young  detective  had  said  nothing  that  was  untrue ; 
but  there  are  different  ways  of  presenting  the  truth,  and  he 
had,  perhaps,  exaggerated  a  trifle  in  order  to  excite  the  magis- 
trate's rancor,  and  win  his  needful  assistance. 

"I  suppose,"  remarked  M.  Segmuller,  who  was  now  quite 
calm  again — no  outward  sign  of  wounded  vanity  being  per- 
ceptible— "I  suppose  you  have  decided  what  stratagem  must 
be  employed  to  lull  the  prisoner's  suspicions  if  he  is  permitted 
to  escape." 

"I  must  confess  I  haven't  given  it  a  thought,"  replied  Lecoq. 
"Besides,  what  good  would  any  such  stratagem  do?  He  knows 
too  well  that  he  is  the  object  of  suspicion  not  to  remain  on  the 
alert.  Still,  there  is  one  precaution  which  I  believe  absolutely 
necessary,  indispensable  indeed,  if  we  wish  to  be  successful." 


200  MONSIEUR   LECOQ 

"What  precaution  do  you  mean?"  inquired  the  magistrate. 

"Well,  sir,  I  think  an  order  should  be  given  to  have  May 
transferred  to  another  prison.  It  doesn't  in  the  least  matter 
which ;  you  can  select  the  one  you  please." 

"Why  should  we  do  that?" 

"Because,  during  the  few  days  preceding  his  release,  it  is 
absolutely  necessary  he  should  hold  no  communication  with 
his  friends  outside,  and  that  he  should  be  unable  to  warn  his 
accomplice." 

"Then  you  think  he's  badly  guarded  where  he  is?"  inquired 
M.  Segmuller  with  seeming  amazement. 

"No,  sir,  I  did  not  say  that.  I  am  satisfied  that  since  the 
affair  of  the  cipher  note  the  governor's  vigilance  has  been 
unimpeachable.  However,  news  from  outside  certainly  reaches 
the  suspected  murderer  at  the  Depot;  we  have  had  material 
evidence — full  proof  of  that — and  besides — " 

The  young  detective  paused  in  evident  embarrassment.  He 
plainly  had  some  idea  in  his  head  to  which  he  feared  to  give 
expression. 

"And  besides?"  repeated  the  magistrate. 

"Ah,  well,  sir !  I  will  be  perfectly  frank  with  you.  I  find 
that  Gevrol  enjoys  too  much  liberty  at  the  Depot;  he  is  per- 
fectly at  home  there,  he  comes  and  goes  as  he  likes,  and  no 
one  ever  thinks  of  asking  what  he  is  doing,  where  he  is  going, 
or  what  he  wants.  No  pass  is  necessary  for  his  admission, 
and  he  can  influence  the  governor  just  as  he  likes.  Now,  to 
tell  the  truth,  I  distrust  Gevrol." 

"Oh  !  Monsieur  Lecoq  !" 

"Yes,  I  know  very  well  that  it's  a  bold  accusation,  but  a 
man  is  not  master  of  his  presentiments :  so  there  it  is,  I  distrust 
Gevrol.  Did  the  prisoner  know  that  I  was  watching  him  from 
the  loft,  and  that  I  had  discovered  his  secret  correspondence, 
was  he  ignorant  of  it?  To  my  mind  he  evidently  knew  every- 
thing, as  the  last  scene  we  had  with  him  proves." 

"I  must  say  that's  my  own  opinion,"  interrupted  M.  Seg- 
muller. 

"But  how  could  he  have  known  it?"  resumed  Lecoq.  "He 
could  not  have  discovered  it  by  himself.  I  endured  tortures 
for  a  while  in  the  hope  of  solving  the  problem.  But  all  my 
trouble  was  wasted.  Now  the  supposition  of  Gevrol's  inter- 
vention would  explain  everything." 

M.  Segmuller  had  turned  pale  with  anger.    "Ah!  if  I  could 


MONSIEUR   LECOQ  201 

really  believe  that !"  he  exclaimed ;  "if  I  were  sure  of  it !    Have 
you  any  proofs?" 

The  young  man  shook  his  head.  "No,"  said  he,  "I  haven't; 
but  even  if  my  hands  were  full  of  proofs  I  should  not  dare  to 
show  them.  I  should  ruin  my  future.  Ah,  if  ever  I  succeed, 
I  must  expect  many  such  acts  of  treachery.  There  is  hatred 
and  rivalry  in  every  profession.  And,  mark  this,  sir — I  don't 
doubt  Gevrol's  honesty.  If  a  hundred  thousand  francs  were 
counted  out  upon  the  table  and  offered  to  him,  he  wouldn't  even 
try  to  release  a  prisoner.  But  he  would  rob  justice  of  a  dozen 
criminals  in  the  mere  hope  of  injuring  me,  jealous  as  he  is,  and 
fearing  lest  I  might  obtain  advancement." 

How  many  things  these  simple  words  explained.  Did  they 
not  give  the  key  to  many  and  many  an  enigma  which  justice 
has  failed  to  solve,  simply  on  account  of  the  jealousy  and 
rivalry  that  animate  the  detective  force?  Thus  thought  M. 
Segmuller,  but  he  had  no  time  for  further  reflection. 

"That  will  do,"  said  he,  "go  into  the  drawing-room  for  a 
moment.  I  will  dress  and  join  you  there.  I  will  send  for 
a  cab :  for  we  must  make  haste  if  I  am  to  see  the  public  prose- 
cutor to-day." 

Less  than  a  quarter  of  an  hour  afterward  M.  Segmuller, 
who  usually  spent  considerable  time  over  his  toilet,  was  dressed 
and  ready  to  start.  He  and  Lecoq  were  just  getting  into  the 
cab  that  had  been  summoned  when  a  footman  in  a  stylish 
livery  was  seen  approaching. 

"Ah!  Jean,"  exclaimed  the  magistrate,  "how's  your  master?" 

"Improving,  sir,"  was  the  reply.  "He  sent  me  to  ask  how 
you  were,  and  to  inquire  how  that  affair  was  progressing?" 

"There  has  been  no  change  since  I  last  wrote  to  him.  Give 
him  my  compliments,  and  tell  him  that  I  am  out  again." 

The  servant  bowed.  Lecoq  took  a  seat  beside  the  magistrate 
and  the  cab  started  off. 

"That  fellow  is  one  of  D'Escorval's  servants,"  remarked  M. 
Segmuller.  "He's  richer  than  I,  and  can  well  afford  to  keep 
a  footman." 

"D'Escorval's,"  ejaculated  Lecoq.  "the  magistrate  who — " 

"Precisely.  He  sent  his  man  to  me  two  or  three  days  ago 
to  ascertain  what  we  were  doing  with  our  mysterious  May." 

"Then  M.  d'Escorval  is  interested  in  the  case?" 

"Prodigiously !  I  conclude  it  is  because  he  opened  the  prose- 
cution, and  because  the  case  rightfully  belongs  to  him.    Perhaps 


202  MONSIEUR   LECOQ 

he  regrets  that  it  passed  out  of  his  hands,  and  thinks  that  he 
could  have  managed  the  investigation  better  himself.  We  would 
have  done  better  with  it  if  we  could.  I  would  give  a  good  deal 
to  see  him  in  my  place." 

But  this  change  would  not  have  been  at  all  to  Lecoq's  taste. 
"Ah,"  thought  he,  "such  a  fellow  as  D'Escorval  would  never 
have  shown  me  such  confidence  as  M.  Segmuller."  He  had, 
indeed,  good  reason  to  congratulate  himself:  for  that  very  day 
M.  Segmuller,  who  was  a  man  of  his  word,  a  man  who  never 
rested  until  he  had  carried  his  plan  into  execution,  actually 
induced  the  authorities  to  allow  May  to  be  set  at  liberty;  and 
the  details  of  this  measure  only  remained  to  be  decided  upon. 
As  regards  the  proposed  transfer  of  the  suspected  murderer 
to  another  prison,  this  was  immediately  carried  into  effect,  and 
May  was  removed  to  Mazas,  where  Lecoq  had  no  fear  of  Gev- 
rol's  interference. 

That  same  afternoon,  moreover,  the  Widow  Chupin  received 
her  conditional  release.  There  was  no  difficulty  as  regards  her 
son,  Polyte.  He  had,  in  the  mean  time,  been  brought  before 
the  correctional  court  on  a  charge  of  theft;  and,  to  his  great 
astonishment,  had  heard  himself  sentenced  to  thirteen  months' 
imprisonment.  After  this,  M.  Segmuller  had  nothing  to  do  but 
to  wait,  and  this  was  the  easier  as  the  advent  of  the  Easter 
holidays  gave  him  an  opportunity  to  seek  a  little  rest  and 
recreation  with  his  family  in  the  provinces. 

On  the  day  he  returned  to  Paris— the  last  of  the  recess,  and 
by  chance  a  Sunday — he  was  sitting  alone  in  his  library  when 
his  cook  came  to  tell  him  that  there  was  a  man  in  the  vestibule 
who  had  been  sent  from  a  neighboring  register  office  to  take 
the  place  of  a  servant  he  had  recently  dismissed.  The  new- 
comer was  ushered  into  the  magistrate's  presence  and  proved 
to  be  a  man  of  forty  or  thereabouts,  very  red  in  the  face  and 
with  carroty  hair  and  whiskers.  He  was,  moreover,  strongly 
inclined  to  corpulence,  and  was  clad  in  clumsy,  ill-fitting  gar- 
ments. In  a  complacent  tone,  and  with  a  strong  Norman  ac- 
cent, he  informed  the  magistrate  that  during  the  past  twenty 
years  he  had  been  in  the  employment  of  various  literary  men. 
as  well  as  of  a  physician,  and  notary;  that  he  was  familiar  with 
the  duties  that  would  be  required  of  him  at  the  Palais  de 
Justice,  and  that  he  knew  how  to  dust  papers  without  disarrang- 
ing them.  In  short,  he  produced  such  a  favorable  impression 
that,    although    M.    Segmuller   reserved    twenty-four   hours    in 


MONSIEUR    LECOQ 


203 


which  to  make  further  inquiries,  he  drew  a  twenty-franc  piece 
from  his  pocket  on  the  spot  and  tendered  it  to  the  Norman 
valet  as  the  first  instalment  of  his  wages. 

But  instead  of  pocketing  the  proffered  coin,  the  man,  with 
a  sudden  change  of  voice  and  attitude,  burst  into  a  hearty  laugh, 
exclaiming:  "Do  you  think,  sir,  that  May  will  recognize  me?" 

"Monsieur  Lecoq  !"  cried  the  astonished  magistrate. 

"The  same,  sir ;  and  I  have  come  to  tell  you  that  if  you  are 
ready  to  release  May,  all  my  arrangements  are  now  completed." 


TXT" HEN  one  of  the  investigating  magistrates  of  the  Tribunal 
v  v  of  the  Seine  wishes  to  examine  a  person  confined  in  one  of 
the  Paris  prisons,  he  sends  by  his  messenger  to  the  governor 
of  that  particular  jail  a  so-called  "order  of  extraction,"  a 
concise,    imperative    formula,    which    reads    as    follows :    "The 

keeper  of  prison  will  give  into  the  custody  of  the  bearer 

of  this  order  the  prisoner  known  as ,  in  order  that  he  may 

be  brought  before  us  in  our  cabinet  at  the  Palais  de  Justice." 
No  more,  no  less,  a  signature,  a  seal,  and  everybody  is  bound 
to  obey. 

But  from  the  moment  of  receiving  this  order  until  the  pris- 
oner is  again  incarcerated,  the  governor  of  the  prison  is  re- 
lieved of  all  responsibility.  Whatever  may  happen,  his  hands 
are  clear.  Minute  precautions  are  taken,  however,  so  that  a 
prisoner  may  not  escape  during  his  journey  from  the  prison  to 
the  Palais.  He  is  carefully  locked  up  in  a  compartment  of  one 
of  the  lugubrious  vehicles  that  may  be  often  seen  waiting  on 
the  Quai  de  l'Horloge,  or  in  the  courtyard  of  the  Sainte- 
Chapelle.  This  van  conveys  him  to  the  Palais,  and  while  he 
is  awaiting  examination,  he  is  immured  in  one  of  the  cells 
of  the  gloomy  jail,  familiarly  known  as  "la  Souriciere"  or  the 
"mouse-trap."  On  entering  and  leaving  the  van  the  prisoner  is 
surrounded  by  guards :  and  on  the  road,  in  addition  to  the 
mounted  troopers  who  always  accompany  these  vehicles,  there 
are  prison  warders  or  linesmen  of  the  Gard  de  Paris  installed 


204  MONSIEUR   LECOQ 

in  the  passage  between  the  compartments  of  the  van  and  seated 
on  the  box  with  the  driver.  Hence,  the  boldest  criminals  ordi- 
narily realize  the  impossibility  of  escaping  from  this  ambula- 
tory prison. 

Indeed,  statistics  record  only  thirty  attempts  at  escape  in  a 
period  of  ten  years.  Of  these  thirty  attempts,  twenty-five  were 
ridiculous  failures;  four  were  discovered  before  their  authors 
had  conceived  any  serious  hope  of  success :  and  only  one  man 
actually  succeeded  in  alighting  from  the  vehicle,  and  even  he 
had  not  taken  fifty  steps  before  he  was  recaptured. 

Lecoq  was  well  acquainted  with  all  these  facts,  and  in  pre- 
paring everything  for  May's  escape,  his  only  fear  was  lest  the 
murderer  might  decline  to  profit  of  the  opportunity.  Hence, 
it  was  necessary  to  offer  every  possible  inducement  for  flight. 
The  plan  the  young  detective  had  eventually  decided  on  con- 
sisted in  sending  an  order  to  Mazas  for  May  to  be  despatched 
to  the  Palais  de  Justice.  He  could  be  placed  in  one  of  the 
prison  vans,  and  at  the  moment  of  starting  the  door  of  his 
compartment  would  not  be  perfectly  secured.  When  the  van 
reached  the  Palais  de  Justice  and  discharged  its  load  of  crimi- 
nals at  the  door  of  the  "mouse-trap"  May  would  purposely  be 
forgotten  and  left  in  the  vehicle,  while  the  latter  waited  on  the 
Quai  de  l'Horloge  until  the  hour  of  returning  to  Mazas.  It 
was  scarcely  possible  that  the  prisoner  would  fail  to  embrace 
this  apparently  favorable  opportunity  to  make  his  escape. 

Everything  was,  therefore,  prepared  and  arranged  according 
to  Lecoq's  directions  on  the  Monday  following  the  close  of 
the  Easter  holidays;  the  requisite  "order  of  extraction"  being 
entrusted  to  an  intelligent  man  with  the  most  minute  instruc- 
tions. 

Now,  although  the  van  in  which  May  would  journey  was  not 
to  be  expected  at  the  Palais  de  Justice  before  noon,  it  so  hap- 
pened that  at  nine  o'clock  that  same  morning  a  queer-looking 
"loafer"  having  the  aspect  of  an  overgrown,  overaged  "gamin 
de  Paris"  might  have  been  seen  hanging  about  the  Prefecture 
de  Police.  He  wore  a  tattered  black  woolen  blouse  and  a  pair 
of  wide,  ill-fitting  trousers,  fastened  about  his  waist  by  a  leather 
strap.  His  boots  betrayed  a  familiar  acquaintance  with  the 
puddles  of  the  barrieres,  and  his  cap  was  shabby  and  dirty, 
though,  on  the  other  hand,  his  necktie,  a  pretentious  silk  scarf 
of  flaming  hue,  was  evidently  quite  fresh  from  some  haber- 
dasher's shop.    No  doubt  it  was  a  present  from  his  sweetheart. 


MONSIEUR   LECOQ  205 

This  uncomely  being  had  the  unhealthy  complexion,  hollow 
eyes,  slouching  mien,  and  straggling  beard  common  to  his  tribe. 
His  yellow  hair,  cut  closely  at  the  back  of  the  head,  as  if  to 
save  the  trouble  of  brushing,  was  long  in  front  and  at  the 
sides ;  being  plastered  down  over  his  forehead  and  advancing 
above  his  ears  in  extravagant  corkscrew  ringlets. 

What  with  his  attire,  his  affected  jaunty  step,  his  alternate 
raising  of  either  shoulder,  and  his  way  of  holding  his  cigarette 
and  of  ejecting  a  stream  of  saliva  from  between  his  teeth, 
Polyte  Chupin,  had  he  been  at  liberty,  would  undoubtedly  have 
proffered  a  paw,  and  greeted  this  barriere  beauty  as  a  "pal." 

It  was  the  14th  of  April ;  the  weather  was  lovely,  and,  on 
the  horizon,  the  youthful  foliage  of  the  chestnut  trees  in  the 
Tuileries  gardens  stood  out  against  a  bright  blue  sky.  The 
"ethereal  mildness"  of  "gentle  spring"  seemed  to  have  a  posi- 
tive charm  for  the  tattered  "loafer"  who  lazily  loitered  in  the 
sunlight,  dividing  his  attention  between  the  passers-by.  and 
some  men  who  were  hauling  sand  from  the  banks  of  the  Seine. 
Occasionally,  however,  he  crossed  the  roadway,  and,  strange  to 
say,  exchanged  a  few  remarks  with  a  neatly  dressed,  long- 
bearded  gentleman,  who  wore  gold-rimmed  spectacles  over  his 
nose  and  drab  silk  gloves  on  his  hands.  This  individual  exhib- 
ited all  the  outward  characteristics  of  eminent  respectability, 
and  seemed  to  take  a  remarkable  interest  in  the  contents  of  an 
optician's  shop  window. 

Every  now  and  then  a  policeman  or  an  agent  of  the  detec- 
tive corps  passed  by  on  his  way  to  the  Prefecture,  and  the 
elderly  gentleman  or  the  "loafer"  would  at  times  run  after 
these  officials  to  ask  for  some  trifling  information.  The  person 
addressed  replied  and  passed  on ;  and  then  the  "loafer"  and  the 
gentleman  would  join  each  other  and  laughingly  exclaim: 
"Good ! — there's  another  who  doesn't  recognize  us." 

And  in  truth  the  pair  had  just  cause  for  exultation,  good 
reason  to  be  proud,  for  of  some  twelve  or  fifteen  comrades  they 
accosted,  not  one  recognized  the  two  detectives.  Lecoq  and 
Father  Absinthe.  For  the  "loafer"  was  none  other  than  our 
hero,  and  the  gentleman  of  such  eminent  respectability  his  faith- 
ful lieutenant. 

"Ah !"  quoth  the  latter  with  admiration,  "I  am  not  surprised 
they  don't  recognize  me,  since  I  can't  recognize  myself.  No 
one  but  you,  Monsieur  Lecoq,  could  have  so  transformed  me." 

Unfortunately  for  Lecoq's  vanity,  the  good  fellow  spoke  at 


206  MONSIEUR    LECOQ 

a  moment  when  the  time  for  idle  conversation  had  passed.  The 
prison  van  was  just  crossing  the  bridge  at  a  brisk  trot. 

"Attention !"  exclaimed  the  young  detective,  "there  comes 
our  friend  !  Quick  ! — to  your  post ;  remember  my  directions, 
and  keep  your  eyes  open  !" 

Near  them,  on  the  quay,  was  a  large  pile  of  timber,  behind 
which  Father  Absinthe  immediately  concealed  himself,  while 
Lecoq,  seizing  a  spade  that  was  lying  idle,  hurried  to  a  little 
distance  and  began  digging  in  the  sand.  They  did  well  to 
make  haste.  The  van  came  onward  and  turned  the  corner.  It 
passed  the  two  detectives,  and  with  a  noisy  clang  rolled  under 
the  heavy  arch  leading  to  "la  Souriciere."  May  was  inside,  as 
Lecoq  assured  himself  on  recognizing  the  keeper  sitting  beside 
the  driver. 

The  van  remained  in  the  courtyard  for  more  than  a  quarter 
of  an  hour.  When  it  reappeared,  the  driver  had  left  his  perch 
and  the  quay  opposite  the  Palais  de  Justice,  threw  a  covering 
over  his  horses,  lighted  his  pipe,  and  quietly  walked  away.  The 
moment  for  action  was  now  swiftly  approaching. 

For  a  few  minutes  the  anxiety  of  the  two  watchers  amounted 
to  actual  agony ;  nothing  stirred — nothing  moved.  But  at  last 
the  door  of  the  van  was  opened  with  infinite  caution,  and  a 
pale,  frightened  face  became  visible.  It  was  the  face  of  May. 
The  prisoner  cast  a  rapid  glance  around  him.  No  one  was  in 
sight.  Then  as  swiftly  and  as  stealthily  as  a  cat  he  sprang 
to  the  ground,  noiselessly  closed  the  door  of  the  vehicle,  and 
walked  quietly  toward  the  bridge. 

Lecoq  breathed  again.  He  had  been  asking  himself  if  some 
trifling  circumstance  could  have  been  forgotten  or  neglected, 
thus  disarranging  all  his  plans.  He  had  been  wondering  if  this 
strange  man  would  refuse  the  dangerous  liberty  which  had  been 
offered  him.  But  he  had  been  anxious  without  cause.  May 
had  fled ;  not  thoughtlessly,  but  with  premeditation. 

From  the  moment  when  he  was  left  alone,  apparently  for- 
gotten, in  the  insecurely  locked  compartment,  until  he  opened 
the  door  and  glanced  around  him,  sufficient  time  had  elapsed 
for  a  man  of  his  intellect  and  discernment  to  analyze  and  cal- 
culate all  the  chances  of  so  grave  a  step.  Hence,  if  he  had 
stepped  into  the  snare  laid  for  him,  it  must  be  with  a  full 
knowledge  of  the  risks  he  had  to  run.  He  and  Lecoq  were 
alone  together,  free  in  the  streets  of  Paris,  armed  with  mutual 
distrust,   equally  obliged  to  resort  to  strategy,   and   forced   to 


MONSIEUR    LECOQ  207 

hide  from  each  other.  Lecoq,  it  is  true,  had  an  auxiliary — 
Father  Absinthe.  But  who  could  say  that  May  would  not  be 
aided  by  his  redoubtable  accomplice  ?  Hence,  it  was  a  veritable 
duel,  the  result  of  which  depended  entirely  upon  the  courage, 
skill,  and  coolness  of  the  antagonists. 

All  these  thoughts  flashed  through  the  young  detective's  brain 
with  the  quickness  of  lightning.  Throwing  down  his  spade, 
and  running  toward  a  sergeant  de  ville,  who  was  just  coming 
out  of  the  Palais  de  Justice,  he  gave  him  a  letter  which  was 
ready  in  his  pocket.  "Take  this  to  M.  Segmuller  at  once ;  it 
is  a  matter  of  importance,"  said  he. 

The  policeman  attempted  to  question  this  "loafer"  who  was 
in  correspondence  with  the  magistrates ;  but  Lecoq  had  already 
darted  off  on  the  prisoner's  trail. 

May  had  covered  but  a  short  distance.  He  was  sauntering 
along  with  his  hands  in  his  pockets ;  his  head  high  in  the  air, 
his  manner  composed  and  full  of  assurance.  Had  he  reflected 
that  it  would  be  dangerous  to  run  while  so  near  the  prison 
from  which  he  had  just  escaped?  Or  was  he  of  opinion  that 
as  an  opportunity  of  flight  had  been  willingly  furnished  him, 
there  was  no  danger  of  immediate  rearrest?  This  was  a  point 
Lecoq  could  not  decide.  At  all  events,  May  showed  no  signs 
of  quickening  his  pace  even  after  crossing  the  bridge ;  and  it 
was  with  the  same  tranquil  manner  that  he  next  crossed  the 
Quai  aux  Fleurs  and  turned  into  the  Rue  de  la  Cite. 

Nothing  in  his  bearing  or  appearance  proclaimed  him  to 
be  an  escaped  prisoner.  Since  his  trunk — that  famous  trunk 
which  he  pretended  to  have  left  at  the  Hotel  de  Mariembourg 
— had  been  returned  to  him,  he  had  been  well  supplied  with 
clothing:  and  he  never  failed,  when  summoned  before  the  mag- 
istrate, to  array  himself  in  his  best  apparel.  The  garments 
he  wore  that  day  were  black  cloth,  and  their  cut,  combined 
with  his  manner,  gave  him  the  appearance  of  a  working  man 
of  the  better  class  taking  a  holiday. 

His  tread,  hitherto  firm  and  decided,  suddenly  became  uncer- 
tain when,  after  crossing  the  Seine,  he  reached  the  Rue  St. 
Jacques.  He  walked  more  slowly,  frequently  hesitated,  and 
glanced  continually  at  the  shops  on  either  side  of  the  way. 

"Evidently  he  is  seeking  something,"  thought  Lecoq:  "but 
what  ?" 

It  was  not  long  before  he  ascertained.  Seeing  a  second-hand- 
clothes  shop  close  by,  May  entered  in  evident  haste.     Lecoq  at 


208  MONSIEUR    LECOQ 

once  stationed  himself  under  a  gateway  on  the  opposite  side  of 
the  street,  and  pretended  to  be  busily  engaged  lighting  a  ciga- 
rette. The  criminal  being  momentarily  out  of  sight,  Father 
Absinthe  thought  he  could  approach  without  danger. 

"Ah,  well,"  said  he,  "there's  our  man  changing  his  fine  clothes 
for  coarser  garments.  He  will  ask  for  the  difference  in 
money;  and  they  will  give  it  him.  You  told  me  this  morning: 
'May  without  a  sou' — that's  the  trump  card  in  our  game !" 

"Nonsense !  Before  we  begin  to  lament,  let  us  wait  and  see 
what  happens.  It  is  not  likely  that  shopkeeper  will  give  him 
any  money.     He  won't  buy  clothing  of  the  first  passer-by." 

Father  Absinthe  withdrew  to  a  little  distance.  He  distrusted 
these  reasons,  but  not  Lecoq  who  gave  them. 

In  the  mean  while,  in  his  secret  soul,  Lecoq  was  cursing  him- 
self. Another  blunder,  thought  he,  another  weapon  left  in  the 
hands  of  the  enemy.  How  was  it  that  he,  who  fancied  himself 
so  shrewd,  had  not  foreseen  this  emergency?  Calmness  of  mind 
returned,  however,  a  moment  afterward  when  he  saw  May 
emerge  from  the  shop  attired  as  when  he  entered  it.  Luck 
had  for  once  been  in  the  young  detective's  favor. 

May  actually  staggered  when  he  stepped  out  on  the  pave- 
ment. His  bitter  disappointment  could  be  read  in  his  counte- 
nance, which  disclosed  the  anguish  of  a  drowning  man  who  sees 
the  frail  plank  which  was  his  only  hope  of  salvation  snatched 
from  his  grasp  by  the  ruthless  waves. 

What  could  have  taken  place?  This  Lecoq  must  know  with- 
out a  moment's  delay.  He  gave  a  peculiar  whistle,  to  warn 
his  companion  that  he  momentarily  abandoned  the  pursuit  of 
him ;  and  having  received  a  similar  signal  in  response,  he  en- 
tered the  shop.  The  owner  was  still  standing  behind  the 
counter.  Lecoq  wasted  no  time  in  parleying.  He  merely 
showed  his  card  to  acquaint  the  man  with  his  profession,  and 
curtlv  asked:  "What  did  the  fellow  want  who  was  just  in 
here?" 

The  shopkeeper  seemed  embarrassed.  "It's  a  long  story,"  he 
stammered. 

"Then  tell  it !"  said  Lecoq,  surprised  at  the  man's  hesitation. 

"Oh,  it's  very  simple.  About  twelve  days  ago  a  man  entered 
my  shop  with  a  bundle  under  his  arm.  He  claimed  to  be  a 
countryman  of  mine." 

"Are  you  an  Alsatian?" 

"Yes,  sir.    Well,  I  went  with  this  man  to  the  wine-shop  at 


MONSIEUR    LECOQ  209 

the  corner,  where  he  ordered  a  bottle  of  good  wine :  and  while 
we  drank  together,  he  asked  me  if  I  would  consent  to  keep  the 
package  he  had  with  him  until  one  of  his  cousins  came  to 
claim  it.  To  prevent  any  mistake,  this  cousin  was  to  say  cer- 
tain words — a  countersign,  as  it  were.  I  refused,  shortly  and 
decidedly,  for  the  very  month  before  I  had  got  into  trouble 
and  had  been  charged  with  receiving  stolen  goods,  all  by  oblig- 
ing a  person  in  this  way.  Well,  you  never  saw  a  man  so  vexed 
and  so  surprised.  What  made  me  all  the  more  determined  in  my 
refusal  was  that  he  offered  me  a  good  round  sum  in  payment 
for  my  trouble.  This  only  increased  my  suspicion,  and  I  per- 
sisted in  my  refusal." 

The  shopkeeper  paused  to  take  breath ;  but  Lecoq  was  on 
fire  with  impatience.     "And  what  then?"  he  insisted. 

"Well,  he  paid  for  the  wine  and  went  away.  I  had  forgotten 
all  about  the  matter  until  that  man  came  in  here  just  now,  and 
after  asking  me  if  I  hadn't  a  package  for  him,  which  had  been 
left  by  one  of  his  cousins,  began  to  say  some  peculiar  words — 
the  countersign,  no  doubt.  W'hen  I  replied  that  I  had  nothing 
at  all  he  turned  as  white  as  his  shirt ;  and  I  thought  he  was 
going  to  faint.  All  my  suspicions  came  back  to  me.  So  when 
he  afterward  proposed  that  I  should  buy  his  clothes,  I  told 
him  I  couldn't  think  of  it." 

All  this  was  plain  enough  to  Lecoq.  "And  this  cousin  who 
was  here  a  fortnight  ago,  what  was  he  like  ?"  asked  he. 

"He  was  a  tall,  rather  corpulent  man,  with  a  ruddy  com- 
plexion, and  white  whiskers.  Ah !  I  should  recognize  him  in 
an  instant !" 

"The  accomplice !"  exclaimed  Lecoq. 

"What  did  you  say?" 

"Nothing  that  would  interest  you.  Thank  you.  I  am  in  a 
hurry.     You  will  see  me  again :  good  morning." 

Lecoq  had  not  remained  five  minutes  in  the  shop :  and  yet, 
when  he  emerged,  May  and  Father  Absinthe  were  nowhere  in 
sight.  Still,  the  young  detective  was  not  at  all  uneasy  on  that 
score.  In  making  arrangements  with  his  old  colleague  for  this 
pursuit  Lecoq  had  foreseen  such  a  situation,  and  it  had  been 
agreed  that  if  one  of  them  were  obliged  to  remain  behind,  the 
other,  who  was  closely  following  May,  should  from  time  to 
time  make  chalk  marks  on  the  walls,  shutters,  and  facings  of 
the  shops,  so  as  to  indicate  the  route,  and  enable  his  com- 
panion to  rejoin  him.     Hence,  in  order  to  know  which  way  to 


210  MONSIEUR   LECOQ 

go,  Lecoq  had  only  to  glance  at  the  buildings  around  him.  The 
task  was  neither  long  nor  difficult,  for  on  the  front  of  the 
third  shop  beyond  that  of  the  second-hand-clothes  dealer  a 
superb  dash  of  the  crayon  instructed  him  to  turn  into  the  Rue 
Saint-Jacques. 

On  he  rushed  in  that  direction,  his  mind  busy  at  work  with 
the  incident  that  had  just  occurred.  What  a  terrible  warning 
that  old-clothes  dealer's  declaration  had  been  !  Ah  !  that  myste- 
rious accomplice  was  a  man  of  foresight.  He  had  even  done 
his  utmost  to  insure  his  comrade's  salvation  in  the  event  of  his 
being  allowed  to  escape.  What  did  the  package  the  shopkeeper 
had  spoken  of  contain?  Clothes,  no  doubt.  Everything  neces- 
sary for  a  complete  disguise — money,  papers,  a  forged  passport 
most  likely. 

While  these  thoughts  were  rushing  through  Lecoq's  mind, 
he  had  reached  the  Rue  Soufflot.  where  he  paused  for  an 
instant  to  learn  his  way  from  the  walls.  This  was  the  work 
of  a  second.  A  long  chalk  mark  on  a  watchmaker's  shop  pointed 
to  the  Boulevard  Saint-Michel,  whither  the  young  detective  at 
once  directed  his  steps.  "The  accomplice,"  said  he  to  himself, 
resuming  his  meditation,  "didn't  succeed  with  that  old-clothes 
dealer ;  but  he  isn't  a  man  to  be  disheartened  by  one  rebuff. 
He  has  certainly  taken  other  measures.  How  shall  I  divine 
what  they  are  in  order  to  defeat  them?" 

The  supposed  murderer  had  crossed  the  Boulevard  Saint- 
Michel,  and  had  then  taken  to  the  Rue  Monsieur-le-Prince,  as 
Father  Absinthe's  dashes  of  the  crayon  proclaimed  with  many 
eloquent  flourishes. 

"One  circumstance  reassures  me,"  the  young  detective  mur- 
mured, "May's  going  to  this  shop,  and  his  consternation  on 
finding  that  there  was  nothing  for  him  there.  The  accomplice 
had  informed  him  of  his  plans,  but  had  not  been  able  to  inform 
him  of  their  failure.  Hence,  from  this  hour,  the  prisoner  is 
left  to  his  own  resources.  The  chain  that  bound  him  to  his 
accomplice  is  broken ;  there  is  no  longer  an  understanding  be- 
tween them.  Everything  depends  now  upon  keeping  them 
apart.     Yes,  everything  lies  in  that!" 

Ah  !  how  Lecoq  rejoiced  that  he  had  succeeded  in  having 
May  transferred  to  another  prison;  for  he  was  convinced  that 
the  accomplice  had  warned  May  of  the  attempt  he  was  going 
to  make  with  the  old-clothes  dealer  on  the  very  evening  before 
May's  removal  to  Mazas.     Hence,  it  had  not  been  possible  to 


MONSIEUR   LECOQ  211 

acquaint  him  with  the  failure  of  this  scheme  or  the  substitution 
of  another. 

Still  following  the  chalk  marks,  Lecoq  now  reached  the 
Odeon  theatre.  Here  were  fresh  signs,  and  what  was  more, 
Father  Absinthe  could  be  perceived  under  the  colonnade,  stand- 
ing in  front  of  one  of  the  book-stalls,  and  apparently  engrossed 
in  the  contemplation  of  a  print. 

Assuming  the  nonchalant  manner  of  the  loafer  whose  garb 
he  wore,  Lecoq  took  his  stand  beside  his  colleague.  "Where  is 
he?"  asked  the  young  detective. 

"There,"  replied  his  companion,  with  a  slight  movement  of 
his  head  in  the  direction  of  the  steps. 

The  fugitive  was,  indeed,  seated  on  one  of  the  steps  at  the 
side  of  the  theatre,  his  elbows  resting  on  his  knees  and  his  face 
hidden  in  his  hands,  as  if  he  felt  the  necessity  of  concealing 
the  expression  of  his  face  from  the  passers-by.  Undoubtedly, 
at  that  moment,  he  gave  himself  up  for  lost.  Alone  in  the 
midst  of  Paris,  without  a  penny,  what  was  to  become  of  him? 
He  knew  beyond  the  shadow  of  a  doubt  that  he  was  being 
watched;  that  his  steps  were  being  dogged,  that  the  first  at- 
tempt he  made  to  inform  his  accomplice  of  his  whereabouts 
would  cost  him  his  secret — the  secret  which  he  plainly  held 
as  more  precious  than  life  itself,  and  which,  by  immense  sacri- 
fices, he  had  so  far  been  able  to  preserve. 

Having  for  some  short  time  contemplated  in  silence  this 
unfortunate  man  whom  after  all  he  could  but  esteem  and 
admire,  Lecoq  turned  to  his  old  companion:  "What  did  he  do 
on  the  way?"  he  asked. 

"He  went  into  the  shops  of  five  dealers  in  second-hand  cloth- 
ing without  success.  Then  he  addressed  a  man  who  was  passing 
with  a  lot  of  old  rubbish  on  his  shoulder :  but  the  man  wouldn't 
even  answer  him." 

Lecoq  nodded  his  head  thoughtfully.  "The  moral  of  this  is, 
that  there's  a  vast  difference  between  theory  and  practise."  he 
remarked.  "Here's  a  fellow  who  has  made  some  most  discern- 
ing men  believe  that  he's  only  a  poor  devil,  a  low  buffoon. 
Well,  now  he's  free;  and  this  so-called  Bohemian  doesn't  even 
know  how  to  go  to  work  to  sell  the  clothes  on  his  back.  The 
comedian  who  could  play  his  part  so  well  on  the  stage  has 
disappeared;  while  the  man  remains — the  man  who  has  always 
been  rich,  and  knows  nothing  of  the  vicissitudes  of  life." 
The  young  detective   suddenly   ceased   moralizing,    for   May 


212  MONSIEUR    LECOQ 

had  risen  from  his  seat.  Lecoq  was  only  ten  yards  distant,  and 
could  see  that  his  face  was  pallid.  His  attitude  expressed  pro- 
found dejection  and  one  could  read  his  indecision  in  his  eyes. 
Perhaps  he  was  wondering  if  it  would  not  be  best  -to  return 
and  place  himself  again  in  the  hands  of  his  jailers,  since  he 
was  without  the  resources  upon  which  he  had  depended. 

After  a  little,  however,  he  shook  off  the  torpor  that  had  for 
a  time  overpowered  him ;  his  eyes  brightened,  and,  with  a 
gesture  of  defiance,  he  left  the  steps,  crossed  the  open  square 
and  walked  down  the  Rue  de  l'Ancienne-Comedie.  He  strode 
onward  now  with  the  brisk,  determined  step  of  a  man  who  has 
a  definite  aim  in  view. 

"Who  knows  where  he  is  going  now?"  murmured  Father 
Absinthe,  as  he  trotted  along  by  Lecoq's  side. 

"I  do,"  replied  the  young  detective.  "And  the  proof  is,  that 
I  am  going  to  leave  you,  and  run  on  in  advance,  to  prepare  for 
his  reception.  I  may  be  mistaken,  however,  and  as  we  must 
be  prepared  for  any  emergency,  leave  me  the  chalk-marks  as 
you  go  along.  If  our  man  doesn't  come  to  the  Hotel  de  Mariem- 
bourg,  as  I  think  he  will,  I  shall  come  back  here  to  start  in 
pursuit  of  you  again." 

Just  then  an  empty  cab  chanced  to  be  passing,  and  Lecoq 
hastily  got  into  it,  telling  the  driver  to  take  him  to  the  North- 
ern Railway  Station  by  the  shortest  route  and  as  quickly  as 
possible.  As  time  was  precious,  he  handed  the  cabman  his  fare 
while  on  the  road,  and  then  began  to  search  his  pocket-book, 
among  the  various  documents  confided  to  him  by  M.  Seg- 
muller,  for  a  particular  paper  he  would  now  require. 

Scarcely  had  the  cab  stopped  at  the  Place  de  Roubaix  than 
the  young  detective  alighted  and  ran  toward  the  Hotel  de 
Mariembourg,  where,  as  on  the  occasion  of  his  first  visit,  he 
found  Madame  Milner  standing  on  a  chair  in  front  of  her  bird- 
cage, obstinately  trying  to  teach  her  starling  German,  while 
the  bird  with  equal  obstinacy  repeated :  "Camille !  where  is 
Camille?" 

On  perceiving  the  individual  of  questionable  mien  who  had 
presumed  to  cross  her  threshold,  the  pretty  widow  did  not  deign 
to  change  her  position. 

"What  do  you  want?"  she  asked  in  a  curt,  sharp  voice. 

"I  am  the  nephew  of  a  messenger  at  the  Palais  de  Justice," 
replied  Lecoq  with  an  awkward  bow,  in  perfect  keeping  with 
his  attire.     "On  going  to  see  my  uncle  this  morning,  I  found 


MONSIEUR   LECOQ  213 

him  laid  up  with  rheumatism;  and  he  asked  me  to  bring  you 
this  paper  in  his  stead.  It  is  a  summons  for  you  to  appear  at 
once  before  the  investigating  magistrate." 

This  reply  induced  Madame  Milner  to  abandon  her  perch. 
"Very  well,"  she  replied  after  glancing  at  the  summons ;  "give 
me  time  to  throw  a  shawl  over  my  shoulder,  and  I'll  start." 

Lecoq  withdrew  with  another  awkward  bow ;  but  he  had  not 
reached  the  street  before  a  significant  grimace  betrayed  his 
inward  satisfaction.  She  had  duped  him  once,  and  now  he  had 
repaid  her.  On  looking  round  him  he  perceived  a  half-built 
house  at  the  corner  of  the  Rue  St.  Quentin,  and  being  momen- 
tarily in  want  of  a  hiding-place  he  concluded  that  he  had  best 
conceal  himself  there.  The  pretty  widow  had  only  asked  for 
sufficient  time  to  slip  on  a  shawl  before  starting ;  but  then  it 
so  happened  that  she  was  rather  particular  as  to  her  personal 
appearance — and  such  a  plump,  attractive  little  body  as  herself, 
having  an  eye  perhaps  to  renewed  wedlock,  could  not  possibly 
be  expected  to  tie  her  bonnet  strings  in  less  than  a  quarter  of 
an  hour.  Hence,  Lecoq's  sojourn  behind  the  scaffolding  of  the 
half-built  house  proved  rather  longer  than  he  had  expected,  and 
at  the  thought  that  May  might  arrive  at  any  moment  he  fairly 
trembled  with  anxiety.  How  much  was  he  in  advance  of  the 
fugitive?  Half  an  hour,  perhaps!  And  he  had  accomplished 
only  half  his  task. 

At  last,  however,  the  coquettish  landlady  made  her  appear- 
ance as  radiant  as  a  spring  morning.  She  probably  wished  to 
make  up  for  the  time  she  had  spent  over  her  toilet,  for  as  she 
turned  the  corner  she  began  to  run.  Lecoq  waited  till  she  was 
out  of  sight,  and  then  bounding  from  his  place  of  concealment, 
he  burst  into  the  Hotel  de  Mariembourg  like  a  bombshell. 

Fritz,  the  Bavarian  lad,  must  have  been  warned  that  the 
house  was  to  be  left  in  his  sole  charge  for  some  hours:  for 
having  comfortably  installed  himself  in  his  mistress's  own  par- 
ticular armchair,  with  his  legs  resting  on  another  one,  he  had 
already  commenced  to  fall  asleep. 

"Wake  up!"  shouted  Lecoq;  "wake  up!" 

At  the  sound  of  this  voice,  which  rang  like  a  trumpet  blast, 
Fritz  sprang  to  his  feet,  frightened  half  out  of  his  wits. 

"You  see  that  I  am  an  agent  of  the  Prefecture  of  Police," 
said  the  visitor,  showing  his  card.  "Now,  if  you  wish  to  avoid 
all  sorts  of  disagreeable  things,  the  least  of  which  will  be  a 
sojourn  in  prison,  you  must  obey  me." 


214  MONSIEUR   LECOQ 

The  boy  trembled  in  every  limb.  "Yes,  mein  Herr — Mon- 
sieur, I  mean — I  will  obey  you,"  he  stammered.  "But  what 
am  I  to  do?" 

"Oh,  very  little.  A  man  is  coming  here  in  a  moment:  you 
will  know  him  by  his  black  clothes  and  his  long  beard.  You 
must  answer  him  word  for  word  as  I  tell  you.  And  remember, 
if  you  make  any  mistake,  you  will  suffer  for  it." 

"You  may  rely  upon  me,  sir,"  replied  Fritz.  "I  have  an 
excellent  memory." 

The  prospect  of  imprisonment  had  terrified  him  into  abject 
submission.  He  spoke  the  truth;  he  would  have  been  willing 
to  say  or  do  anything  just  then.  Lecoq  profited  by  this  disposi- 
tion; and  then  clearly  and  concisely  gave  the  lad  his  instruc- 
tions. "And  now,"  added  he,  "I  must  see  and  hear  you.  Where 
can  I  hide  myself?" 

Fritz  pointed  to  a  glass  door.  "In  the  dark  room  there,  sir. 
By  leaving  the  door  ajar  you  can  hear  and  you  can  see  every- 
thing  through   the  glass." 

Without  another  word  Lecoq  darted  into  the  room  in  question. 
Not  a  moment  too  soon,  however,  for  the  spring  bell  of  the 
outer  door  announced  the  arrival  of  a  visitor.  It  was  May. 
"I  wish  to  speak  to  the  landlady,"  he  said. 

"What  landlady?"  replied  the  lad. 

"The  person  who  received  me  when  I  came  here  six  weeks 
ago-" 

"Oh,  I  understand,"  interrupted  Fritz;  "it's  Madame  Milner 
you  want  to  see ;  but  you  have  come  too  late ;  she  sold  the  house 
about  a  month  ago,  and  has  gone  back  to  Alsace." 

May  stamped  his  foot  and  uttered  a  terrible  oath.  "I  have 
come  to  claim  something  from  her,"  he  insisted. 

"Do  you  want  me  to  call  her  successor?" 

Concealed  behind  the  glass  door,  Lecoq  could  not  help  admir- 
ing Fritz,  who  was  uttering  these  glaring  falsehoods  with  that 
air  of  perfect  candor  which  gives  the  Germans  such  a  vast 
advantage  over  the  Latin  races,  who  seem  to  be  lying  even  when 
they  are  telling  the  truth. 

"Her  successor  would  order  me  off,"  exclaimed  May.  "I 
came  to  reclaim  the  money  I  paid  for  a  room  I  never  occu- 
pied." 

"Such  money  is  never  refunded." 

May  uttered  some  incoherent  threat,  in  which  such  words 
as   "downright   robbery"   and   "justice"   could   be  distinguished, 


MONSIEUR    LECOQ  215 

and  then  abruptly  walked  back  into  the  street,  slamming  the 
door  behind  him. 

"Well!  did  I  answer  properly?"  asked  Fritz  triumphantly  as 
Lecoq  emerged  from  his  hiding-place. 

"Yes,  perfectly,"  replied  the  detective.  And  then  pushing 
aside  the  boy,  who  was  standing  in  his  way,  he  dashed  after 
May. 

A  vague  fear  almost  suffocated  him.  It  had  struck  him  that 
the  fugitive  had  not  been  either  surprised  or  deeply  affected  by 
the  news  he  had  heard.  He  had  come  to  the  hotel  depending 
upon  Madame  Milner's  assistance,  and  the  news  of  this  woman's 
departure  would  naturally  have  alarmed  him,  for  was  she  not 
the  mysterious  accomplice's  confidential  friend?  Had  May,  then, 
guessed  the  trick  that  had  been  played  upon  him?  And  if  so, 
how  ? 

Lecoq's  good  sense  told  him  plainly  that  the  fugitive  must 
have  been  put  on  his  guard,  and  on  rejoining  Father  Absinthe, 
he  immediately  exclaimed :  "May  spoke  to  some  one  on  his  way 
to  the  hotel." 

"Why,  how  could  you  know  that?"  exclaimed  the  worthy 
man,  greatly  astonished. 

"Ah !  I  was  sure  of  it !" 

"Who  did  he  speak  to  ?" 

"To  a  very  pretty  woman,  upon  my  word ! — fair  and  plump 
as  a  partridge !" 

"Ah !  fate  is  against  us !"  exclaimed  Lecoq  with  an  oath. 
"I  run  on  in  advance  to  Madame  Milner's  house,  so  that  May 
shan't  see  her.  I  invent  an  excuse  to  send  her  out  of  the  hotel, 
and  yet  they  meet  each  other." 

Father  Absinthe  gave  a  despairing  gesture.  "Ah !  if  I  had 
known !"  he  murmured ;  "but  you  did  not  tell  me  to  prevent 
May  from  speaking  to  the  passers-by." 

"Never  mind,  my  old  friend,"  said  Lecoq,  consolingly;  "it 
couldn't  have  been  helped." 

While  this  conversation  was  going  on,  the  fugitive  had 
reached  the  Faubourg  Montmartre,  and  his  pursuers  were 
obliged  to  hasten  forward  and  get  closer  to  their  man,  so  that 
they  might  not  lose  him  in  the  crowd. 

"Now,"  resumed  Lecoq  when  they  had  overtaken  him,  "give 
me  the  particulars.     Where  did  they  meet?" 

"In  the  Rue  Saint-Quentin." 

"Which  saw  the  other  first?" 


216  MONSIEUR   LECOQ 

"Mav." 

"What    did    the    woman    say?      Did    you   hear    any    cry   of 

surprise?" 

"I  heard  nothing,  for  I  was  quite  fifty  yards  off;  but  by  the 
woman's  manner  I  could  see  she  was  stupefied." 

Ah  !  if  Lecoq  could  have  witnessed  the  scene,  what  valuable 
deductions  he  might  have  drawn  from  it.  "Did  they  talk  for  a 
long  time?"  he  asked. 

"For  less  than  a  quarter  of  an  hour." 

"Do  you  know  whether  Madame  Milner  gave  May  money 
or  not?" 

"I  can't  say.  They  gesticulated  like  mad— so  violently,  indeed, 
that  I  thought  they  were  quarreling." 

"They  knew  they  were  being  watched,  and  were  endeavoring 
to  divert  suspicion." 

"If  they  would  only  arrest  this  woman  and  question  her," 
suggested  Father  Absinthe. 

"What  good  would  it  do?  Hasn't  M.  Segmuller  examined 
and  cross-examined  her  a  dozen  times  without  drawing  any- 
thing from  her !  Ah !  she's  a  cunning  one.  She  would  declare 
that  May  met  her  and  insisted  that  she  should  refund  the  ten 
francs  he  paid  her  for  his  room.  We  must  do  our  best,  how- 
ever. If  the  accomplice  has  not  been  warned  already,  he  will 
soon  be  told ;  so  we  must  try  to  keep  the  two  men  apart.  What 
ruse  they  will  employ,  I  can't  divine.  But  I  know  that  it  will 
be  nothing  hackneyed." 

Lecoq's  presumptions  made  Father  Absinthe  nervous.  "The 
surest  way,  perhaps,"  ventured  the  latter,  "would  be  to  lock  him 
up  again !" 

"No!"  replied  the  young  detective.  "I  want  his  secret,  and 
I'll  have  it.  What  will  be  said  of  us  if  we  two  allow  this  man 
to  escape  us?  He  can't  be  visible  and  invisible  by  turns,  like 
the  devil.  We'll  see  what  he  is  going  to  do  now  that  he's  got 
some  money  and  a  plan— for  he  has  both  at  the  present  moment. 
I  would  stake  my  right  hand  upon  it." 

At  that  same  instant,  as  if  May  intended  to  convince 
Lecoq  of  the  truth  of  his  suspicion,  he  entered  a  tobacconist's 
shop  and  emerged  an  instant  afterward  with  a  cigar  in  hi* 
mouth. 


MONSIEUR   LECOQ 


217 


CO  the  landlady  of  the  Hotel  de  Mariembourg  had  given  May 
money.  There  could  be  no  further  doubt  on  that  point  after 
the  purchase  of  this  cigar.  But  had  they  agreed  upon  any  plan  ? 
Had  they  had  sufficient  time  to  decide  on  the  method  that  May 
was  to  employ  with  the  view  of  baffling  his  pursuit? 

It  would  seem  so,  since  the  fugitive's  manner  had  now 
changed  in  more  respects  than  one.  If  hitherto  he  had  seemed 
to  care  little  for  the  danger  of  pursuit  and  capture,  at  present 
he  was  evidently  uneasy  and  agitated.  After  walking  so  long 
in  the  full  sunlight,  with  his  head  high  in  the  air,  he  now 
slunk  along  in  the  shadow  of  the  houses,  hiding  himself  as  much 
as  possible. 

"It  is  evident  that  his  fears  have  increased  in  proportion  with 
his  hopes,"  said  Lecoq  to  his  companion.  "He  was  quite  un- 
nerved when  we  saw  him  at  the  Odeon,  and  the  merest  trifle 
would  have  decided  him  to  surrender ;  now,  however,  he  thinks 
he  has  a  chance  to  escape  with  his  secret." 

The  fugitive  was  following  the  boulevards,  but  suddenly  he 
turned  into  a  side  street  and  made  his  way  toward  the  Temple, 
where,  soon  afterward,  Father  Absinthe  and  Lecoq  found  him 
conversing  with  one  of  those  importunate  dealers  in  cast-off 
garments  who  consider  every  passer-by  their  lawful  prey.  The 
vender  and  May  were  evidently  debating  a  question  of  price; 
but  the  latter  was  plainly  no  skilful  bargainer,  for  with  a 
somewhat  disappointed  air  he  soon  gave  up  the  discussion  and 
entered  the  shop. 

"Ah,  so  now  he  has  some  coin  he  has  determined  on  a  cos- 
tume," remarked  Lecoq.  "Isn't  that  always  an  escaped  prisoner's 
first  impulse?" 

Soon  afterward  May  emerged  into  the  street.  His  appear- 
ance was  decidedly  changed,  for  he  wore  a  pair  of  dark  blue 
linen  trousers,  of  the  type  French  "navvies"  habitually  affect, 
and  a  loosely  fitting  coat  of  rough  woolen  material.  A  gay 
silk  'kerchief  was  knotted  about  his  throat,  and  a  black  silk 

10 Vol.  J  —  'Jph 


218  MONSIEUR   LECOQ 

cap  was  set  on  one  side  of  his  head.  Thus  attired,  he  was 
scarcely  more  prepossessing  in  appearance  than  Lecoq,  and  one 
would  have  hesitated  before  deciding  which  of  the  two  it  would 
be  preferable  to  meet  at  night  on  a  deserted  highway. 

May  seemed  very  well  pleased  with  his  transformation,  and 
was  evidently  more  at  ease  in  his  new  attire.  On  leaving  the 
shop,  however,  he  glanced  suspiciously  around  him,  as  if  to 
ascertain  which  of  the  passers-by  were  watching  his  move- 
ments. He  had  not  parted  with  his  broadcloth  suit,  but  was 
carrying  it  under  his  arm,  wrapped  up  in  a  handkerchief.  The 
only  thing  he  had  left  behind  him  was  his  tall  chimney-pot  hat. 

Lecoq  would  have  liked  to  enter  the  shop  and  make  some 
inquiries,  but  he  felt  that  it  would  be  imprudent  to  do  so,  for 
May  had  settled  his  cap  on  his  head  with  a  gesture  that  left  no 
doubt  as  to  his  intentions.  A  second  later  he  turned  into  the 
Rue  du  Temple,  and  now  the  chase  began  in  earnest;  for  the 
fugitive  proved  as  swift  and  agile  as  a  stag,  and  it  was  no 
small  task  to  keep  him  well  in  sight.  He  had  no  doubt  lived 
in  England  and  Germany,  since  he  spoke  the  language  of  these 
countries  like  a  native ;  but  one  thing  was  certain — he  knew 
Paris  as  thoroughly  as  the  most  expert  Parisian. 

This  was  shown  by  the  way  in  which  he  dashed  into  the 
Rue  des  Gravelliers.  and  by  the  precision  of  his  course  through 
the  many  winding  streets  that  lie  between  the  Rue  du  Temple 
and  the  Rue  Beaubourg.  He  seemed  to  know  this  quarter  of 
the  capital  by  heart ;  as  well,  indeed,  as  if  he  had  spent  half  his 
life  there.  He  knew  all  the  wine-shops  communicating  with 
two  streets — all  the  byways,  passages,  and  tortuous  alleys. 
Twice  he  almost  escaped  his  pursuers,  and  once  his  salvation 
hung  upon  a  thread.  If  he  had  remained  in  an  obscure  corner, 
where  he  was  completely  hidden,  only  an  instant  longer,  the 
two  detectives  would  have  passed  him  by  and  his  safety  would 
have  been  assured. 

The  pursuit  presented  immense  difficulties.  Night  was  coming 
on,  and  with  it  that  light  fog  which  almost  invariably  accom- 
panies a  spring  sunset.  Soon  the  street-lamps  glimmered  luridly 
in  the  mist,  and  then  it  required  a  keen  eyesight  indeed  to  see 
even  for  a  moderate  distance.  And,  to  add  to  this  drawback, 
the  streets  were  now  thronged  with  workmen  returning  home 
after  their  daily  toil,  and  with  housewives  intent  on  purchasing 
provisions  for  the  evening  meal,  while  round  about  each  dwell- 
ing  there   congregated   its   numerous   denizens   swarming   like 


MONSIEUR   LECOQ  219 

bees  around  a  hive.  May.  however,  took  advantage  of  every 
opportunity  to  mislead  the  persons  who  might  be  following  him. 
Groups  collected  around  some  cheap-jack's  stall,  street  accidents, 
a  block  of  vehicles — everything  was  utilized  by  him  with  such 
marvelous  presence  of  mind  that  he  often  glided  through  the 
crowd  without  leaving  any  sign  of  his  passage. 

At  last  he  left  the  neighborhood  of  the  Rue  des  Gravelliers 
and  made  for  a  broader  street.  Reaching  the  Boulevard  de 
Sebastopol,  he  turned  to  the  left,  and  took  a  fresh  start.  He 
darted  on  with  marvelous  rapidity,  with  his  elbows  pressed  close 
to  his  body — husbanding  his  breath  and  timing  his  steps  with 
the  precision  of  a  dancing-master.  Never  pausing,  and  without 
once  turning  his  head,  he  ever  hurried  on.  And  it  was  at  the 
same  regular  but  rapid  pace  that  he  covered  the  Boulevard  de 
Sebastopol,  crossed  the  Place  du  Chatelet,  and  proceeded  to 
mount  the  Boulevard  Saint-Michel. 

Here  he  suddenly  halted  before  a  cab-stand.  He  spoke  to 
one  of  the  drivers,  opened  the  door  of  his  vehicle,  and  jumped 
in.  The  cab  started  off  at  a  rapid  pace.  But  May  was  not 
inside.  He  had  merely  passed  through  the  vehicle,  getting  out 
at  the  other  door,  and  just  as  the  driver  was  departing  for  an 
imaginary  destination  May  slipped  into  an  adjacent  cab  which 
left  the  stand  at  a  gallop.  Perhaps,  after  so  many  ruses,  after 
such  formidable  efforts  after  this  last  stratagem — perhaps  May 
believed  that  he  was  free. 

He  was  mistaken.  Behind  the  cab  which  bore  him  onward, 
and  while  he  leaned  back  against  the  cushions  to  rest,  a  man 
was  running ;  and  this  man  was  Lecoq.  Poor  Father  Absinthe 
had  fallen  by  the  way.  In  front  of  the  Palais  de  Justice  he 
paused,  exhausted  and  breathless,  and  Lecoq  had  little  hope  of 
seeing  him  again,  since  he  had  all  he  could  do  to  keep  his  man 
in  sight  without  stopping  to  make  the  chalk-marks  agreed  upon. 

May  had  instructed  his  driver  to  take  him  to  the  Place 
dTtalie :  requesting  him.  moreover,  to  stop  exactly  in  the  middle 
of  the  square.  This  was  about  a  hundred  paces  from  the 
police  station  in  which  he  had  been  temporarily  confined  with 
the  Widow  Chupin.  When  the  vehicle  halted,  he  sprang  to  the 
ground  and  cast  a  rapid  glance  around  him,  as  if  looking  for 
some  dreaded  shadow.  He  could  see  nothing,  however,  for 
although  surprised  by  the  sudden  stoppage,  Lecoq  had  yet  had 
time  to  fling  himself  flat  on  his  stomach  under  the  body  of  the 
cab,  regardless  of  all  danger  of  being  crushed  by  the  wheels. 


220  MONSIEUR    LFXOO 

May  was  apparently  reassured.  He  paid  the  cabman  and  then 
retraced  his  course  toward  the  Rue  Mouffetard. 

With  a  bound,  Lecoq  was  on  his  feet  again,  and  started  after 
the  fugitive  as  eagerly  as  a  ravenous  dog  might  follow  a  bone. 
He  had  reached  the  shadow  cast  by  the  large  trees  in  the  outer 
boulevards  when  a  faint  whistle  resounded  in  his  ears.  "Father 
Absinthe !"  he  exclaimed  in  a  tone  of  delighted  surprise. 

"The  same,"  replied  the  old  detective,  "and  quite  rested, 
thanks  to  a  passing  cabman  who  picked  me  up  and  brought 
me  here — " 

"Oh,  enough !"  interrupted  Lecoq.  "Let  us  keep  our  eyes 
open." 

May  was  now  walking  quite  leisurely.  He  stopped  first  before 
one  and  then  before  another  of  the  numerous  wine-shops  and 
eating-houses  that  abound  in  this  neighborhood.  He  was  appar- 
ently looking  for  some  one  or  something,  which  of  the  two 
Lecoq  could  not,  of  course,  divine.  However,  after  peering 
through  the  glass  doors  of  three  of  these  establishments  and 
then  turning  away,  the  furitive  at  last  entered  the  fourth.  The 
two  detectives,  who  were  enabled  to  obtain  a  good  view  of  the 
shop  inside,  saw  the  supposed  murderer  cross  the  room  and  seat 
himself  at  a  table  where  a  man  of  unusually  stalwart  build, 
ruddy-faced  and  gray-whiskered,  was  already  seated. 

"The  accomplice !"  murmured  Father  Absinthe. 

Was  this  really  the  redoubtable  accomplice?  Under  other 
circumstances  Lecoq  would  have  hesitated  to  place  dependence 
on  a  vague  similarity  in  personal  appearance ;  but  here  prob- 
abilities were  so  strongly  in  favor  of  Father  Absinthe's  assertion 
that  the  young  detective  at  once  admitted  its  truth.  Was  not 
this  meeting  the  logical  sequence  of  May  and  Madame  Milner's 
chance  interview  a  few  hours  before  ? 

"May,"  thought  Lecoq,  "began  by  taking  all  the  money 
Madame  Milner  had  about  her,  and  then  instructed  her  to  tell 
his  accomplice  to  come  and  wait  for  him  in  some  cheap  restau- 
rant near  here.  If  he  hesitated  and  looked  inside  the  different 
establishments,  it  was  only  because  he  hadn't  been  able  to 
specify  any  particular  one.  Now,  if  they  don't  throw  aside  the 
mask,  it  will  be  because  May  is  not  sure  he  has  eluded  pursuit 
and  because  the  accomplice  fears  that  Madame  Milner  may  have 
been  followed." 

The  accomplice,  if  this  new  personage  was  really  the  accom- 
plice, had  resorted  to  a  disguise  not  unlike  that  which  May  and 


MONSIEUR   LECOQ  221 

Lecoq  had  both  adopted.  He  wore  a  dirty  blue  blouse  and  a 
hideous  old  slouch  hat,  which  was  well-nigh  in  tatters.  He 
had.  in  fact,  rather  exaggerated  his  make-up,  for  his  sinister 
physiognomy  attracted  especial  attention  even  beside  the  de- 
praved and  ferocious  faces  of  the  other  customers  in  the  shop. 
For  this  low  eating-house  was  a  regular  den  of  thieves  and 
cut-throats.  Among  those  present  there  were  not  four  work- 
men really  worthy  of  that  name.  The  others  occupied  in  eat- 
ing and  drinking  there  were  all  more  or  less  familiar  with 
prison  life.  The  least  to  be  dreaded  were  the  barriere  loafers, 
easily  recognized  by  their  glazed  caps  and  their  loosely  knotted 
neckerchiefs.  The  majority  of  the  company  appeared  to  consist 
of  this  class. . 

And  yet  May,  that  man  who  was  so  strongly  suspected  of 
belonging  to  the  highest  social  sphere,  seemed  to  be  perfectly 
at  home.  He  called  for  the  regular  "ordinary"  and  a  "chopine" 
of  wine,  and  then,  after  gulping  down  his  soup,  bolted  great 
pieces  of  beef,  pausing  every  now  and  then  to  wipe  his  mouth 
on  the  back  of  his  sleeve.  But  was  he  conversing  with  his 
neighbor?  This  it  was  impossible  to  discern  through  the  glass 
door,  all  obscured  by  smoke  and  steam. 

"I  must  go  in,"  said  Lecoq,  resolutely.  "I  must  get  a  place 
near  them,  and  listen." 

"Don't  think  of  such  a  thing,"  said  Father  Absinthe.  "What 
if  they  recognized  you?" 

"Thev  won't  recognize  me." 

"If  they  do,  they'll  kill  you." 

Lecoq  made  a  careless  gesture. 

"I  certainly  think  that  they  wouldn't  hesitate  to  rid  them- 
selves of  me  at  any  cost.  But,  nonsense !  A  detective  who 
is  afraid  to  risk  his  life  is  no  better  than  a  low  spy.  Why ! 
you  never  saw  even  Gevrol  flinch." 

Perhaps  Father  Absinthe  had  wished  to  ascertain  if  his  com- 
panion's courage  was  equal  to  his  .shrewdness  and  sagacity. 
If  such  were  the  case  he  was  satisfied  on  this  score  now. 

"You,  my  friend,  will  remain  here  to  follow  them  if  they 
leave  hurriedly,"  resumed  Lecoq,  who  in  the  mean  while  had 
already  turned  the  handle  of  the  door.  Entering  with  a  care- 
less air  and  taking  a  seat  at  a  table  near  that  occupied  by  the 
fugitive  and  the  man  in  the  slouch  hat,  he  called  for  a  plate 
of  meat  and  a  "chopine"  of  wine  in  a  guttural  voice. 

The  fugitive  and  the  ruffian  opposite  him  were  talking,  but 


222  MONSIEUR   LECOQ 

like  strangers  who  had  met  by  chance,  and  not  at  all  after  the 
fashion  of  friends  who  have  met  at  a  rendezvous.  They  spoke 
in  the  jargon  of  their  pretended  rank  in  life,  not  that  puerile 
slang  met  with  in  romances  descriptive  of  low  life,  but  that 
obscene,  vulgar  dialect  which  it  is  impossible  to  render,  so 
changeable  and  diverse  is  the  signification  of  its  words. 

"What  wonderful  actors !"  thought  Lecoq ;  "what  perfection  ! 
what  method !  How  I  should  be  deceived  if  I  were  not  abso- 
lutely certain  !" 

For  the  moment  the  man  in  the  slouch  hat  was  giving  a  de- 
tailed account  of  the  different  prisons  in  France.  He  described 
the  governors  of  the  principal  houses  of  detention ;  explained 
the  divergencies  of  discipline  in  different  establishments ;  and 
recounted  that  the  food  at  Poissy  was  ten  times  better  than  that 
at  Fontevrault. 

Lecoq,  having  finished  his  repast,  ordered  a  small  glass  of 
brandy,  and,  leaning  his  back  against  the  wall  and  closing  his 
eyes,  pretended  to  fall  asleep.  His  ears  were  wide  open,  how- 
ever, and  he  carefully  listened  to  the  conversation. 

Soon  May  began  talking  in  his  turn;  and  he  narrated  his 
story  exactly  as  he  had  related  it  to  the  magistrate,  from  the 
murder  up  to  his  escape,  without  forgetting  to  mention  the  sus- 
picions attached  to  his  identity — suspicions  which  afforded  him 
great  amusement,  he  said.  He  added  that  he  would  be  perfectly 
happy  if  he  had  money  enough  to  take  him  back  to  Germany ; 
but  unfortunately  he  only  had  a  few  sous  and  didn't  know 
where  or  how  to  procure  any  more.  He  had  not  even  suc- 
ceeded in  selling  some  clothing  which  belonged  to  him,  and 
which  he  had  with  him  in  a  bundle. 

At  these  words  the  man  in  the  tattered  felt  hat  declared  that 
he  had  too  good  a  heart  to  leave  a  comrade  in  such  embarrass- 
ment. He  knew,  in  the  very  same  street,  an  obliging  dealer 
in  such  articles,  and  he  offered  to  take  May  to  his  place  at 
once.  May's  only  response  was  to  rise,  saying:  "Let  us  start.'' 
And  they  did  start,  with  Lecoq  at  their  heels. 

They  walked  rapidly  on  until  passing  the  Rue  Fer-a-Moulin, 
when  they  turned  into  a  narrow,  dimly  lighted  alley,  and  entered 
a  dingy  dwelling. 

"Run  and  ask  the  concierge  if  there  are  not  two  doors  by 
which  any  one  can  leave  this  house,"  said  Lecoq,  addressing 
Father  Absinthe. 

The  latter  instantly  obeyed.     He  learned,  however,  that  the 


MONSIEUR    LECOQ  223 

house  had  only  one  street  door,  and  accordingly  the  two  detec- 
tives waited.  "We  are  discovered  !"  murmured  Lecoq.  "I  am 
sure  of  it.  May  must  have  recognized  me,  or  the  boy  at  the 
Hotel  de  Mariembourg  has  described  me  to  the  accomplice." 

Father  Absinthe  made  no  response,  for  just  then  the  two 
men  came  out  of  the  house.  May  was  jingling  some  coins  in 
his  hand,  and  seemed  to  be  in  a  very  bad  temper.  "What  infer- 
nal rascals  these  receivers  are !"  he  grumbled. 

However,  although  he  had  only  received  a  small  sum  for  his 
clothing,  he  probably  felt  that  his  companion's  kindness  deserved 
some  reward ;  for  immediately  afterward  he  proposed  they 
should  take  a  drink  together,  and  with  that  object  in  view  they 
entered  a  wine-shop  close  by.  They  remained  here  for  more 
than  an  hour,  drinking  together ;  and  only  left  this  establish- 
ment to  enter  one  a  hundred  paces  distant.  Turned  out  by  the 
landlord,  who  was  anxious  to  shut  up,  the  two  friends  now 
took  refuge  in  the  next  one  they  found  open.  Here  again  they 
were  soon  turned  out  and  then  they  hurried  to  another  boozing- 
den — and  yet  again  to  a  fifth.  And  so,  after  drinking  innu- 
merable bottles  of  wine,  they  contrived  to  reach  the  Place  Saint- 
Michel  at  about  one  o'clock  in  the  morning.  Here,  however, 
they  found  nothing  to  drink ;  for  all  the  wine-shops  were 
closed. 

The  two  men  then  held  a  consultation  together,  and.  after 
a  short  discussion,  they  walked  arm-in-arm  toward  the  Fau- 
bourg Saint-Germain,  like  a  pair  of  friends.  The  liquor  they 
had  imbibed  was  seemingly  producing  its  effect,  for  they  often 
staggered  in  their  walk,  and  talked  not  merely  loudly  but  both 
at  the  same  time.  In  spite  of  the  danger,  Lecoq  advanced  near 
enough  to  catch  some  fragments  of  their  conversation ;  and  the 
words  "a  good  stroke."  and  "money  enough  to  satisfy  one," 
reached  his  ears. 

Father  Absinthe's  confidence  wavered.  "All  this  will  end 
badly,"  he  murmured. 

"Don't  be  alarmed,"  replied  his  friend.  "I  frankly  confess 
that  I  don't  understand  the  maneuvres  of  these  wily  confed- 
erates, but  what  does  that  matter  after  all ;  now  the  two  men 
are  together,  I  feel  sure  of  success — sure.  If  one  runs  away, 
the  other  will  remain,  and  Gevrol  shall  soon  see  which  is 
right,  he  or  I." 

Meanwhile  the  two  drunkards  had  slackened  their  pace.  By 
the  manner  in  which  they  examined  the  magnificent  mansions 


224  MONSIEUR   LECOQ 

of  the  Faubourg  Saint-German,  one  might  have  suspected  them 
of  the  very  worst  intentions.  In  the  Rue  de  Varrennes,  at 
only  a  few  steps  from  the  Rue  de  la  Chaise,  they  suddenly 
paused  before  a  wall  of  moderate  height  surrounding  an  im- 
mense garden.  The  man  in  the  slouch  hat  now  did  the  talk- 
ing, and  explained  to  May — as  the  detectives  could  tell  by  his 
gestures — that  the  mansion  to  which  the  garden  belonged  had 
its  front  entrance  in  the  Rue  de  Grenelle. 

"Bah  !"  growled  Lecoq,  "how  much  further  will  they  carry 
this  nonsense?" 

They  carried  it  farther  than  the  young  detective  had  ever 
imagined.  May  suddenly  sprang  on  to  his  companion's  shoul- 
ders, and  raised  himself  to  a  level  with  the  summit  of  the 
wall.  An  instant  afterward  a  heavy  thud  might  have  been 
heard.  He  had  let  himself  drop  into  the  garden.  The  man  in 
the  slouch  hat  remained  in  the  street  to  watch. 

The  enigmatical  fugitive  had  accomplished  this  strange,  in- 
conceivable design  so  swiftly  that  Lecoq  had  neither  the  time 
nor  the  desire  to  oppose  him.  His  amazement  at  this  unex- 
pected misfortune  was  so  great  that  for  an  instant  he  could 
neither  think  nor  move.  But  he  quickly  regained  his  self- 
possession,  and  at  once  decided  what  was  to  be  done.  With 
a  sure  eye  he  measured  the  distance  separating  him  from  May's 
accomplice,  and  with  three  bounds  he  was  upon  him.  The  man 
in  the  slouched  hat  attempted  to  shout,  but  an  iron  hand  stifled 
the  cry  in  his  throat.  He  tried  to  escape,  and  to  beat  off  his 
assailant,  but  a  vigorous  kick  stretched  him  on  the  ground  as 
if  he  had  been  a  child.  Before  he  had  time  to  think  of  further 
resistance  he  was  bound,  gagged,  and  carried,  half-suffocated, 
to  the  corner  of  the  Rue  de  la  Chaise.  No  sound  had  been 
heard;  not  a  word,  not  an  ejaculation,  not  even  a  noise  of 
shuffling — nothing.  Any  suspicious  sound  might  have  reached 
May,  on  the  other  side  of  the  wall,  and  warned  him  of  what 
was  going  on. 

"How  strange,"  murmured  Father  Absinthe,  too  much  amazed 
to  lend  a  helping  hand  to  his  younger  colleague.  "How  strange ! 
Who  would  have  supposed — " 

"Enough  !  enough  !"  interrupted  Lecoq,  in  that  harsh,  impe- 
rious voice,  which  imminent  peril  always  gives  to  energetic 
men.  "Enough ! — we  will  talk  to-morrow.  I  must  run  away 
for  a  minute,  and  you  will  remain  here.  If  May  shows  himself, 
capture  him ;  don't  allow  him  to  escape." 


MONSIEUR   LECOQ  225 

"I  understand ;  but  what  is  to  be  done  with  the  man  who  is 
lying  there?" 

"Leave  him  where  he  is.  I  have  bound  him  securely,  so 
there  is  nothing  to  fear.  When  the  night-police  pass,  we  will 
give  him  into  charge — " 

He  paused  and  listened.  A  short  way  down  the  street,  heavy, 
measured  footsteps  could  be  heard  approaching. 

"There  they  ccme,"  said  Father  Absinthe. 

"Ah !  I  dared  not  hope  it !    I  shall  have  a  good  chance  now." 

At  the  same  moment,  two  sergeants  de  ville,  whose  attention 
had  been  attracted  by  this  group  at  the  street  corner,  has- 
tened toward  them.  In  a  few  words,  Lecoq  explained  the  situa- 
tion, and  it  was  decided  that  one  of  the  sergeants  should  take 
the  accomplice  to  the  station-house,  while  the  other  remained 
with  Father  Absinthe  to  cut  off  May's  retreat. 

"And  now,"  said  Lecoq,  "I  will  run  round  to  the  Rue  de 
Grenelle  and  give  the  alarm.  To  whose  house  does  this  garden 
belong?" 

"What !"  replied  one  of  the  sergeants  in  surprise,  "don't 
you  know  the  gardens  of  the  Duke  de  Sairmeuse,  the  famous 
duke  who  is  a  millionaire  ten  times  over,  and  who  was  formerly 
the  friend — " 

"Ah,  yes,  I  know,  I  know !"  said  Lecoq. 

"The  thief,"  resumed  the  sergeant,  "walked  into  a  pretty  trap 
when  he  got  over  that  wall.  There  was  a  reception  at  the 
mansion  this  evening,  as  there  is  every  Monday,  and  every  one 
in  the  house  is  still  up.  The  guests  are  only  just  leaving,  for 
there  were  five  or  six  carriages  still  at  the  door  as  we 
passed  by." 

Lecoq  darted  off  extremely  troubled  by  what  he  had  just 
heard.  It  now  seemed  to  him  that  if  May  had  got  into  this 
garden,  it  was  not  for  the  purpose  of  committing  a  robbery, 
but  in  the  hope  of  throwing  his  pursuers  off  the  track,  and 
making  his  escape  by  way  of  the  Rue  de  Grenelle,  which  he 
hoped  to  do  unnoticed,  in  the  bustle  and  confusion  attending 
the  departure  of  the  guests. 

On  reaching  the  Hotel  de  Sairmeuse,  a  princely  dwelling,  the 
long  facade  of  which  was  brilliantly  illuminated.  Lecoq  found 
a  last  carriage  just  coming  from  the  courtyard,  while  several 
footmen  were  extinguishing  the  lights,  and  an  imposing 
"Suisse,"  dazzling  to  behold  in  his  gorgeous  livery,  prepared 
to  close  the  heavy  double  doors  of  the  grand  entrance. 


226  MONSIEUR    LECOQ 

The  young  detective  advanced  toward  this  important  per- 
sonage: "Is  this  the  Hotel  de  Sairmeuse?"  he  inquired. 

The  Suisse  suspended  his  work  to  survey  the  audacious  vaga- 
bond who  ventured  to  question  him,  and  then  in  a  harsh  voice 
replied:  "I  advise  you  to  pass  on.  I  want  none  of  your 
jesting." 

Lecoq  had  forgotten  that  he  was  clad  as  a  barriere  loafer. 
"Ah,"  he  rejoined,  "I'm  not  what  I  seem  to  be.  I'm  an  agent 
of  the  secret  service ;  by  name  Lecoq.  Here  is  my  card,  and 
I  came  to  tell  you  that  an  escaped  criminal  has  just  scaled  the 
garden  wall  in  the  rear  of  the  Hotel  de  Sairmeuse." 

"A  crim-in-al?" 

The  young  detective  thought  a  little  exaggeration  could 
do  no  harm,  and  might  perhaps  insure  him  more  ready  aid. 
"Yes,"  he  replied;  "and  one  of  the  most  dangerous  kind — a  man 
who  has  the  blood  of  three  victims  already  on  his  hands.  We 
have  just  arrested  his  accomplice,  who  helped  him  over  the 
wall." 

The  flunky's  ruby  nose  paled  perceptibly.  "I  will  summon 
the  servants,"  he  faltered,  and  suiting  the  action  to  the  word, 
he  was  raising  his  hand  to  the  bell-chain,  employed  to  an- 
nounce the  arrival  of  visitors,  when  Lecoq  hastily  stopped  him. 

"A  word  first!"  said  he.  "Might  not  the  fugitive  have 
passed  through  the  house  and  escaped  by  this  door,  without 
being  seen?    In  that  case  he  would  be  far  away  by  this  time." 

"Impossible!" 

"But  why?" 

"Excuse  me,  but  I  know  what  I  am  saying.  First,  the  door 
opening  into  the  garden  is  closed;  it  is  only  open  during  grand 
receptions,  not  for  our  ordinary  Monday  drawing-rooms. 
Secondly,  Monseigneur  requires  me  to  stand  on  the  threshold 
of  the  street  door  when  he  is  receiving.  To-day  he  repeated 
this  order,  and  you  may  be  sure  that  I  haven't  disobeyed  him." 

"Since  that's  the  case,"  said  Lecoq,  slightly  reassured,  "we 
shall  perhaps  succeed  in  finding  our  man.  Warn  the  servants, 
but  without  ringing  the  bell.  The  less  noise  we  make,  the 
greater  will  be  our  chance  of  success." 

In  a  moment  the  fifty  servants  who  peopled  the  ante-rooms, 
stables,  and  kitchens  of  the  Hotel  de  Sairmeuse  were  gathered 
together.  The  great  lanterns  in  the  coach  houses  and  stables 
were  lighted,  and  the  entire  garden  was  illuminated  as  by 
enchantment. 


MONSIEUR   LECOQ  227 

"If  May  is  concealed  here."  thought  Lecoq,  delighted  to 
see  so  many  auxiliaries,  "it  will  be  impossible  for  him  to  escape." 

But  it  was  in  vain  that  the  gardens  were  thoroughly  ex- 
plored over  and  over  again ;  no  one  could  be  found.  The  sheds 
where  gardening  tools  were  kept,  the  conservatories,  the  sum- 
mer houses,  the  two  rustic  pavilions  at  the  foot  of  the  garden, 
even  the  dog  kennels,  were  scrupulously  visited,  but  all  in 
vain.  The  trees,  with  the  exception  of  some  horse-chestnuts  at 
the  rear  of  the  garden,  were  almost  destitute  of  leaves,  but 
they  were  not  neglected  on  that  account.  An  agile  boy.  armed 
with  a  lantern,  climbed  each  tree,  and  explored  even  the  top- 
most branches. 

"The  murderer  must  have  left  by  the  way  he  came,"  obsti- 
nately repeated  the  Suisse  who  had  armed  himself  with  a 
huge  pistol,  and  who  would  not  let  go  his  hold  on  Lecoq,  fear- 
ing an  accident  perhaps. 

To  convince  the  Suisse  of  his  error  it  was  necessary  for  the 
young  detective  to  place  himself  in  communication  with  Father 
Absinthe  and  the  sergeant  de  ville  on  the  other  side  of  the 
wall.  As  Lecoq  had  expected,  the  latter  both  replied  that  they 
had  not  once  taken  their  eyes  off  the  wall,  and  that  not  even 
a  mouse  had  crossed  into  the  street. 

The  exploration  had  hitherto  been  conducted  after  a  some- 
what haphazard  fashion,  each  of  the  servants  obeying  his  own 
inspiration ;  but  the  necessity  of  a  methodically  conducted 
search  was  now  recognized.  Accordingly,  Lecoq  took  such 
measures  that  not  a  corner,  not  a  recess,  could  possibly  escape 
scrutiny ;  and  he  was  dividing  the  task  between  his  willing 
assistants,  when  a  new-comer  appeared  upon  the  scene.  This 
was  a  grave,  smooth-faced  individual  in  the  attire  of  a  notary. 

"Monsieur  Otto,  Monseigneur's  first  valet  de  chambre."  the 
Suisse  murmured  in  Lecoq's  ear. 

This  important  personage  came  on  behalf  of  Monsieur  le 
Due  (he  did  not  say  "Monseigneur")  to  inquire  the  meaning 
of  all  this  uproar.  When  he  had  received  an  explanation,  M. 
Otto  condescended  to  compliment  Lecoq  on  his  efficiency,  and 
to  recommend  that  the  house  should  be  searched  from  garret 
to  cellar.  These  precautions  alone  would  allay  the  fears  of 
Madame  la  Duchesse. 

He  then  departed,  and  the  search  began  again  with  renewed 
ardor.  A  mouse  concealed  in  the  gardens  of  the  Hotel  de  Sair- 
meuse  could  not  have  escaped  discovery,  so  minute  were  the 


228  MONSIEUR    LECOQ 

investigations.  Not  a  single  object  of  any  size  was  left  undis- 
turbed. The  trees  were  examined  leaf  by  leaf,  one  might  almost 
sav.  Occasionally  the  discouraged  servants  proposed  to  abandon 
the  search;  but  Lecoq  urged  them  on.  He  ran  from  one  to  the 
other,  entreating  and  threatening  by  turns,  swearing  that  he 
asked  only  one  more  effort,  and  that  this  effort  would  assuredly 
be  crowned  with  success.  Vain  promises !  The  fugitive  could 
not  be  found. 

The  evidence  was  now  conclusive.  To  persist  in  searching 
the  garden  any  longer  would  be  worse  than  folly.  Accordingly, 
the  young  detective  decided  to  recall  his  auxiliaries.  "That's 
enough,"  he  said,  in  a  despondent  voice.  "It  is  now  certain 
that  the  criminal  is  no  longer  in  the  garden." 

Was  he  cowering  in  some  corner  of  the  great  house,  white 
with  fear,  and  trembling  at  the  noise  made  by  his  pursuers? 
One  might  reasonably  suppose  this  to  be  the  case;  and  such 
was  the  opinion  of  the  servants.  Above  all,  such  was  the 
opinion  of  the  Suisse  who  renewed  with  growing  assurance 
his  affirmations  of  a  few  moments  before. 

"I  have  not  moved  from  the  threshold  of  the  house  to-night," 
he  said,  "and  I  should  certainly  have  seen  any  person  who 
passed  out." 

"Let  us  go  into  the  house,  then,"  said  Lecoq.  "But  first 
let  me  ask  my  companion,  who  is  waiting  for  me  in  the  street, 
to  join  me.  It  is  unnecessary  for  him  to  remain  any  longer 
where  he  is." 

When  Father  Absinthe  had  responded  to  the  summons  all 
the  lower  doors  were  carefully  closed  and  guarded,  and  the 
search  recommenced  inside  the  house,  one  of  the  largest  and 
most  magnificent  residences  of  the  Faubourg  Saint-Germain. 
But  at  this  moment  all  the  treasures  of  the  universe  could 
not  have  won  a  single  glance  or  a  second's  attention  from  Lecoq. 
All  his  thoughts  were  occupied  with  the  fugitive.  He  passed 
through  several  superb  drawing-rooms,  along  an  unrivaled 
picture  gallery,  across  a  magnificent  dining-room,  with  side- 
boards groaning  beneath  their  load  of  massive  plate,  without 
paying  the  slightest  attention  to  the  marvels  of  art  and  uphols- 
tery that  were  offered  to  his  view.  He  hurried  on,  accompanied  by 
the  servants  who  were  guiding  and  lighting  him.  He  lifted  heavy 
articles  of  furniture  as  easily  as  he  would  have  lifted  a  feather; 
he  moved  each  chair  and  sofa  from  its  place,  he  explored  each 
cupboard  and  wardrobe,  and  drew  back  in  turns  all  the  wall- 


MONSIEUR    LECOQ  229 

hangings,  window-curtains,  and  portieres.  A  more  complete 
search  would  have  been  impossible.  In  each  of  tbe  rooms  and 
passages  that  Lecoq  entered  not  a  nook  was  left  unexplored, 
not  a  corner  was  forgotten.  At  length,  after  two  hours'  con- 
tinuous work,  Lecoq  returned  to  the  first  floor.  Only  five  or 
six  servants  had  accompanied  him  on  hi^  tour  of  inspection. 
The  others  had  dropped  off  one  by  one,  weary  of  this  adventure, 
which  had  at  first  possessed  the  attractions  of  a  pleasure  party. 

"You  have  seen  everything,  gentlemen,"  declared  an  old 
footman. 

"Everything!"  interrupted  the  Suisse,  "everything!  Certainly 
not.  There  are  the  private  apartments  of  Monseigneur  and 
those  of  Madame  la  Duchesse  still  to  be  explored." 

"Alas!"  murmured  Lecoq,  "What  good  would  it  be?" 

But  the  Suisse  had  already  gone  to  rap  gently  at  one  of  the 
doors  opening  into  the  hall.  His  interest  equaled  that  of  the 
detectives.  They  had  seen  the  murderer  enter ;  he  had  not 
seen  him  go  out;  therefore  the  man  was  in  the  house  and  he 
wished  him  to  be  found. 

The  door  at  which  he  had  knocked  soon  opened,  and  the 
grave,  clean-shaven  face  of  Otto,  the  duke's  first  valet  de 
chambre,  showed  itself.  "What  the  deuce  do  you  want?"  he 
asked  in  surly  tones. 

"To  enter  Monseigneur's  room,"  replied  the  Suisse,  "in  order 
to  see  if  the  fugitive  has  not  taken  refuge  there." 

"Are  you  crazy?"  exclaimed  the  head  valet  de  chambre. 
"How  could  any  one  have  entered  here?  Besides,  I  can't 
suffer  Monsieur  le  Due  to  be  disturbed.  He  has  been  at  work 
all  night,  and  he  is  just  going  to  take  a  bath  before  going  to 
bed." 

The  Suisse  seemed  very  vexed  at  this  rebuff;  and  Lecoq 
was  presenting  his  excuses,  when  another  voice  was  heard 
exclaiming.     "Let  these  worthy  men  do  their  duty.  Otto." 

"Ah !  do  you  hear  that !"  exclaimed  the  Suisse  triumphantly. 

"Very  well,  since  Monsieur  le  Due  permits  it.  Come  in,  I 
will  light  you  through  the  apartments." 

Lecoq  entered,  but  it  was  only  for  form's  sake  that  he 
walked  through  the  different  apartments ;  a  library,  an  admi- 
rable study,  and  a  charming  smoking-room.  As  he  was  passing 
through  the  bed-chamber,  he  had  the  honor  of  seeing  the 
Due  de  Sairmeuse  through  the  half-open  door  of  a  small, 
white,   marble  bath-room. 


230  MONSIEUR   LECOQ 

"Ah,  well !"  cried  the  duke,  affably,  "is  the  fugitive  still 
invisible?" 

"Still   invisible,   monsieur,"   Lecoq  respectfully  replied. 

The  valet  de  chambre  did  not  share  his  master's  good 
humor.  "I  think,  gentlemen,"  said  he,  "that  you  may  spare 
yourselves  the  trouble  of  visiting  the  apartments  of  the  duchess. 
It  is  a  duty  we  have  taken  upon  ourselves — the  women  and  I — 
and  we  have  looked  even  in  the  bureau  drawers." 

Upon  the  landing  the  old  footman,  who  had  not  ventured 
to  enter  his  master's  apartments,  was  awaiting  the  detectives. 
He  had  doubtless  received  his  orders,  for  he  politely  inquired 
if  they  desired  anything,  and  if,  after  such  a  fatiguing  night, 
they  would  not  find  some  cold  meat  and  a  glass  of  wine  ac- 
ceptable. Father  Absinthe's  eyes  sparkled.  He  probably 
thought  that  in  this  quasi-royal  abode  they  must  have  deli- 
cious things  to  eat  and  drink — such  viands,  indeed,  as  he  had 
never  tasted  in  his  life.  But  Lecoq  civilly  refused,  and  left 
the  Hotel  de  Sairmeuse,  reluctantly  followed  by  his  old  com- 
panion. 

He  was  eager  to  be  alone.  For  several  hours  he  had  been 
making  immense  efforts  to  conceal  his  rage  and  despair.  May 
escaped  !  vanished  !  evaporated  !  The  thought  drove  him  almost 
mad.  What  he  had  declared  to  be  impossible  had  nevertheless 
occurred.  In  his  confidence  and  pride,  he  had  sworn  to 
answer  for  the  prisoner's  head  with  his  own  life;  and  yet  he 
had  allowed  him  to  slip  between  his  fingers. 

When  he  was  once  more  in  the  street,  he  paused  in  front 
of  Father  Absinthe,  and  crossing  his  arms,  inquired :  "Well, 
my  friend,  what  do  you  think  of  all  this?" 

The  old  detective  shook  his  head,  and  in  serene  unconscious- 
ness of  his  want  of  tact,  responded :  "I  think  that  Gevrol  will 
chuckle   with  delight." 

At  this  mention  of  his  most  cruel  enemy,  Lecoq  bounded 
from  the  ground  like  a  wounded  bull.  "Oh !"  he  exclaimed. 
"Gevrol  has  not  won  the  battle  yet.  We  have  lost  May;  it  is 
a  great  misfortune;  but  his  accomplice  remains  in  our  hands. 
We  hold  the  crafty  man  who  has  hitherto  defeated  all  our 
plans,  no  matter  how  carefully  arranged.  He  is  certainly 
shrewd  and  devoted  to  his  friend ;  but  we  wiil  see  if  his 
devotion  will  withstand  the  prospect  of  hard  labor  in  the 
penitentiary.  And  that  is  what  awaits  him,  if  he  is  silent, 
and  if  he  thus  accepts  the  responsibility  of  aiding  and  abetting 


MONSIEUR   LECOQ  231 

the  fugitive's  escape.     Oh  !   I've  no  fears — M.  Segmuller  will 
know  how  to  draw  the  truth  out  of  him." 

So  speaking,  Lecoq  brandished  his  clinched  fist  with  a 
threatening  air  and  then,  in  calmer  tones,  he  added:  "But  we 
must  go  to  the  station-house  where  the  accomplice  was  re- 
moved.    I  wish  to  question  him  a  little." 


f"  T  was  six  o'clock,  and  the  dawn  was  just  breaking  when 
*  Father  Absinthe  and  his  companion  reached  the  station-house, 
where  they  found  the  superintendent  seated  at  a  small  table, 
making  out  his  report.  He  did  not  move  when  they  entered, 
failing  to  recognize  them  under  their  disguises.  But  when 
they  mentioned  their  names,  he  rose  with  evident  cordiality, 
and  held  out  his  hand. 

"Upon  my  word !"  said  he,  "I  congratulate  you  on  your 
capture  last  night." 

Father  Absinthe  and  Lecoq  exchanged  an  anxious  look. 
"What  capture?"  they  both  asked  in  a  breath. 

"Why,  that  individual  you  sent  me  last  night  so  carefully 
bound." 

"Well,  what  about  him?" 

The  superintendent  burst  into  a  hearty  laugh.  "So  you  are 
ignorant  of  your  good  fortune,"  said  he.  "Ah !  luck  has 
favored  you.  and  you  will  receive  a  handsome  reward." 

"Pray  tell  us  what  we've  captured?"  asked  Father  Absinthe, 
impatiently. 

"A  scoundrel  of  the  deepest  dye,  an  escaped  convict,  who  has 
been  missing  for  three  months.  You  must  have  a  description 
of  him  in  your  pocket — Joseph  Couturier,  in  short." 

On  hearing  these  words,  Lecoq  became  so  frightfully  pale 
that  Father  Absinthe,  fearing  he  was  going  to  faint,  raised  his 
arms  to  prevent  his  falling.  A  chair  stood  close  by,  however, 
and  on  this  Lecoq  allowed  himself  to  drop.  "Joseph  Couturier," 
he  faltered,  evidently  unconscious  of  what  he  was  saying. 
"Joseph  Couturier !  an  escaped  convict !" 


232  MONSIEUR   LECOQ 

The  superintendent  certainly  did  not  understand  Lecoq's 
agitation  any  better  than  Father  Absinthe's  discomfited  air. 

"You  have  reason  to  be  proud  of  your  work;  your  success 
will  make  a  sensation  this  morning,"  he  repeated.  "You  have 
captured  a  famous  prize.  I  can  see  Gevrol's  nose  now  when 
he  hears  the  news.  Only  yesterday  he  was  boasting  that  he 
alone  was  capable  of  securing  this  dangerous  rascal." 

After  such  an  irreparable  failure  as  that  which  had  over- 
taken Lecoq,  the  unintended  irony  of  these  compliments  was 
bitter  in  the  extreme.  The  superintendent's  words  of  praise 
fell  on  his  ears  like  so  many  blows  from  a  sledge  hammer. 

"You  must  be  mistaken,"  he  eventually  remarked,  rising 
from  his  seat  and  summoning  all  his  energy  to  his  assistance. 
"That   man    is   not   Couturier." 

"Oh,  I'm  not  mistaken ;  you  may  be  quite  sure  of  that.  He 
fully  answers  the  description  appended  to  the  circular  ordering 
his  capture,  and  even  the  little  finger  of  his  left  hand  is  lacking, 
as  is  mentioned." 

"Ah  !  that's  a  proof  indeed !"  groaned  Father  Absinthe. 

"It  is  indeed.  And  I  know  another  one  more  conclusive 
still.  Couturier  is  an  old  acquaintance  of  mine.  I  have  had 
him  in  custody  before;  and  he  recognized  me  last  night  just 
as  I  recognized  him." 

After  this  further  argument  was  impossible ;  hence  it  was 
in  an  entirely  different  tone  that  Lecoq  remarked:  "At  least, 
my  friend,  you  will  allow  me  to  address  a  few  questions  to 
your  prisoner." 

"Oh !  as  many  as  you  like.  But  first  of  all,  let  us  bar  the 
door  and  place  two  of  my  men  before  it.  This  Couturier  has 
a  fondness  for  the  open  air,  and  he  wouldn't  hesitate  to  dash 
out  our  brains  if  he  only  saw  a  chance  of  escape." 

After  taking  these  precautions,  the  man  was  removed  from 
the  cage  in  which  he  had  been  confined.  He  stepped  forward 
with  a  smile  on  his  face,  having  already  recovered  that  non- 
chalant manner  common  to  old  offenders  who,  when  in  custody, 
seem  to  lose  all  feeling  of  anger  against  the  police.  They  are 
not  unlike  those  gamblers  who,  after  losing  their  last  half- 
penny, nevertheless  willingly  shake  hands  with  their  adversary. 

Couturier  at  once  recognized  Lecoq.  "Ah !"  said  he,  "It 
was  you  who  did  that  business  last  night.  You  can  boast  of 
having  a  solid  fist!  You  fell  upon  me  very  unexpectedly;  and 
the  back  of  my  neck  is  still  the  worse  for  your  clutch." 


MONSIEUR   LECOQ  233 

"Then,  if  I  were  to  ask  a  favor  of  you,  you  wouldn't  be 
disposed  to  grant  it?" 

"Oh,  yes !  all  the  same.  I  have  no  more  malice  in  my  com- 
position than  a  chicken  J  and  I  rather  like  your  face.  What 
do  you  want  of  me  ?" 

"I  should  like  to  have  some  information  about  the  man  who 
accompanied  you  last  night." 

Couturier's  face  darkened.  "I  am  really  unable  to  give 
vou  any,"  he   replied. 

"Why  ?" 

"Because  I  don't  know  him.  I  never  saw  him  before  last 
night." 

"It's  hard  to  believe  that.  A  fellow  doesn't  enlist  the  first- 
comer  for  an  expedition  like  yours  last  evening.  Before 
undertaking  such  a  job  with  a  man,  one  finds  out  something 
about  him." 

"I  don't  say  I  haven't  been  guilty  of  a  stupid  blunder," 
replied  Couturier.  "Indeed  I  could  murder  myself  for  it,  but 
there  was  nothing  about  the  man  to  make  me  suspect  that  he 
belonged  to  the  secret-service.  He  spread  a  net  for  me,  and 
I  jumped  into  it.  It  was  made  for  me,  of  course;  but  it  wasn't 
necessary  for  me  to  put  my  foot  into  it." 

"You  are  mistaken,  my  man,"  said  Lecoq.  "The  individual 
in  question  didn't  belong  to  the  police  force.  I  pledge  you  my 
word  of  honor,  he  didn't." 

For  a  moment  Couturier  surveyed  Lecoq  with  a  knowing 
air,  as  if  he  hoped  to  discover  whether  he  were  speaking  the 
truth  or  attempting  to  deceive  him.  "I  believe  you,"  he  said 
at  last.  "And  to  prove  it  I'll  tell  you  how  it  happened.  I 
was  dining  alone  last  evening  in  a  restaurant  in  the  Rue 
Mouffetard,  when  that  man  came  in  and  took  a  seat  beside  me. 
Naturally  we  began  to  talk ;  and  I  thought  him  a  very  good 
sort  of  a  fellow.  I  forget  how  it  began,  but  somehow  or 
other  he  mentioned  that  he  had  some  clothes  he  wanted  to 
sell ;  and  being  glad  to  oblige  him,  I  took  him  to  a  friend, 
who  bought  them  from  him.  It  was  doing  him  a  good  turn, 
wasn't  it?  Well,  he  offered  me  something  to  drink,  and  I 
returned  the  compliment.  We  had  a  number  of  glasses  together, 
and  by  midnight  I  began  to  see  double.  He  then  began  to 
propose  a  plan,  which,  he  swore,  would  make  us  both  rich.  It 
was  to  steal  the  plate  from  a  superb  mansion.  There  would 
be  no  risk  for  me;  he  would  take  charge  of  the  whole  affair. 


234  MONSIEUR   LECOQ 

I  had  only  to  help  him  over  the  wall,  and  keep  watch.  The 
proposal  was  tempting — was  it  not?  You  would  have  thought 
so,  if  you  had  been  in  my  place,  and  yet  I  hesitated.  But  the 
fellow  insisted.  He  swore  that  he  was  acquainted  with  the 
habits  of  the  house ;  that  Monday  evening  was  a  grand  gala 
night  there,  and  that  on  these  occasions  the  servants  didn't 
lock  up  the  plate.     After  a  little  while  I  consented." 

A  fleeting  flush  tinged  Lecoq's  pale  cheeks.  "Are  you  sure 
he  told  you  that  the  Due  de  Sairmeuse  received  every  Monday 
evening?"  he  asked,  eagerly. 

"Certainly ;  how  else  could  I  have  known  it !  He  even  men- 
tioned the  name  you  uttered  just  now,  a  name  ending  in  'euse.'  " 

A   strange   thought   had   just   flitted   through   Lecoq's   mind. 

"What  if  May  and  the  Due  de  Sairmeuse  should  be  one  and 
the  same  person  ?"  But  the  notion  seemed  so  thoroughly  absurd, 
so  utterly  inadmissible  that  he  quickly  dismissed  it,  despising 
himself  even  for  having  entertained  it  for  a  single  instant.  He 
cursed  his  inveterate  inclination  always  to  look  at  events  from 
a  romantic  impossible  side,  instead  of  considering  them  as  natu- 
ral commonplace  incidents.  After  all  there  was  nothing  sur- 
prising in  the  fact  that  a  man  of  the  world,  such  as  he  supposed 
May  to  be,  should  know  the  day  set  aside  by  the  Due  de 
Sairmeuse  for  the  reception  of  his  friends. 

The  young  detective  had  nothing  more  to  expect  from 
Couturier.  He  thanked  him,  and  after  shaking  hands  with  the 
superintendent,  walked  away,  leaning  on  Father  Absinthe's 
arm.  For  he  really  had  need  of  support.  His  legs  trembled, 
his  head  whirled,  and  he  felt  sick  both  in  body  and  in  mind. 
He  had  failed  miserably,  disgracefully.  He  had  flattered  him- 
self that  he  possessed  a  genius  for  his  calling,  and  yet  he  had 
been  easily  outwitted. 

To  rid  himself  of  pursuit,  May  had  only  had  to  invent  a 
pretended  accomplice,  and  this  simple  stratagem  had  sufficed 
to  nonplus  those  who  were  on  his  trail. 

Father  Absinthe  was  rendered  uneasy  by  his  colleague's  evi- 
dent dejection.  "Where  are  we  going?"  he  inquired;  "to  the 
Palais  de  Justice,  or  to  the  Prefecture  de  Police?" 

Lecoq  shuddered  on  hearing  this  question,  which  brought  him 
face  to  face  with  the  horrible  reality  of  his  situation.  "To  the 
Prefecture!"  he  responded.  "Why  should  I  go  there?  To 
expose  myself  to  Gevrol's  insults,  perhaps?  I  haven't  courage 
enough  for  that.     Nor  do  I  feel  that   I  have  strength  to  go 


MONSIEUR    LECOQ  235 

to  M.  Segmuller  and  say:  'Forgive  me:  you  have  judged  me 
too  favorably.     I  am  a  fool !'  " 

"What  are  we  to  do  ?" 

"Ah !  I  don't  know.  Perhaps  I  shall  embark  for  America — 
perhaps  I  shall  throw  myself  into  the  river." 

He  had  walked  about  a  hundred  yards  when  suddenly  he 
stopped  short.  "No!"  he  exclaimed,  with  a  furious  stamp  «f 
his  foot.  "No,  this  affair  shan't  end  like  this.  I  have  sworn 
to  have  the  solution  of  the  enigma — and  I  will  have  it !"  For 
a  moment  he  reflected ;  then,  in  a  calmer  voice,  he  added : 
"There  is  one  man  who  can  save  us,  a  man  who  will  see  what 
I  haven't  been  able  to  discern,  who  will  understand  things  that 
I  couldn't.  Let  us  go  and  ask  his  advice,  my  course  will  depend 
on  his  reply — come  !•" 

After  such  a  day  and  such  a  night,  it  might  have  been  ex- 
pected that  these  two  men  would  have  felt  an  irresistible  desire 
to  sleep  and  rest.  But  Lecoq  was  sustained  by  wounded  vanity, 
intense  disappointment,  and  yet  unextinguished  hope  of  re- 
venge: while  poor  Father  Absinthe  was  not  unlike  some  luck- 
less cab-horse,  which,  having  forgotten  there  is  such  a  thing 
as  repose,  is  no  longer  conscious  of  fatigue,  but  travels  on 
until  he  falls  down  dead.  The  old  detective  felt  that  his  limbs 
were  failing  him;  but  Lecoq  said:  "It  is  necessary,"  and  so 
he  walked  on. 

They  both  went  to  Lecoq's  lodgings,  where  they  laid  aside 
their  disguises  and  made  themselves  trim.  Then  after  break- 
fasting they  hastily  betook  themselves  to  the  Rue  St.  Lazare, 
where,  entering  one  of  the  most  stylish  houses  in  the  street, 
Lecoq  inquired  of  the  concierge:  "Is  M.  Tabaret  at  home?" 

"Yes,  but  he's  ill,"  was  the  reply. 

"Very  ill  ?"  asked  Lecoq  anxiously. 

"It  is  hard  to  tell,"  replied  the  man :  "it  is  his  old  complaint 
— gout."  And  with  an  air  of  hypocritical  commiseration,  he 
added:  "M.  Tabaret  is  not  wise  to  lead  the  life  he  does. 
Women  are  very  well  in  a  way,  but  at  his  age — " 

The  two  detectives  exchanged  a  meaning  glance,  and  as  soon 
as  they  were  out  of  hearing  burst  out  laughing.  Their  hilarity 
had  scarcely  ceased  when  they  reached  the  first  floor,  and  rang 
the  bell  at  the  door  of  one  of  the  apartments.  The  buxom- 
looking  woman  who  appeared  in  answer  to  his  summons,  in- 
formed them  that  her  master  would  receive  them,  although  he 
was  confined  to  his  bed.     "However,  the  doctor  is  with  him 


236  MONSIEUR   LECOQ 

now,"  she  added.  "But  perhaps  the  gentlemen  would  not  mind 
waiting  until  he  has  gone?"  The  gentlemen  replying  in  the 
affirmative,  she  then  conducted  them  into  a  handsome  library, 
and  invited  them  to  sit  clown. 

The  person  whom  Lecoq  had  come  to  consult  was  a  man  cele- 
brated for  wonderful  shrewdness  and  penetration,  well-nigh 
exceeding  the  bounds  of  possibility.  For  five-and-forty  years 
he  had  held  a  petty  post  in  one  of  the  offices  of  the  Mont  de 
Piete,  just  managing  to  exist  upon  the  meagre  stipend  he  re- 
ceived. Suddenly  enriched  by  the  death  of  a  relative,  of  whom 
he  had  scarcely  ever  heard,  he  immediately  resigned  his  func- 
tions, and  the  very  next  day  began  to  long  for  the  same  em- 
ployment he  had  so  often  anathematized.  In  his  endeavors  to 
divert  his  mind,  he  began  to  collect  old  books,  and  heaped  up 
mountains  of  tattered,  worm-eaten  volumes  in  immense  oak 
bookcases.  But  despite  this  pastime  to  many  so  attractive,  he 
could  not  shake  off  his  weariness.  He  grew  thin  and  yellow, 
and  his  income  of  forty  thousand  francs  was  literally  killing 
him,  when  a  sudden  inspiration  came  to  his  relief.  It  came 
to  him  one  evening  after  reading  the  memoirs  of  a  celebrated 
detective,  one  of  those  men  of  subtle  penetration,  soft  as  silk, 
and  supple  as  steel,  whom  justice  sometimes  sets  upon  the  trail 
of  crime. 

"And  I  also  am  a  detective !"  he  exclaimed. 

This,  however,  he  must  prove.  From  that  day  forward  he 
perused  with  feverish  interest  every  book  he  could  find  that  had 
any  connection  with  the  organization  of  the  police  service  and 
the  investigation  of  crime.  Reports  and  pamphlets,  letters  and 
memoirs,  he  eagerly  turned  from  one  to  the  other,  in  his  desire 
to  master  his  subject.  Such  learning  as  he  might  find  in  books 
did  not  suffice,  however,  to  perfect  his  education.  Hence, 
whenever  a  crime  came  to  his  knowledge  he  started  out  in 
quest  of  the  particulars  and  worked  up  the  case  by  himself. 

Soon  these  platonic  investigations  did  not  suffice,  and  one 
evening,  at  dusk,  he  summoned  all  his  resolution,  and,  going 
on  foot  to  the  Prefecture  de  Police,  humbly  begged  employment 
from  the  officials  there.  He  was  not  very  favorably  received, 
for  applicants  were  numerous.  But  he  pleaded  his  cause  so 
adroitly  that  at  last  he  was  charged  with  some  trifling  com- 
missions. He  performed  them  admirably.  The  great  difficulty 
was  then  overcome.  Other  matters  were  entrusted  to  him,  and 
he  soon  displayed  a  wonderful  aptitude  for  his  chosen  work. 


MONSIEUR   LECOQ  237 

The  case  of  Madame  B ,  the  rich  banker's  wife,  made  him 

virtually  famous.  Consulted  at  a  moment  when  the  police  had 
abandoned  all  hope  of  solving  the  mystery,  he  proved  by  A  plus 
B — by  a  mathematical  deduction,  so  to  speak — that  the  dear 
lady  must  have  stolen  her  own  property ;  and  events  soon 
proved  that  he  had  told  the  truth.  After  this  success  he  was 
always  called  upon  to  advise  in  obscure  and  difficult  cases. 

It  would  be  difficult  to  tell  his  exact  status  at  the  Prefecture. 
When  a  person  is  employed,  salary  or  compensation  of  some 
kind  is  understood,  but  this  strange  man  had  never  consented 
to  receive  a  penny.  What  he  did  he  did  for  his  own  pleasure 
— for  the  gratification  of  a  passion  which  had  become  his  very 
life.  When  the  funds  allowed  him  for  expenses  seemed  insuf- 
ficient, he  at  once  opened  his  private  purse ;  and  the  men  who 
worked  with  him  never  went  away  without  some  substantial 
token  of  his  liberality.  Of  course,  such  a  man  had  many  ene- 
mies. He  did  as  much  work — and  far  better  work  than  any 
two  inspectors  of  police ;  and  he  didn't  receive  a  sou  of  salary. 
Hence,  in  calling  him  "spoil-trade,"  his  rivals  were  not  far 
from  right. 

Whenever  any  one  ventured  to  mention  his  name  favorably 
in  Gevrol's  presence,  the  jealous  inspector  could  scarcely  con- 
trol himself,  and  retorted  by  denouncing  an  unfortunate  mistake 
which  this  remarkable  man  once  made.  Inclined  to  obstinacy, 
like  all  enthusiastic  men,  he  had  indeed  once  effected  the  con- 
viction of  an  innocent  prisoner — a  poor  little  tailor,  who  was 
accused  of  killing  his  wife.  This  single  error  (a  grievous  one 
no  doubt),  in  a  career  of  some  duration,  had  the  effect  of 
cooling  his  ardor  perceptibly ;  and  subsequently  he  seldom  vis- 
ited the  Prefecture.  But  yet  he  remained  "the  oracle,"  after 
the  fashion  of  those  great  advocates  who,  tired  of  practise  at 
the  bar,  still  win  great  and  glorious  triumphs  in  their  consult- 
ing rooms,  lending  to  others  the  weapons  they  no  longer  care 
to  wield  themselves. 

When  the  authorities  were  undecided  what  course  to  pursue 
in  some  great  case,  they  invariably  said :  "Let  us  go  and  consult 
Tirauclair."  For  this  was  the  name  by  which  he  was  most 
generally  known :  a  sobriquet  derived  from  a  phrase  which  was 
always  on  his  lips.  He  was  constantly  saying:  "II  faut  que  cela 
se  tire  au  clair:  That  must  be  brought  to  light."  Hence,  the 
not  altogether  inappropriate  appellation  of  "Pere  Tirauclair," 
or  "Father  Bring-to-Light." 


238 


MONSIEUR    LECOQ 


Perhaps  this  sobriquet  assisted  him  in  keeping  his  occupa- 
tion secret  from  his  friends  among  the  general  public.  At  all 
events  they  never  suspected  them.  His  disturbed  life  when  he 
Avas  working  up  a  case,  the  strange  visitors  he  received,  his 
frequent  and  prolonged  absences  from  home,  were  all  imputed 
to  a  very  unreasonable  inclination  to  gallantry.  His  concierge 
was  deceived  as  well  as  his  friends,  and  laughing  at  his  sup- 
posed infatuation,  disrespectfully  called  him  an  old  libertine. 
It  was  only  the  officials  of  the  detective  force  who  knew  that 
Tirauclair  and  Tabaret  were  one  and  the  same  person. 

Lecoq  was  trying  to  gain  hope  and  courage  by  reflecting  on 
the  career  of  this  eccentric  man,  when  the  buxom  housekeeper 
reentered  the  library  and  announced  that  the  physician  had 
left.  At  the  same  time  she  opened  a  door  and  exclaimed :  "This 
is  the  room;  you  gentlemen  can  enter  now." 


/~\N  a  large  canopied  bed,  sweating  and  panting  beneath  the 
^^  weight  of  numerous  blankets,  lay  the  two-faced  oracle — 
Tirauclair,  of  the  Prefecture — Tabaret,  of  the  Rue  Saint  Lazare. 
It  was  impossible  to  believe  that  the  owner  of  such  a  face,  in 
which  a  look  of  stupidity  was  mingled  with  one  of  perpetual 
astonishment,  could  possess  superior  talent,  or  even  an  average 
amount  of  intelligence.  With  his  retreating  forehead,  and  his 
immense  ears,  his  odious  turned-up  nose,  tiny  eyes,  and  coarse, 
thick  lips,  M.  Tabaret  seemed  an  excellent  type  of  the  ignorant, 
pennywise,  petty  rentier  class.  Whenever  he  took  his  walks 
abroad,  the  juvenile  street  Arabs  would  impudently  shout  after 
him  or  try  to  mimic  his  favorite  grimace.  And  yet  his  ungain- 
liness  did  not  seem  to  worry  him  in  the  least,  while  he  appeared 
to  take  real  pleasure  in  increasing  his  appearance  of  stupidity, 
solacing  himself  with  the  reflection  that  "he  is  not  really  a 
genius  who  seems  to  be  one." 

At  the  sight  of  the  two  detectives,  whom  he  knew  very  well, 
his  eyes  sparkled  with  pleasure.  "Good  morning,  Lecoq,  my 
boy,"   said   he.     "Good   morning,   my   old    Absinthe.      So  you 


MONSIEUR    LECOQ  239 

think  enough  down  there  of  poor  Papa  Tirauclair  to  come  and 
see  him?" 

"We  need  your  advice,  Monsieur  Tabaret." 

"Ah,  ah!" 

"We  have  just  been  as  completely  outwitted  as  if  we  were 
babies  in  long  clothes." 

"What !  was  your  man  such  a  very  cunning  fellow  ?" 

Lecoq  heaved  a  sigh.  "So  cunning,"  he  replied,  "that,  if  I 
were  superstitious,  I  should  say  he  was  the  devil  himself." 

The  sick  man's  face  wore  a  comical  expression  of  envy. 
"What !  you  have  found  a  treasure  like  that,"  said  he.  "and 
you  complain !  Why,  it  is  a  magnificent  opportunity — a  chance 
to  be  proud  of !  You  see,  my  boys,  everything  has  degenerated 
in  these  days.  The  race  of  great  criminals  is  dying  out — those 
who've  succeeded  the  old  stock  are  like  counterfeit  coins. 
There's  scarcely  anything  left  outside  a  crowd  of  low  offenders 
who  are  not  worth  the  shoe  leather  expended  in  pursuing  them. 
It  is  enough  to  disgust  a  detective,  upon  my  word.  No  more 
trouble,  emotion,  anxiety,  or  excitement.  When  a  crime  is 
committed  nowadays,  the  criminal  is  in  jail  the  next  morning, 
you've  only  to  take  the  omnibus,  and  go  to  the  culprit's  house 
and  arrest  him.  He's  always  found,  the  more  the  pity.  But 
what  has  your  fellow  been  up  to?" 

"He  has  killed  three  men." 

"Oh !  oh !  oh !"  said  old  Tabaret,  in  three  different  tones, 
plainly  implying  that  this  criminal  was  evidently  superior  to 
others  of  his  species.    "And  where  did  this  happen?" 

"In  a  wine-shop  near  the  barriere." 

"Oh,  yes,  I  recollect :  a  man  named  May.  The  murders  were 
committed  in  the  Widow  Chupin's  cabin.  I  saw  the  case  men- 
tioned in  the  'Gazette  des  Tribunaux,'  and  your  comrade,  Fan- 
ferlot  l'Ecureuil,  who  comes  to  see  me,  told  me  you  were 
strangely  puzzled  about  the  prisoner's  identity.  So  you  are 
charged  with  investigating  the  affair?  So  much  the  better. 
Tell  me  all  about  it,  and  I  will  assist  you  as  well  as  I  can." 

Suddenly  checking  himself,  and  lowering  his  voice,  Tirau- 
clair added:  "But  first  of  all,  just  do  me  the  favor  to  get  up. 
Now,  wait  a  moment,  and  when  I  motion  you,  open  that  door 
there,  on  the  left,  very  suddenly.  Mariette,  my  housekeeper, 
who  is  curiosity  incarnate,  is  standing  there  listening.  I  hear 
her  hair  rubbing  against  the  lock.     Now !" 

The  young  detective  immediately  obeyed,  and  Mariette,  caught 


240  MONSIEUR   LECOQ 

in  the  act,  hastened  away,  pursued  by  her  master's  sarcasms. 
"You  might  have  known  that  you  couldn't  succeed  at  that !" 
he  shouted  after  her. 

Although  Lecoq  and  Father  Absinthe  were  much  nearer  the 
door  than  old  Tirauclair,  neither  of  them  had  heard  the  slight- 
est sound ;  and  they  looked  at  each  other  in  astonishment,  won- 
dering whether  their  host  had  been  playing  a  little  farce  for 
their  benefit,  or  whether  his  sense  of  hearing  was  really  so 
acute  as  this  incident  would  seem  to  indicate. 

"Now,"  said  Tabaret,  settling  himself  more  comfortably  upon 
his  pillows — "now  I  will  listen  to  you,  my  boy.  Mariette  will 
not  come  back  again." 

On  his  way  to  Tabaret's,  Lecoq  had  busied  himself  in  pre- 
paring his  story ;  and  it  was  in  the  clearest  possible  manner  that 
he  related  all  the  particulars,  from  the  moment  when  Gevrol 
opened  the  door  of  the  Poivriere  to  the  instant  when  May 
leaped  over  the  garden  wall  in  the  rear  of  the  Hotel  de 
Sairmeuse. 

While  the  young  detective  was  telling  his  story,  old  Tabaret 
seemed  completely  transformed.  His  gout  was  entirely  for- 
gotten. According  to  the  different  phases  of  the  recital,  he 
either  turned  and  twisted  on  his  bed,  uttering  little  cries  of 
delight  or  disappointment,  or  else  lay  motionless,  plunged  in 
the  same  kind  of  ecstatic  reverie  which  enthusiastic  admirers 
of  classical  music  yield  themselves  up  to  while  listening  to  one 
of  the  great  Beethoven's  divine  sonatas. 

"If  I  had  been  there !  If  only  I  had  been  there !"  he  mur- 
mured regretfully  every  now  and  then  through  his  set  teeth, 
though  when  Lecoq's  story  was  finished,  enthusiasm  seemed 
decidedly  to  have  gained  the  upper  hand.  "It  is  beautiful !  it 
is  grand !"  he  exclaimed.  "And  with  just  that  one  phrase :  'It 
is  the  Prussians  who  are  coming,'  for  a  starting  point !  Lecoq, 
my  boy,  I  must  say  that  you  have  conducted  this  affair  like  an 
angel !" 

"Don't  you  mean  to  say  like  a  fool?"  asked  the  discouraged 
detective. 

"No,  my  friend,  certainly  not.  You  have  rejoiced  my  old 
heart.  I  can  die ;  I  shall  have  a  successor.  Ah !  that  Gevrol 
who  betrayed  you — for  he  did  betray  you,  there's  no  doubt 
about  it — that  obtuse,  obstinate  'General'  is  not  worthy  to 
blacken  your  shoes !" 

"You  overpower  me,  Monsieur  Tabaret !"  interrupted  Lecoq, 


MONSIEUR    LECOQ  241 

as  yet  uncertain  whether  his  host  was  poking  fun  at  him  or  not. 
"But  it  is  none  the  less  true  that  May  has  disappeared,  and  I 
have  lost  my  reputation  before  I  had  begun  to  make  it." 

"Don't  be  in  such  a  hurry  to  reject  my  compliments,"  replied 
old  Tabaret,  with  a  horrible  grimace.  "I  say  that  you  have 
conducted  this  investigation  very  well ;  but  it  could  have  been 
done  much  better,  very  much  better.  You  have  a  talent  for 
your  work,  that's  evident ;  but  you  lack  experience ;  you  be- 
come elated  by  a  trifling  advantage,  or  discouraged  by  a  mere 
nothing;  you  fail,  and  yet  persist  in  holding  fast  to  a  fixed  idea, 
as  a  moth  flutters  about  a  candle.  Then,  you  are  young.  But 
never  mind  that,  it's  a  fault  you  will  outgrow  only  too  soon. 
And  now,  to  speak  frankly,  I  must  tell  you  that  you  have  made 
a  great  many  blunders." 

Lecoq  hung  his  head  like  a  schoolboy  receiving  a  reprimand 
from  his  teacher.  After  all  was  he  not  a  scholar,  and  was  not 
this  old  man  his  master? 

"I  will  now  enumerate  your  mistakes."  continued  old  Taba- 
ret, "and  I  will  show  you  how,  on  at  least  three  occasions,  you 
allowed  an  opportunity  for  solving  this  mystery  to  escape  you." 

"But—" 

"Pooh  !  pooh !  my  boy,  let  me  talk  a  little  while  now.  What 
axiom  did  you  start  with  ?  You  said :  'Always  distrust  appear- 
ances ;  believe  precisely  the  contrary  of  what  appears  true,  or 
even  probable.'  " 

"Yes,  that  is  exactly  what  I  said  to  myself." 

"And  it  was  a  very  wise  conclusion.  With  that  idea  in  your 
lantern  to  light  your  path,  you  ought  to  have  gone  straight  to 
the  truth.  But  you  are  young,  as  I  said  before ;  and  the  very 
first  circumstance  you  find  that  seems  at  all  probable  you  quite 
forget  the  rule  which,  as  you  yourself  admit,  should  have 
governed  your  conduct.  As  soon  as  you  meet  a  fact  that  seems 
even  more  than  probable,  you  swallow  it  as  eagerly  as  a  gudgeon 
swallows  an  angler's  bait." 

This  comparison  could  but  pique  the  young  detective.  "I 
don't  think  I've  been  so  simple  as  that,"  protested  he. 

"Bah !  What  did  you  think,  then,  when  you  heard  that  M. 
d'Escorval  had  broken  his  leg  in  getting  out  of  his  carriage?" 

"Believe!     I  believed  what  they  told  me,  because — " 

He  paused,  and  Tirauclair  burst  into  a  hearty  fit  of  laughter. 
"You  believed  it,"  he  said,  "because  it  was  a  very  plausible 
story." 

11— Vol.  I— Gab. 


242 


MONSIEUR   LECOQ 


"What  would  you  have  believed  had  you  been  in  my  place?" 

"Exactly  the  opposite  of  what  they  told  me.  I  might  have 
been  mistaken ;  but  it  would  be  the  logical  conclusion  as  my  first 
course  of  reasoning." 

This  conclusion  was  so  bold  that  Lecoq  was  disconcerted. 
"What !"  he  exclaimed ;  "do  you  suppose  that  M.  d'EscorvaPs 
fall  was  only  a  fiction?  that  he  didn't  break  his  leg?" 

Old  Tabaret's  face  suddenly  assumed  a  serious  expression. 
"I  don't  suppose  it,"  he  replied;  "I'm  sure  of  it." 


fECOQ'S  confidence  in  the  oracle  he  was  consulting  was 
•*-**  very  great ;  but  even  old  Tirauclair  might  be  mistaken,  and 
what  he  had  just  said  seemed  such  an  enormity,  so  completely 
beyond  the  bounds  of  possibility,  that  the  young  man  could 
not  conceal  a  gesture  of  incredulous  surprise. 

"So,  Monsieur  Tabaret,  you  are  ready  to  affirm  that  M. 
d'Escorval  is  in  quite  as  good  health  as  Father  Absinthe  or 
myself;  and  that  he  has  confined  himself  to  his  room  for  a 
couple  of  months  to  give  a  semblance  of  truth  to  a  falsehood?" 
"I  would  be  willing  to  swear  it." 
"But  what  could  possibly  have  been  his  object?" 
Tabaret  lifted  his  hands  to  heaven,  as  if  imploring  for- 
giveness for  the  young  man's  stupidity.  "And  it  was  in  you." 
he  exclaimed,  "in  you  that  I  saw  a  successor,  a  disciple  to  whom 
I  might  transmit  my  method  of  induction ;  and  now,  you  ask 
me  such  a  question  as  that !  Reflect  a  moment.  Must  I  give 
you  an  example  to  assist  you?  Very  well.  Let  it  be  so. 
Suppose  yourself  a  magistrate.  A  crime  is  committed;  you 
are  charged  with  the  duty  of  investigating  it,  and  you  visit 
the  prisoner  to  question  him.  Very  well.  This  prisoner  has, 
hitherto,  succeeded  in  concealing  his  identity — this  was  the 
case  in  the  present  instance,  was  it  not?  Very  well.  Now, 
what  would  you  do  if,  at  the  very  first  glance,  you  recognized 
under  the  prisoner's  disguise  your  best  friend,  or  your  worst 
enemy?    What  would  you  do,  I  ask?" 


MONSIEUR   LECOQ  243 

"I  should  say  to  myself  that  a  magistrate  who  is  obliged  to 
hesitate  between  his  duty  and  his  inclinations,  is  placed  in  a 
very  trying  position,  and  I  should  endeavor  to  avoid  the 
responsibility." 

"I  understand  that ;  but  would  you  reveal  this  prisoner's 
identity — remember,  he  might  be  your  friend  or  your  enemy?" 

The  question  was  so  delicate  that  Lecoq  remained  silent  for 
a  moment,  reflecting  before  he  replied. 

The  pause  was  interrupted  by  Father  Absinthe.  "I  should 
reveal  nothing  whatever !"  he  exclaimed.  "I  .should  remain 
absolutely  neutral.  I  should  say  to  myself  others  are  trying 
to  discover  this  man's  identity.  Let  them  do  so  if  they  can; 
but  let  my  conscience  be  clear." 

This  was  the  cry  of  honesty ;  not  the  counsel  of  a  casuist. 

"I  also  should  be  silent,"  Lecoq  at  last  replied;  "and  it 
seems  to  me  that,  in  holding  my  tongue,  I  should  not  fail  in 
my  duty  as  a  magistrate." 

On  hearing  these  words,  Tabaret  rubbed  his  hands  together, 
as  he  always  did  when  he  was  about  to  present  some  over- 
whelming argument.  "Such  being  the  :ase,"  said  he,  "do 
me  the  favor  to  tell  me  what  pretext  you  would  invent  in 
order  to  withdraw  from  the  case  without  exciting  suspicion?" 

"I  don't  know ;  I  can't  say  now.  But  if  I  were  placed  in 
such  a  position  I  should  find  some  excuse — invent  something — " 

"And  if  you  could  find  nothing  better,"  interrupted  Tabaret, 
"you  would  adopt  M.  d'Escorval's  expedient ;  you  would  pre- 
tend you  had  broken  a  limb.  Only,  as  you  are  a  clever  fellow, 
you  would  sacrifice  your  arm ;  it  would  be  less  inconvenient 
than  your  leg;  and  you  wouldn't  be  condemned  to  seclusion 
for   several   months." 

"So,  Monsieur  Tabaret,  you  are  convinced  that  M.  d'Escorval 
knows  who  May  really  is." 

Old  Tirauclair  turned  so  suddenly  in  his  bed  that  his  for- 
gotten gout  drew  from  him  a  terrible  groan.  "Can  you  doubt?" 
he  exclaimed.  "Can  you  possibly  doubt  it?  What  proofs  do 
you  want  then  ?  What  connection  do  you  see  between  the 
magistrate's  fall  and  the  prisoner's  attempt  at  suicide?  I  wasn't 
there  as  you  were ;  T  only  know  the  story  as  you  have  told  it 
to  me.  I  can't  look  at  the  facts  with  my  own  eyes,  but  accord- 
ing to  your  statements,  which  are  I  suppose  correct,  this  is 
what  I  understand.  When  M.  d'Escorval  has  completed  his 
task  at  the  Widow  Chupin's  house,  he  comes  to  the  prison  to 


244  MONSIEUR   LECOQ 

examine  the  supposed  murderer.  The  two  men  recognize 
each  other.  Had  they  been  alone,  mutual  explanations  might 
have  ensued,  and  affairs  taken  quite  a  different  turn.  But 
they  were  not  alone ;  a  third  party  was  present — M.  d'Escorval's 
clerk.  So  they  could  say  nothing.  The  magistrate  asked  a 
few  common-place  questions,  in  a  troubled  voice,  and  the 
prisoner,  terribly  agitated,  replied  as  best  he  could.  Now, 
after  leaving  the  cell,  M.  d'Escorval  no  doubt  said  to  himself: 
T  can't  investigate  the  offenses  of  a  man  I  hate !'  He  was 
certainly  terribly  perplexed.  When  you  tried  to  speak  to  him, 
as  he  was  leaving  the  prison,  he  harshly  told  you  to  wait  till 
the  next 'day;  and  a  quarter  of  an  hour  later  he  pretended  to 
fall  down  and  break  his  leg." 

"Then  you  think  that  M.  d'Escorval  and  May  are  enemies?" 
inquired  Lecoq. 

"Don't  the  facts  prove  that  beyond  a  doubt?"  retorted 
Tabaret.  "If  they  had  been  friends,  the  magistrate  might  have 
acted  in  the  same  manner ;  but  then  the  prisoner  wouldn't 
have  attempted  to  strangle  himself.  But  thanks  to  you;  his 
life  was  saved;  for  he  owes  his  life  to  you.  During  the  night, 
confined  in  a  straight- waistcoat,  he  was  powerless  to  injure 
himself.  Ah !  how  he  must  have  suffered  that  night !  What 
agony !  So,  in  the  morning,  when  he  was  conducted  to  the 
magistrate's  room  for  examination,  it  was  with  a  sort  of  frenzy 
that  he  dashed  into  the  dreaded  presence  of  his  enemy.  He 
expected  to  find  M.  d'Escorval  there,  ready  to  triumph  over 
his  misfortunes;  and  he  intended  to  say:  'Yes,  it's  I.  There 
is  a  fatality  in  it.  I  have  killed  three  men,  and  I  am  in  your 
power.  But  there  is  a  mortal  feud  between  us,  and  for  that 
very  reason  you  haven't  the  right  to  prolong  my  tortures !  It 
would  be  infamous  cowardice  if  you  did  so.'  However,  instead 
of  M.  d'Escorval,  he  sees  M.  Segmuller.  Then  what  happens? 
He  is  surprised,  and  his  eyes  betray  the  astonishment  he  feels 
when  he  realizes  the  generosity  of  his  enemy — an  enemy  from 
whom  he  had  expected  no  indulgence.  Then  a  smile  comes  to 
his  lips — a  smile  of  hope;  for  he  thinks,  since  M.  d'Escorval 
has  not  betrayed  his  secret,  that  he  may  be  able  to  keep  it,  and 
emerge,  perhaps,  from  this  shadow  of  shame  and  crime  with 
his  name  and  honor  still  untarnished." 

Old  Tabaret  paused,  and  then,  with  a  sudden  change  of  tone 
and  an  ironical  gesture,  he  added:  "And  that — is  my  expla- 
nation." 


MONSIEUR   LECOQ  245 

Father  Absinthe  had  risen,  frantic  with  delight.  "Cristi!" 
he  exclaimed,  "that's  it!  that's  it!" 

Lecoq's  approbation  was  none  the  less  evident  although  un- 
spoken. He  could  appreciate  this  rapid  and  wonderful  work 
of  induction  far  better  than  his  companion. 

For  a  moment  or  two  old  Tabaret  reclined  upon  his  pillows 
enjoying  the  sweets  of  admiration;  then  he  continued:  "Do 
you  wish  for  further  proofs,  my  boy?  Recollect  the  per- 
severance M.  d'Escorval  displayed  in  sending  to  M.  Segmuller 
for  information.  I  admit  that  a  man  may  have  a  passion  for 
his  profession ;  but  not  to  such  an  extent  as  that.  You  believed 
that  his  leg  was  broken.  Then  were  you  not  surprised  to  find 
a  magistrate,  with  a  broken  limb,  suffering  mortal  anguish, 
taking  such  wonderful  interest  in  a  miserable  murderer?  I 
haven't  any  broken  bones,  I've  only  got  the  gout ;  but  I  know 
very  well  that  when  I'm  suffering,  half  the  world  might  be 
judging  the  other  half,  and  yet  the  idea  of  sending  Mariette 
for  information  would  never  occur  to  me.  Ah !  a  moment's 
reflection  would  have  enabled  you  to  understand  the  reason 
of  his  solicitude,  and  would  probably  have  given  you  the  key 
to  the  whole  mystery." 

Lecoq,  who  was  such  a  brilliant  casuist  in  the  Widow 
Chupin's  hovel,  who  was  so  full  of  confidence  in  himself,  and 
so  earnest  in  expounding  his  theories  to  simple  Father  Absinthe 
— Lecoq  hung  his  head  abashed  and  did  not  utter  a  word.  But 
he   felt   neither   anger   nor   impatience. 

He  had  come  to  ask  advice,  and  was  glad  that  it  should  be 
given  him.  He  had  made  many  mistakes,  as  he  now  saw  only 
too  plainly;  and  when  they  were  pointed  out  to  him  he  neither 
fumed  nor  fretted,  nor  tried  to  prove  that  he  had  been  right 
when  he  had  been  wrong.  ihis  was  certainly  an  excellent 
trait  in  his  character. 

Meanwhile,  M.  Tabaret  had  poured  out  a  great  glass  of 
some  cooling  drink  and  drained  it.  He  now  resumed:  "I 
need  not  remind  you  of  the  mistake  you  made  in  not  compelling 
Toinon  Chupin  to  tell  you  all  she  knew  about  this  affair  while 
she  was  in  your  power.  'A  bird  in  the  hand' — you  know  the 
proverb." 

"Be  assured,  Monsieur  Tabaret,  that  this  mistake  has  cost 
me  enough  to  make  me  realize  the  danger  of  allowing  a  well- 
disposed  witness's  zeal  to  cool  down." 

"Wc  will  say  no  more  about  that,  then.    But  I  must  tell  you 


246  MONSIEUR   LECOQ 

that  three  or  four  times,  at  least,  it  has  been  in  your  power 
to  clear  up  this  mystery." 

The  oracle  paused,  awaiting  some  protestation  from  his 
disciple.  None  came,  however.  "If  he  says  this,"  thought  the 
young  detective,  "it  must  indeed  be  so." 

This  discretion  made  a  great  impression  on  old  Tabaret, 
and  increased  the  esteem  he  had  conceived  for  Lecoq.  "The 
first  time  that  you  were  lacking  in  discretion,"  said  he,  "was 
when  you  tried  to  discover  the  owner  of  the  diamond  earring 
found  at  the  Poivriere." 

"I  made  every  effort  to  discover  the  last  owner." 

"You  tried  very  hard.  I  don't  deny  it;  but  as  for  making 
every  effort — that's  quite  another  thing.  For  instance,  when 
you  heard  that  the  Baroness  de  Watchau  was  dead,  and  that 
all  her  property  had  been  sold,  what  did  you  do?" 

"You  know;  I  went  immediately  to  the  person  who  had 
charge  of  the  sale." 

"Very  well !   and   afterwards  ?" 

"I  examined  the  catalogue;  and  as,  among  the  jewels  men- 
tioned, I  could  find  none  that  answered  the  description  of  these 
diamonds,  I  knew  that  the  clue  was  quite  lost." 

"There  is  precisely  where  you  are  mistaken !"  exclaimed  old 
Tirauclair,  exultantly.  "If  such  valuable  jewels  are  not 
mentioned  in  the  catalogue  of  the  sale,  the  Baroness  de 
Watchaa  could  not  have  possessed  them  at  the  time  of  her 
death.  And  if  ohe  no  longer  possessed  them  she  must  have 
given  them  away  or  sold  them.  And  who  could  she  have  sold 
them  to?  To  one  of  her  lady  friends,  very  probably.  For  this 
reason,  had  I  been  in  your  place,  I  should  have  found  out  the 
names  of  her  intimate  friends ;  this  would  have  been  a  very 
easy  task ;  and  then,  I  should  have  tried  to  win  the  favor  of 
all  the  lady's-maids  in  the  service  of  these  friends.  This  would 
have  only  been  a  pastime  for  a  good-looking  young  fellow  like 
you.  Then,  I  should  have  shown  this  earring  to  each  maid 
in  succession  until  I  found  one  who  said:  'That  diamond  be- 
longs to  my  mistress,'  or  one  who  was  seized  with  a  nervous 
trembling." 

"And  to  think  that  this  idea  did  not  once  occur  to  me !" 
ejaculated  Lecoq. 

"Wait,  wait,  I  am  coming  to  the  second  mistake  you  made," 
retorted  the  oracle.  "What  did  you  do  when  you  obtained 
possession  of  the  trunk  which  May  pretended  was  his?    Why 


MONSIEUR    LECOQ  247 

you  played  directly  into  this  cunning  adversary's  hand.  How 
could  you  fail  to  see  that  this  trunk  was  only  an  accessory 
article;  a  bit  of  'property'  got  ready  in  'mounting'  the  'comedy'? 
You  should  have  known  that  it  could  only  have  been  deposited 
with  Madame  Milner  by  the  accomplice,  and  that  all  its  con- 
tents must  have  been  purchased  for  the  occasion." 

"I  knew  this,  of  course;  but  even  under  these  circumstances, 
what  could  I  do?" 

"What  could  you  do,  my  boy?  Well,  I  am  only  a  poor  old 
man,  but  I  should  have  interviewed  every  clothier  in  Paris ; 
and  at  last  some  one  would  have  exclaimed :  'Those  articles ! 
Why,  I  sold  them  to  an  individual  like  this  or  that — who  pur- 
chased them  for  one  of  his  friends  whose  measure  he  brought 
with   him.'  " 

Angry  with  himself,  Lecoq  struck  his  clenched  hand  violently 
upon  the  table  beside  him.  "Sacrebleu!"  he  exclaimed,  "that 
method  was  infallible,  and  so  simple  too !  Ah  !  I  shall  never 
forgive  myself  for  my  stupidity  as  long  as  I  live !" 

"Gently,  gently !"  interrupted  old  Tirauclair.  "You  are 
going  too  far,  my  dear  boy.  Stupidity  is  not  the  proper  word 
at  all ;  you  should  say  carelessness,  thoughtlessness.  You  are 
young — what  else  could  one  expect?  What  is  far  less  inexcus- 
able is  the  manner  in  which  you  conducted  the  chase,  after 
the  prisoner  was  allowed  to  escape." 

"Alas !"  murmured  the  young  man,  now  completely  dis- 
couraged; "did  I  blunder  in  that?" 

"Terribly,  my  son;  and  here  is  where  I  really  blame  you. 
What  diabolical  influence  induced  you  to  follow  May,  step  by 
step,  like  a  common  policeman?" 

This  time  Lecoq  was  stupefied.  "Ought  I  to  have  allowed 
him  to  escape  me?"  he  inquired. 

"No;  but  if  I  had  been  by  your  side  in  the  gallery  of  the 
Odeon,  when  you  so  clearly  divined  the  prisoner's  intentions, 
I  should  have  said  to  you:  'This  fellow,  friend  Lecoq,  will 
hasten  to  Madame  Milner's  house  to  inform  her  of  his  escape. 
Let  us  run  after  him.'  I  shouldn't  have  tried  to  prevent  his 
seeing  her,  mind.  But  when  he  had  left  the  Hotel  de  Mariem- 
bourg,  I  should  have  added:  'Now,  let  him  go  where  he  chooses ; 
but  attach  yourself  to  Madame  Milner ;  don't  lose  sight  of  her ; 
cling  to  her  as  closely  as  her  own  shadow,  for  she  will  lead 
you  to  the  accomplice — that  is  to  say — to  the  solution  of  the 
mystery.'  " 


248  MONSIEUR    LECOQ 

"That's  the  truth;  I  see  it  now." 

"But  instead  of  that,  what  did  you  do?  You  ran  to  the 
hotel,  you  terrified  the  boy !  When  a  fisherman  has  cast  his 
bait  and  the  fish  are  swimming  near,  he  doesn't  sound  a  gong 
to  frighten  them  all  away !" 

Thus  it  was  that  old  Tabaret  reviewed  the  entire  course 
of  investigation  and  pursuit,  remodeling  it  in  accordance  with 
his  own  method  of  induction.  Lecoq  had  originally  had  a 
magnificent  inspiration.  In  his  first  investigations  he  had 
displayed  remarkable  talent;  and  yet  he  had  not  succeeded. 
Why?  Simply  because  he  had  neglected  the  axiom  with  which 
he  started :  "Always  distrust  what  seems  probable !" 

But  the  young  man  listened  to  the  oracle's  "summing  up" 
with  divided  attention.  A  thousand  projects  were  darting 
through  his  brain,  and  at  length  he  could  no  longer  restrain 
himself.  "You  have  saved  me  from  despair,"  he  exclaimed, 
"I  thought  everything  was  lost;  but  I  see  that  my  blunders  can 
be  repaired.  What  I  neglected  to  do,  I  can  do  now ;  there  is 
still  time.  Haven't  I  the  diamond  earring,  as  well  as  various 
effects  belonging  to  the  prisoner,  still  in  my  possession?  Ma- 
dame Milner  still  owns  the  Hotel  de  Mariembourg,  and  I  will 
watch  her." 

"And  what  for,  my  boy?" 

"What  for?     Why,  to  find  my  fugitive,  to  be  sure!" 

Had  the  young  detective  been  less  engrossed  with  his  idea, 
he  would  have  detected  a  slight  smile  that  curved  Papa  Tir- 
auclair's  thick  lips. 

"Ah,  my  son !  is  it  possible  that  you  don't  suspect  the  real 
name  of  this  pretended  buffoon  ?"  inquired  the  oracle  somewhat 
despondently. 

Lecoq  trembled  and  averted  his  face.  He  did  not  wish 
Tabaret  to  see  his  eyes.     "No,"  he  replied,  "I  don't  suspect — " 

"You  are  uttering  a  falsehood !"  interrupted  the  sick  man. 
"You  know  as  well  as  I  do,  that  May  resides  in  the  Rue  de 
Grenelle-Saint-Germain,  and  that  he  is  known  as  the  Due  de 
Sairmeuse." 

On  hearing  these  words,  Father  Absinthe  indulged  in  a 
hearty  laugh:  "Ah!  that's  a  good  joke!"  he  exclaimed. 
"Ah,  ha  I" 

Such  was  not  Lecoq's  opinion,  however.  "Well,  yes,  Mon- 
sieur Tabaret,"  said  he,  "the  idea  did  occur  to  me;  but  I  drove 
it  away." 


MONSIEUR    LECOQ 


249 


"And  why,  if  you  please?" 

"Because — because — " 

"Because  you  would  not  believe  in  the  logical  sequence  of 
your  premises ;  but  I  am  consistent,  and  I  say  that  it  seems 
impossible  the  murderer  arrested  in  the  Widow  Chupin's  drink- 
ing den  should  be  the  Due  de  Sairmeuse.  Hence,  the 
murderer  arrested  there.  May,  the  pretended  buffoon,  is  the 
Due  de   Sairmeuse !" 


t_T  OW  this  idea  had  entered  old  Tabaret's  head,  Lecoq  could 
not  understand.  A  vague  suspicion  had,  it  is  true,  flitted 
through  his  own  mind ;  but  it  was  in  a  moment  of  despair 
when  he  was  distracted  at  having  lost  May,  and  when  certain 
of  Couturier's  remarks  furnished  the  excuse  for  any  ridiculous 
supposition.  And  yet  now  Father  Tirauclair  calmly  pro- 
claimed this  suspicion — which  Lecoq  had  not  dared  seriously 
to  entertain,  even  for  an  instant — to  be  an  undoubted  fact. 

"You  look  as  if  you  had  suddenly  fallen  from  the  clouds," 
exclaimed  the  oracle,  noticing  his  visitor's  amazement.  "Do 
you  suppose  that  I  spoke  at  random  like  a  parrot  ?" 

"No,  certainly  not,  but — " 

"Tush !  You  are  surprised  because  you  know  nothing  of 
contemporary  history.  If  you  don't  wish  to  remain  all  your 
life  a  common  detective,  like  your  friend  Gevrol,  you  must 
read,  and  make  yourself  familiar  with  all  the  leading  events 
of  the  century." 

"I  must  confess  that  I  don't  see  the  connection." 

M.  Tabaret  did  not  deign  to  reply.  Turning  to  Father 
Absinthe,  he  requested  the  old  detective,  in  the  most  affable 
tones,  to  go  to  the  library  and  fetch  two  large  volumes  entitled : 
"General  Biography  of  the  Men  of  the  Present  Age,"  which 
he  would  find  in  the  bookcase  on  the  right.  Father  Absinthe 
hastened  to  obey;  and  as  soon  as  the  books  were  brought,  M. 
Tabaret  began  turning  the  pages  with  an  eager  hand;  like  a 
person  seeking  some  word  in  a  dictionary. 


250  MONSIEUR   LECOQ 

"Esbayron,"  he  muttered,  "Escars,  Escayrac,  Escher,  Escodica 
— at  last  we  have  it — Escorval !  Listen  attentively,  my  boy, 
and  you  will  be  enlightened." 

This  injunction  was  entirely  unnecessary.  Never  had  the 
young  detective's  faculties  been  more  keenly  on  the  alert.  It 
was  in  an  emphatic  voice  that  the  sick  man  then  read:  "Es- 
corval (Louis-Guillaume.  baron  d'). — Diplomatist  and  politician, 
born  at  Montaignac,  December  3d,  1769 ;  of  an  old  family  of 
lawyers.  He  was  completing  his  studies  in  Paris  at  the  out- 
break of  the  Revolution  and  embraced  the  popular  cause  with 
all  the  ardor  of  youth.  But,  soon  disapproving  the  excesses 
committed  in  the  name  of  Liberty,  he  sided  with  the  Reaction- 
ists, advised,  perhaps,  by  Roederer,  who  was  one  of  his 
relatives.  Commended  to  the  favor  of  the  First  Counsel  by 
M.  de  Talleyrand,  he  began  his  diplomatic  career  with  a  mission 
to  Switzerland ;  and  during  the  existence  of  the  First  Empire  he 
was  entrusted  with  many  important  negotiations.  Devoted  to 
the  Emperor,  he  found  himself  gravely  compromised  at  the  ad- 
vent of  the  Second  Restoration.  At  the  time  of  the  celebrated 
rising  at  Montaignac.  he  was  arrested  on  the  double  charge 
of  high  treason  and  conspiracy.  He  was  tried  by  a  military 
commission,  and  condemned  to  death.  The  sentence  was  not 
executed,  however.  He  owed  his  life  to  the  noble  devotion 
and  heroic  energy  of  a  priest,  one  of  his  friends,  the  Abbe 
Midon,  cure  of  the  little  village  of  Sairmeuse.  The  baron 
d'Escorval  had  only  one  son,  who  embraced  the  judicial  pro- 
fession at  a  very  early  age." 

Lecoq  was  intensely  disappointed.  "I  understand,"  he  re- 
marked. "This  is  the  biography  of  our  magistrate's  father. 
Only  I  don't  see  that  it  teaches  us  anything." 

An  ironical  smile  curved  old  Tirauclair's  lips.  "It  teaches 
us  that  M.  d'Escorval's  father  was  condemned  to  death,"  he 
replied.  "That's  something,  I  assure  you.  A  little  patience, 
and  you  will  soon  know  everything." 

Having  found  a  new  leaf,  he  recommenced  to  read:  "Sair- 
meuse (Anne-Marie- Victor  de  Tingry,  Due  de). — A  French 
general  and  politician,  born  at  the  chateau  de  Sairmeuse,  near 
Montaignac,  in  1758.  The  Sairmeuse  family  is  one  of  the 
oldest  and  most  illustrious  in  France.  It  must  not  be  con- 
founded with  the  ducal  family  of  Sermeuse,  whose  name  is 
written  with  an  *e.'  Leaving  France  at  the  beginning  of  the 
Revolution,  Anne  de  Sairmeuse  began  by  serving  in  the  army 


MONSIEUR    LECOQ  251 

of  Conde.  Some  years  later  he  offered  his  sword  to  Russia; 
and  it  is  asserted  by  some  of  his  biographers  that  he  was  fighting 
in  the  Russian  ranks  at  the  time  of  the  disastrous  retreat  from 
Moscow.  Returning  to  France  with  the  Bourbons,  he  became 
notorious  by  the  intensity  of  his  ultra-royalist  opinions.  It  is 
certain  that  he  had  the  good  fortune  to  regain  possession  of 
his  immense  family  estates ;  and  the  rank  and  dignities  which 
he  had  gained  in  foreign  lands  were  confirmed.  Appointed  by 
the  king  to  preside  at  the  military  commission  charged  with 
arresting  and  trying  the  conspirators  of  Montaignac  his  zeal 
and  severity  resulted  in  the  capture  and  conviction  of  all  the 
parties  implicated." 

Lecoq  sprang  up  with  sparkling  eyes.  "I  see  it  clearly 
now,"  he  exclaimed.  "The  father  of  the  present  Due  de  Sair- 
meuse  tried  to  have  the  father  of  the  present  M.  d'Escorval 
beheaded." 

M.  Tabaret  was  the  picture  of  complacency.  "You  see  the 
assistance  history  gives,"  said  he.  "But  I  have  not  finished, 
my  boy;  the  present  Due  de  Sairmeuse  also  has  his  article 
which  will  be  of  interest  to  us.  So  listen:  Sairmeuse  (Anne- 
Marie-Martial) — Son  of  the  preceding,  was  born  in  London 
toward  the  close  of  the  last  century;  received  his  early  edu- 
cation in  England,  and  completed  it  at  the  Court  of  Austria, 
which  he  subsequently  visited  on  several  confidential  missions. 
Heir  to  the  opinions,  prejudices,  and  animosities  of  his  father, 
he  placed  at  the  service  of  his  party  a  highly  cultivated  intellect, 
unusual  penetration,  and  extraordinary  abilities.  A  leader  at 
a  time  when  political  passion  was  raging  highest,  he  had  the 
courage  to  assume  the  sole  responsibility  of  the  most  unpopular 
measures.  The  hostility  he  encountered,  however  eventually 
obliged  him  to  retire  from  office,  leaving  behind  him  animos- 
ities likely  to  terminate  only  with  his  life." 

The  sick  man  closed  the  book,  and  with  assumed  modesty, 
he  asked :  "Ah,  well !  What  do  you  think  of  my  little  method 
of  induction?" 

But  Lecoq  was  too  much  engrossed  with  his  own  thoughts 
to  reply  to  this  question.  "I  think,"  he  remarked,  "that  if  the 
Due  de  Sairmeuse  had  disappeared  for  two  months — the 
period  of  May's  imprisonment,  all  Paris  would  have  known 
of  it — and  so — " 

"You  are  dreaming,"  interrupted  Tabaret.  "Why  with  his 
wife  and  his  valet  de  chambre  for  accomplices,  the  duke  could 


252  MONSIEUR   LECOQ 

absent  himself  for  a  year  if  he  liked,  and  yet  all  his  servants 
would  believe  him  to  be  in  the  house." 

"I  admit  that,"  said  Lecoq,  at  last ;  "but  unfortunately, 
there  is  one  circumstance  which  completely  upsets  the  theory 
we  have  built  up  so  laboriously." 

"And  what  is  that  if  you  please?" 

"If  the  man  who  took  part  in  the  broil  at  the  Poivriere  had 
been  the  Due  de  Sairmeuse,  he  would  have  disclosed  his 
name — he  would  have  declared  that,  having  been  attacked,  he 
had  only  defended  himself — and  his  name  alone  would  have 
opened  the  prison  doors.  Instead  of  that,  what  did  the  prisoner 
do?  He  attempted  to  kill  himself.  Would  a  grand  seigneur, 
like  the  Due  de  Sairmeuse,  to  whom  life  must  be  a  perpetual 
■enchantment,   have   thought  of  committing  suicide?" 

A  mocking  whistle  from  the  old  Tabaret  interrupted  the 
speaker.  "You  seem  to  have  forgotten  the  last  sentence  in 
his  biography:  'M.  Sairmeuse  leaves  behind  him  ill-will  and 
hatred.'  Do  you  know  the  price  he  might  have  been  com- 
pelled to  pay  for  his  liberty!  No— no  more  do  I.  To  explain 
Tiis  presence  at  the  Poivriere,  and  the  presence  of  a  woman, 
who  was  perhaps  his  wife,  who  knows  what  disgraceful  secrets 
he  would  have  been  obliged  to  reveal?  Between  shame  and 
suicide,  he  chose  suicide.  He  wished  to  save  hisr  name  and 
honor  intact." 

Old  Tirauclair  spoke  with  such  vehemence  that  even  Father 
Absinthe  was  deeply  impressed,  although,  to  tell  the  truth,  he 
had  understood  but  little  of  the  conversation. 

As  for  Lecoq,  he  rose  very  pale,  his  lips  trembling  a  little. 
"You  will  excuse  my  hypocrisy,  Monsieur  Tabaret,"  he  said 
in  an  agitated  voice.  "I  only  offered  these  last  objections  for 
form's  sake.  I  had  thought  of  what  you  now  say,  but  I  dis- 
trusted myself,  and  I  wanted  to  hear  you  say  it  yourself." 
Then  with  an  imperious  gesture,  he  added :  "Now,  I  know 
what  I  have  to  do." 

Old  Tabaret  raised  his  hands  toward  heaven  with  every 
sign  of  intense  dismay.  "Unhappy  man  !"  he  exclaimed ;  "do 
you  think  of  going  to  arrest  the  Due  de  Sairmeuse!  Poor 
Lecoq  !  Free,  this  man  is  almost  omnipotent,  and  you,  an  in- 
finitesimal agent  of  police,  would  be  shattered  as  easily  as 
glass.  Take  care,  my  boy,  don't  attack  the  duke.  I  wouldn't 
be  responsible  for  the  consequences.  You  might  imperil  your 
Jife." 


MONSIEUR   LECOQ  253 

The  young  detective  shook  his  head.  "Oh !  I  don't  deceive 
myself,"  said  he.  "I  know  that  the  duke  is  far  beyond  my 
reach — at  least  for  the  present.  But  he  will  be  in  my  power 
again,  the  day  I  learn  his  secret.  I  don't  fear  danger;  but  I 
know,  that  if  I  am  to  succeed,  I  must  conceal  myself,  and  so 
I  will.  Yes,  I  will  remain  in  the  shade  until  I  can  unveil  this 
mystery;  but  then  I  shall  reappear  in  my  true  character.  And 
if  May  be  really  the  Due  de  Sairmeuse,  I  shall  have  my 
revenge." 


THE    HONOR    OF    THE    NAME 

PART   I 


1 — Vol.  II — Gab. 


THE    HONOR    OF    THE    NAME 


ON  the  first  Sunday  in  the  month  of  August,  1815,  at  ten 
o'clock  precisely,  the  sacristan  of  the  parish  church  of 
Sairmeuse  gave,  according  to  custom,  three  successive 
pulls  at  the  bell — placed  high  in  the  tower  above — to  warn  the 
faithful  that  the  priest  was  about  to  ascend  the  steps  of  the  altar 
to  celebrate  high  mass.  The  church  was  already  more  than  half- 
full,  and  from  every  side  came  groups  of  peasants,  hurrying 
toward  the  churchyard.  The  women  were  all  in  their  bravest 
attire,  with  dainty  'kerchiefs  crossed  upon  their  breasts,  broad- 
striped,  brightly  colored  skirts,  reaching  to  their  ankles,  and 
large  white  caps  set  upon  their  heads.  Being  of  an  economical 
mind,  although  coquettish,  they  mostly  came  barefooted,  carry- 
ing their  shoes  in  their  hands,  and  only  putting  them  on  as  they 
were  about  to  enter  the  house  of  worship. 

But  few  of  the  men  went  into  the  church.  They  remained 
outside  to  talk,  seating  themselves  in  the  porch,  or  standing 
about  the  yard,  in  the  shade  of  the  grand  old  elms.  For  such 
was  the  custom  in  the  village  of  Sairmeuse.  The  two  hours 
which  the  women  consecrated  to  prayer  the  men  employed  in 
discussing  the  news,  the  success  or  failure  of  the  crops;  and, 
before  the  .service  came  to  a  close,  they  could  generally  be 
found,  glass  in  hand,  in  the  long  public  room  of  the  village 
hostelry. 

For  the  farmers  for  a  league  around,  Sunday  mass  at  Sair- 
meuse was  only  an  excuse  for  meeting  together  to  hold,  as  it 
were,  a  kind  of  weekly  exchange.  Since  the  reestablishment 
of  religion  all  the  cures  who  had  been  successively  stationed  at 
Sairmeuse  had  endeavored  to  put  an  end  to  this  scandalous 
habit  of  turning  God's  acre  into  an  exchange,  but  all  their 
efforts  had  proved  unavailing.  The  obstinate  peasantry  would 
only  make  one  concession.  At  the  moment  of  the  elevation  of 
the  Host,  all  voices  outside  the  church  were  hushed,  heads  un- 
covered, and  a  few  of  the  less  skeptical  farmers  even  bowed  the 

257 


258     THE  HONOR  OF  THE  NAME 

knee,  and  made  the  sign  of  a  cross.  But  this  was  the  affair  of 
an  instant  only,  and  then  conversation  anent  crops,  cattle,  wine, 
wood  and  so  on  was  resumed  with  increased  vivacity. 

But  on  that  particular  Sunday  in  August  the  usual  animation 
was  wanting;  and  the  comments  exchanged  among  little  knots 
of  villagers  gathered  here  and  there  among  the  tombstones  under 
the  trees  were  scarcely  audible.  Ordinarily  there  would  have 
"been  no  dearth  of  noisy  discussions  between  the  various  buyers 
and  sellers — discussions  well-nigh  interminable,  and  punctuated 
at  frequent  intervals  with  some  loud  spoken  popular  oath,  such 
as  "By  my  faith  in  God !"  or  "May  the  devil  burn  me !"  To-day, 
however,  the  farmers  were  not  talking,  they  were  whispering 
together.  Each  face  was  sad ;  lips  were  placed  cautiously  at 
each  listener's  ear ;  and  anxiety  could  be  read  in  every  eye. 
Evidently  some  great  misfortune  had  occurred. 

In  point  of  fact,  only  a  month  had  elapsed  since  Louis  XVIII 
had  been,  for  the  second  time,  installed  at  the  Tuileries  by  the 
efforts  of  a  triumphant  coalition.  The  earth  had  scarcely  had 
time  to  imbibe  the  blood  that  had  flowed  at  Waterloo;  twelve 
hundred  thousand  foreign  soldiers  desecrated  the  soil  of  France ; 
and  a  Prussian  general  was  Governor  of  Paris. 

The  peasantry  of  Sairmeuse  trembled  with  indignation  and 
fear.  This  king,  brought  back  by  the  Allies,  was  no  less  to 
be  dreaded  than  the  Allies  themselves.  To  these  non-political 
country  folks,  the  great  name  of  Bourbon  only  signified  a  ter- 
rible burden  of  taxation  and  oppression.  Above  all,  it  signified 
ruin  for  there  was  scarcely  one  among  them  who  had  not 
purchased  from  the  government  of  the  revolution  or  the 
Empire  some  patch  of  the  land  confiscated  after  the  down- 
fall of  Louis  XVI ;  and  now  it  was  currently  reported  that 
all  the  estates  would  have  to  be  surrendered  to  the  former 
landowners,  who  had  emigrated  when  the  Bourbons  were 
overthrown. 

Hence,  it  was  with  feverish  curiosity  that  most  of  the  Sair- 
meuse peasants  clustered  round  a  young  man  who,  only  two 
days  before,  had  returned  from  the  army.  With  tears  of  rage 
in  his  eyes,  he  was  recounting  the  shame  and  misery  of  the  in- 
vasion. He  described  the  pillage  at  Versailles,  the  exactions  at 
Orleans,  and  the  pitiless   requisitions  of  the  Allied  army. 

"And  these  cursed  foreigners  to  whom  the  traitors  have  deliv- 
ered us  will  remain  here,"  he  exclaimed,  "as  long  as  there's  a 
sou  and   a  bottle  of  wine   left   in   France !"     So   speaking,   he 


THE   HONOR   OF  THE   NAME  259 

shook  his  clenched  fist  menacingly  at  a  white  flag  that  floated 
from  the  tower  of  the  church. 

His  generous  anger  won  the  close  attention  of  his  audience, 
who  were  still  listening  to  him  with  undiminished  interest, 
when  the  sound  of  a  horse's  hoofs  resounded  on  the  stones  of 
the  one  long  street  of  Sairmeuse.  A  shudder  passed  through  the 
crowd,  and  the  same  fear  slackened  the  beating  of  every  heart. 
Who  could  say  but  what  this  rider  was  not  some  English  or 
Prussian  officer,  who  had  come  perhaps  to  announce  the  arrival 
of  his  regiment,  and  to  demand,  with  all  a  conqueror's  harsh- 
ness, money,  food,  and  clothing  for  his  men? 

But  the  suspense  was  not  of  long  duration.  Instead  of  a  uni- 
form the  rider  wore  a  soiled  blue  blouse,  and  in  lieu  of  a 
charger  with  military  trappings,  he  bestrode  a  saddleless,  bony, 
nervous  little  mare,  covered  with  foam,  which  he  was  urging 
forward  with  repeated  blows  of  an  improvised  whip. 

"Ah !  it's  Father  Chupin."  murmured  one  of  the  peasants 
with  a  sigh  of  relief. 

"The  same,"  observed  another.  "He  seems  to  be  in  a  ter- 
rible hurry." 

"The  old  rascal  has  probably  stolen  the  horse  he  is  riding," 
remarked  a  third. 

This  last  remark  revealed  the  reputation  that  the  rider  of 
the  saddleless  mare  enjoyed  among  his  neighbors.  He  was,  in 
fact,  one  of  those  rascals  who  are  the  scourge  and  terror  of 
rural  districts.  He  pretended  to  be  a  day-laborer,  but  in  reality 
he  held  all  work  in  holy  horror,  and  spent  most  of  his  time 
idling  about  his  hovel.  Indeed,  he  and  his  wife  and  their  two 
sons — terrible  youths  who,  somehow,  had  escaped  the  conscription 
• — lived  entirely  by  theft.  Everything  they  consumed  was  stolen  ; 
wheat,  wine,  fuel,  fruits — all  being  the  property  of  others,  while 
poaching  and  fishing  in  closed  time  furnished  them  with  ready 
money.  Every  one  in  the  neighborhood  was  aware  of  this ;  and 
yet  when  Father  Chupin'  was  pursued  and  captured,  as  occa- 
sionally happened,  no  one  could  ever  be  found  to  testify  against 
him. 

"He's  such  a  dangerous  fellow,"  the  peasantry  remarked. 
"If  any  one  denounced  him.  why,  on  leaving  prison  he  would 
simply  lie  in  ambush  and  send  an  ounce  of  lead  into  his  enemy's 
brains." 

While  the  farmers  assembled  in  the  churchyard  were  thus 
exchanging  comments  concerning  him,  the  rider  of  the  saddle- 


260     THE  HONOR  OF  THE  NAME 

less  mare  had  drawn  rein  in  front  of  the  local  hostelry — the  inn 
of  the  Bceuf  Couronne  or  Crowned  Bull.  Alighting  from  his 
steed  and  crossing  the  square  he  walked  toward  the  church. 

He  was  a  tall  man  of  fifty  or  thereabouts,  and  as  gnarled  and 
sinewy  as  the  stem  of  some  ancient  vine.  At  the  first  glance  he 
would  not  have  been  taken  for  a  scoundrel,  for  his  demeanor 
was  humble  and  even  gentle.  The  restlessness  of  his  eyes  and 
the  expression  of  his  thin  lips  betrayed,  however,  a  spirit  of 
diabolical  cunning  and  calculation.  At  any  other  moment  this 
half-despised,  half-dreaded  individual  would  have  been  avoided; 
but  curiosity  and  anxiety  now  led  the  crowd  toward  him. 

'Ah,  well.  Father  Chupin  !"  cried  the  peasants,  as  soon  as 
he  was  within  hearing,  "where  do  you  come  from  in  such  a 
tremendous  haste  ?" 

"From  the  city."  To  the  inhabitants  of  Sairmeuse  and  its 
environs  "the  city"  meant  the  chief  town  of  the  arrondissement, 
Montaignac,  a  charming  subprefecture  of  eight  thousand  souls, 
about  four  leagues  distant.  "And  did  you  buy  the  horse  you 
were  riding  just  now  at  Montaignac?" 

"I  didn't  buy  it :  it  was  lent  to  me." 

Coming  from  such  a  rascal  this  was  so  strange  an  assertion 
that  his  listeners  could  not  repress  a  smile.  He  did  not  seem, 
however,  to  notice  their  incredulity. 

"It  was  lent  me,"  he  continued,  "in  order  that  I  might  bring 
some  great  news  here  as  quickly  as  possible." 

For  a  moment  a  vague  fear  struck  the  inquisitive  farmers 
dumb.  "Is  the  enemy  in  the  city?"  one  of  the  more  timid 
eventually  inquired  in  an  anxious  tone. 

"Yes,  but  not  the  enemy  you  mean.  The  new  arrival  is  our 
old  lord  of  the  manor,  his  grace  the  Due  de  Sairmeuse." 

"What !  why,  people  said  he  was  dead." 

"They  were  mistaken." 

"Have  you  seen  him?" 

"No,  I  have  not  seen  him,  but  some  one  else  has  seen  him 
for  me,  and  has  spoken  to  him.  And  this  some  one  is  M.  Lau- 
geron,  the  landlord  of  the  Hotel  de  France  at  Montaignac.  I 
was  passing  the  house  this  morning,  when  he  called  me.  'Here, 
old  fellow,'  said  he,  'will  you  do  me  a  favor?'  Naturally  I 
replied  I  would,  whereupon  he  placed  a  coin  in  my  hand  and 
said :  'Well,  go  round  to  the  stable  and  tell  them  to  saddle  a 
horse  for  you,  then  gallop  to  Sairmeuse  as  fast  as  you  can  and 
tell  my  friend  Lacheneur  that  the  Due  de  Sairmeuse  arrived 


THE   HONOR   OF  THE   NAME  261 

here  last  night  in  a  post-chaise,  with  his  son  Monsieur  Martial, 
and  two  servants.'  "  Father  Chupin  paused.  "The  news  was 
important,"  said  he.  "And  as  there  wasn't  an  ostler  in  the 
stable  and  I  couldn't  find  a  saddle,  I  came  here  as  quickly  as  I 
could  on  the  beast's  bare  back." 

The  peasants  were  listening  with  pale  cheeks  and  set  teeth, 
and  Father  Chupin  strove  to  preserve  the  subdued  mien  appro- 
priate to  a  messenger  of  misfortune.  But  if  one  had  observed 
him  carefully,  a  swiftly  repressed  smile  of  irony  might  have 
been  detected  on  his  lips,  and  a  gleam  of  malicious  joy  in  his 
eyes.  He  was,  in  fact,  inwardly  jubilant,  for  at  that  moment 
he  was  having  his  revenge  for  all  the  slights  and  all  the  scorn 
he  had  been  forced  to  endure.  And  what  a  revenge  it  was ! 
If  his  words  seemed  to  fall  slowly  and  reluctantly  from  his 
lips,  it  was  only  because  he  was  trying  to  prolong  the  sufferings 
of  his  audience  as  much  as  possible. 

However,  a  stalwart  young  peasant,  with  an  intelligent  face, 
who,  perhaps,  read  the  old  rascal's  secret  heart,  bruskly  inter- 
rupted him :  "What  can  we  care  for  the  presence  of  the  Due 
de  Sairmeuse  at  Montaignac?"  said  he.  "Let  him  remain  at 
the  Hotel  de  France  as  long  as  he  chooses ;  we  shan't  go  in 
search  of  him." 

"No !  we  shan't  go  in  search  of  him,"  echoed  the  other  peas- 
ants approvingly. 

The  old  rogue  shook  his  head  with  affected  commiseration. 
"The  duke  will  not  put  you  to  that  trouble,"  he  replied;  "he 
will  be  here  in  less  than  a  couple  of  hours." 

"How  do  you  know  that?" 

"I  know  it  through  M.  Laugeron,  who,  just  as  I  was  start- 
ing, said:  'Above  all.  old  man,  explain  to  my  friend  Lacheneur 
that  the  duke  has  ordered  horses  to  be  ready  to  take  him  to 
Sairmeuse  at  eleven  o'clock.'  " 

With  a  common  impulse  all  the  peasants  who  had  watches 
consulted  them. 

"And  what  does  he  want  here?"  asked  the  same  young 
farmer  who  had  spoken  before. 

"Excuse  me,  but  he  didn't  tell  me,"  replied  Father  Chupin, 
"though  one  need  not  be  very  cunning  to  guess.  He  comes  to 
revisit  his  former  estates,  and  to  take  them  from  those  who 
have  purchased  them,  if  possible.  From  you,  Rousselet,  he  will 
claim  the  meadows  on  the  Oiselle,  which  always  yield  two 
crops;  from  you,   Father  Gauchais,  the  ground  on  which  the 


262     THE  HONOR  OF  THE  NAME 

Croix-Brulee  stands ;  from  you,  Chanlouineau,  the  vineyards  on 
the  Borderie — " 

Chanlouineau  was  the  impetuous  young  fellow  who  had  twice 
interrupted  Father  Chupin  already.  "Claim  the  Borderie!"  he 
exclaimed,  with  even  greater  violence  than  before,  "let  him 
try — and  we'll  see.  It  was  waste  land  when  my  father  bought 
it — covered  with  briers:  why,  a  goat  couldn't  have  found  pas- 
ture there.  We  have  cleared  it  of  stones,  we  have  scratched  up 
the  soil  with  our  very  nails,  watered  it  with  our  sweat,  and 
now  this  duke  wants  to  take  it  from  us!  Ah!  he  shall  have 
my  last  drop  of  blood  first." 

"I  don't  say  but—" 

"But  what?  Is  it  any  fault  of  ours  if  the  nobles  fled  to  for- 
eign lands?  We  haven't  stolen  their  lands,  have  we?  The 
government  offered  them  for  sale:  we  bought  them,  and  paid 
for  them;  they  are  lawfully  ours." 

"That's  true ;  but  M.  de  Sairmeuse  is  the  great  friend  of  the 
king." 

The  young  soldier  whose  voice  had  aroused  the  most  noble 
sentiments  only  a  moment  before  was  now  no  longer  remem- 
bered. Invaded  France,  the  threatening  enemy,  were  alike  for- 
gotten. The  all-powerful  instinct  of  avarice  had  been  suddenly 
aroused. 

"In  my  opinion,"  resumed  Chanlouineau,  "we  had  better  con- 
sult the  Baron  d'Escorval." 

"Yes,  yes!"  exclaimed  the  peasants;  "let  us  go  at  once!" 

They  were  starting,  when  a  villager  who  sometimes  read  the 
papers  checked  them  with  the  remark:  "Take  care  what  you 
are  about.  Don't  you  know  that  since  the  return  of  the  Bour- 
bons M.  d'Escorval  is  of  no  account  whatever?  Fouche  has 
him  on  the  proscription  list,  and  he  is  under  the  surveillance 
of  the  police." 

This  objection  dampened  the  general  enthusiasm.  "That's 
true,"  murmured  some  of  the  older  men,  "a  visit  to  M.  d'Escor- 
val would,  perhaps,  do  us  more  harm  than  good.  And,  besides, 
what  advice  could  he  give  us?" 

Chanlouineau  had  forgotten  all  prudence.  "What  of  that !" 
he  exclaimed.  "If  M.  d'Escorval  has  no  advice  to  give  us 
about  this  matter,  he  can,  perhaps,  teach  us  how  to  resist  and 
to  defend  ourselves." 

For  some  moments  Father  Chupin  had  been  studying,  with 
a  placid  countenance,  the  storm  of  anger  he  had  aroused.     In 


TlitL   HONOR   OF  THE   NAME  263 

his  secret  heart  he  experienced  an  incendiary's  satisfaction  at 
the  sight  of  the  flames  he  had  kindled,  perhaps  he  already  had 
a  presentiment  of  the  infamous  part  he  would  play  a  few 
months  later.  However,  satisfied  with  his  experiment,  he  now 
thought  fit  to  assume  the  role  of  moderator. 

"Wait  a  little.  Don't  cry  before  you  are  hurt,"  he  exclaimed 
in  an  ironical  tone.  "Who  told  you  that  the  Due  de  Sair- 
meuse  would  trouble  you?  How  much  of  his  former  domain 
do  you  all  own  between  you  ?  Almost  nothing.  A  few 
fields  and  meadows,  and  a  hill  on  the  Borderie.  All  these 
together  didn't  yield  him  five  thousand  livres  a  year  in  the 
old  days." 

"Yes,  that's  true,"  replied  Chanlouineau;  "and  if  the  revenue 
you  mention  is  now  four  times  as  much  it  is  only  because  the 
land  is  in  the  hands  of  forty  farmers  who  cultivate  it  them- 
selves." 

"Which  is  another  reason  why  the  duke  is  not  likely  to  say 
a  word ;  he  won't  wish  to  set  the  whole  district  in  commotion. 
In  my  opinion  he  will  only  proceed  against  one  person — 
against  our  late  mayor — M.  Lacheneur,  in  short."  Ah !  the 
wily  poacher  knew  only  too  well  the  egotism  of  his  compatriots. 
He  knew  with  what  complacency  and  eagerness  they  would 
accept  an  expiatory  victim  whose  sacrifice  would  be  their 
salvation. 

"That's  a  fact,"  remarked  an  old  man;  "M.  Lacheneur  owns 
nearly  all  the  Sairmeuse  property." 

"Say  all,  while  you  are  about  it,"  rejoined  Father  Chupin. 
"Where  does  M.  Lacheneur  live?  Why,  in  the  beautiful 
Chateau  de  Sairmeuse,  whose  towers  we  can  see  there  through 
the  trees.  He  hunts  in  the  forests  which  once  belonged  to  the 
Due  de  Sairmeuse ;  he  fishes  in  their  lakes ;  he  drives  the 
horses  that  once  belonged  to  them,  seated  in  the  carriages  on 
which  one  might  still  see  their  coat-of-arms,  if  it  hadn't  been 
painted  out.  Twenty  years  ago  Lacheneur  was  a  poor  devil 
like  myself;  now  he's  a  grand  gentleman  with  a  princely  in- 
come. He  wears  the  finest  broadcloth  and  top-boots  just  like 
the  Baron  d'Escorval.  Instead  of  working  himself  he  makes 
others  work  for  him,  and  when  he  passes  by  every  one  must 
bow  to  the  earth.  If  you  kill  so  much  as  a  sparrow  on  his  lands 
he  will  have  you  thrown  into  prison.  Ah,  he  has  been  a  lucky 
fellow.  The  emperor  made  him  mayor.  The  Bourbons  de- 
prived him  of  his  office;  but  what  does  that  matter  to  him? 


r 

2H4  THE   HONOR   OF  THE'NA'ME 

He  is  still  the  real  master  here,  just  as  the  dukes  were  in  other 
days.  His  son  is  pursuing  his  studies  in  Paris,  with  the  inten- 
tion of  becoming  a  notary.  As  for  his  daughter,  Mademoiselle 
Marie-Anne — " 

"Not  a  word  against  her !"  exclaimed  Chanlouineau ;  "if 
she  were  mistress,  there  wouldn't  be  a  poor  man  in  the 
neighborhood.  Ask  your  wife  if  that  isn't  the  case,  Father 
Chupin." 

This  was  an  affront  which  the  rascal  Chupin  would  never 
forget  as  long  as  he  lived ;  still  for  the  moment  he  swallowed 
it  without  any  show  of  outward  resentment.  "I  don't  say  that 
Mademoiselle  Marie-Anne  is  not  generous,"  he  replied  with 
affected  humility,  "but  after  all  her  charitable  work,  she  has 
plenty  of  money  left  for  her  fine  dresses  and  other  fancies.  I 
think  M.  Lacheneur  might  be  very  well  content  to  give  the  duke 
back  half  or  even  three-quarters  of  the  property  he  acquired 
no  one  ever  knew  how.  He  would  still  have  enough  left  to 
grind  the  poor  under  foot." 

After  appealing  to  selfishness,  Father  Chupin  now  appealed 
to  envy.  There  could  be  no  doubt  of  his  success.  But  he  had 
no  time  to  pursue  his  advantage.  Mass  was  over,  and  the  wor- 
shipers were  leaving  the  church.  Soon  there  stood  on  the 
threshold  of  the  porch  the  man  he  had  alluded  to — M.  Lache- 
neur— mayor  of  Sairmeuse  in  the  days  of  the  vanquished 
emperor.  A  young  girl  of  dazzling  beauty  leaned  upon  his 
arm.  Father  Chupin  walked  straight  toward  him  and  bruskly 
delivered  his  message.  M.  Lacheneur  staggered  beneath 
the  blow.  He  turned  first  so  red,  and  then  so  frightfully 
pale  that  those  around  him  thought  he  was  about  to  fall. 
But  he  quickly  recovered  his  self-possession,  and  without  a 
word  to  the  messenger,  walked  rapidly  away,  leading  his 
daughter   with   him. 

Some  minutes  later  an  old  post-chaise,  drawn  by  four  horses, 
dashed  through  the  village  at  a  gallop,  and  paused  before  the 
cure's  house.  Then  one  might  have  witnessed  a  singular  spec- 
tacle. Father  Chupin  had  gathered  his  wife  and  sons  together, 
and  the  four  surrounded  the  carriage,  shouting  with  all  the 
power  of  their  lungs: 

"Long  live  the  Due  de  Sairmeuse !" 


THE    HONOR   OF   THE   NAME 


265 


A  GENTLY  inclined  road,  more  than  two  miles  in  length, 
shaded  by  a  quadruple  row  of  venerable  elms,  leads  from 
the  village  to  the  Chateau  de  Sairmeuse.  Nothing  could  be 
more  beautiful  than  this  avenue,  a  fit  approach  to  a  palace ;  and 
the  stranger  who  beheld  it  would  at  once  understand  the  popu- 
lar proverb  of  the  district:  "He  does  not  know  the  real  beauty 
of  France  who  has  never  seen  Sairmeuse  nor  the  Oiselle." 
The  Oiselle  is  a  little  river  crossed  by  a  wooden  bridge  on  leav- 
ing the  village,  and  the  clear  rapid  waters  of  which  give  a 
delicious  freshness  to  the  valley.  At  every  step  as  one  ascends 
the  avenue  the  view  changes.  It  is  as  if  an  enchanting  pano- 
rama were  being  slowly  unrolled  before  one.  On  the  right  the 
saw-pits  of  Fereol  and  the  wind-mills  of  La  Reche  may  be  per- 
ceived. On  the  left  the  tree-tops  of  the  forest  of  Dolomieu 
tremble  in  the  breeze.  Those  imposing  ruins  across  the  river 
are  all  that  remain  of  the  feudal  castle  of  the  house  of  Breulh. 
That  red  brick  mansion,  with  granite  trimmings,  half  con- 
cealed by  a  bend  in  the  stream,  belongs  to  the  Baron  d'Escor- 
val  And  if  the  day  is  clear,  one  can  easily  distinguish  the 
spires  of  Montaigrac  in  the  distance. 

This  was  the  road  taken  by  M.  Lacheneur  after  Chupin  had 
delivered  his  message.  But  what  did  the  late  mayor  of  Sair- 
meuse care  for  the  beauties  of  the  landscape !  Standing  under 
the  church  porch  he  had  received  his  death  wound ;  and  now, 
with  a  tottering  step,  he  dragged  himself  along  like  some  poor 
soldier,  mortally  wounded  upon  the  field  of  battle,  who  searches 
for  a  ditch  or  quiet  nook  where  to  lie  down  and  die.  He 
seemed  to  have  lost  all  thought  of  the  surroundings — all  con- 
sciousness of  previous  events.  He  pursued  his  way,  lost  in  his 
reflections,  and  guided  only  by  force  of  habit.  Two  or  three 
times  his  daughter,  who  was  walking  by  his  side,  tried  to  speak 
to  him ;  but  an  "Ah !  let  me  alone !"  uttered  in  a  harsh  tone, 
was  the  only  reply  she  obtained.  Evidently  M.  Lacheneur  had 
received  a  terrible   blow;   and   undoubtedly,   as  often  happens 


266     THE  HONOR  OF  THE  NAME 

under  such  circumstances,  the  unfortunate  man  was  reviewing 
all  the  different  phases  of  his  life. 

At  twenty  he  was  only  a  poor  plowboy  in  the  service  of 
the  Sairmeuse  family.  His  ambition  was  modest  then ;  and 
stretched  beneath  a  tree  at  the  hour  of  noonday  rest  he  indulged 
in  dreams  as  simple  as  his  calling.  "If  I  could  but  amass  a 
hundred  pistoles,"  he  thought,  "I  would  ask  Father  Barrios 
for  the  hand  of  his  daughter  Martha ;  and  he  wouldn't  re- 
fuse me." 

A  hundred  pistoles  !  A  thousand  francs ! — an  enormous  sum 
for  one  who,  during  two  years  of  toil  and  privation  had  only 
laid  by  eleven  louis,  placed  carefully  in  a  tiny  box  and  hidden 
in  the  depth  of  his  straw  mattress.  Still,  he  did  not  despair,  for 
he  had  read  in  Martha's  eyes  that  she  would  wait.  And  Made- 
moiselle Armande  de  Sairmeuse,  a  rich  old  maid,  was  his  god- 
mother; and  he  thought,  if  he  attracted  her  adroitly,  that  he 
might,  perhaps,  interest  her  in  his  love  affair. 

Then  suddenly  the  terrible  storm  of  the  Revolution  burst 
over  France.  With  the  fall  of  the  first  thunderbolts,  the  Due 
de  Sairmeuse  left  France  with  the  Comte  d'Artois.  They  took 
refuge  in  foreign  lands  much  after  the  same  fashion  as  a 
passer-by  might  seek  shelter  in  a  doorway  from  a  summer 
shower,  saying  to  himself:  "This  will  not  last  long."  The 
storm  did  last,  however,  and  the  following  year  Mademoiselle 
Armande,  who  had  remained  at  Sairmeuse,  died.  The  chateau 
was  then  closed,  the  president  of  the  district  took  possession 
of  the  keys  in  the  name  of  the  government,  and  the  servants 
became  scattered  in  various  parts. 

Lacheneur  took  up  his  residence  in  Montaignac.  Young, 
daring,  and  personally  attractive,  blessed  with  an  energetic  face, 
and  an  intelligence  far  above  his  station,  it  was  not  long  before 
he  became  well  known  in  the  political  clubs.  For  three  months 
indeed  Lacheneur  was  the  virtual  dictator  of  Montaignac. 

But  this  profession  of  public  agitator  is  seldom  lucrative ; 
hence  the  surprise  throughout  the  district  was  immense  when 
people  learned  that  the  former  plowboy  had  purchased  the 
chateau  and  almost  all  the  land  belonging  to  his  former  masters. 
It  is  true  that  the  nation  had  sold  this  princely  domain  for 
scarcely  a  twentieth  part  of  its  real  value.  It  had  been  valued 
at  sixty-nine  thousand  francs.  To  sell  it  for  so  beggarly  an 
amount  was  equivalent  to  giving  it  away.  And  yet  it  was  nec- 
essary to  have  this   sum,   and   strange   to   say  the   apparently 


THE    HONOR    OF    THE    NAME  267 

penniless  Lacheneur  possessed  it,  since  he  had  poured  a  flood 
of  beautiful  louis  d'or  into  the  hands  of  the  receiver  of  the 
district. 

From  that  moment  his  popularity  waned.  The  patriots  who 
had  applauded  the  plowboy  cursed  the  capitalist.  He  discreetly 
left  his  former  friends  to  recover  from  their  rage  as  best  they 
could,  and  returned  to  Sairmeuse.  There  every  one  bowed 
low  before  Citoyen  Lacheneur.  Unlike  most  people,  he  did  not 
forget  his  past  hopes  at  the  moment  when  they  might  be  real- 
ized. He  married  Martha  Barrios,  and  leaving  the  country  to 
work  out  its  own  salvation  without  his  assistance,  he  gave  his 
time  and  attention  to  agriculture. 

Any  close  observer  in  those  days  would  have  surmised  that 
the  man  was  bewildered  by  the  sudden  change  in  his  situation. 
His  manner  was  so  troubled  and  anxious  that,  to  see  him,  he 
"would  have  been  taken  for  a  servant  in  constant  fear  of  being 
detected  in  some  indiscretion.  At  first  he  did  not  open  the 
chateau,  but  installed  himself  and  his  young  wife  in  the  cottage 
formerly  occupied  by  the  head  gamekeeper,  near  the  entrance 
•of  the  park.  But,  little  by  little,  with  the  habit  of  possession 
came  assurance.  The  Consulate  had  succeeded  the  Directory, 
the  Empire  succeeded  the  Consulate,  and  Citoyen  Lacheneur 
became  Monsieur  Lacheneur.  Appointed  mayor  two  years  later, 
he  left  the  cottage  and  took  possession  of  the  chateau.  The 
former  plowboy  slept  in  the  bed  of  the  Dues  de  Sairmeuse; 
he  ate  off  the  massive  plate  bearing  their  escutcheon ;  and  he 
received  his  visitors  in  the  same  magnificent  suite  of  rooms 
where  the  proud  peers  had  received  their  friends  in  the  years 
gone  by. 

To  those  who  had  known  him  in  former  days,  M.  Lacheneur 
had  become  unrecognizable.  He  had  adapted  himself  to  his 
lofty  station.  Blushing  at  his  own  ignorance,  he  had  had  the 
courage — wonderful  in  one  of  his  age — to  acquire  the  educa- 
tion which  he  lacked.  Then  all  his  undertakings  were  success- 
ful to  such  a  degree  that  his  good  luck  had  become  proverbial. 
It  sufficed  for  him  to  take  any  part  in  an  enterprise  for  it  to 
turn  out  well.  The  blessings  of  wedded  life,  moreover,  were 
not  denied  him,  for  his  wife  had  given  him  two  lovely  chil- 
dren, a  son  and  a  daughter;  while,  on  the  other  hand,  his 
property,  managed  with  a  shrewdness  and  sagacity  the  former 
owners  had  not  possessed,  yielded  a  princely  income. 

How  many  under  similar  circumstances  would  have  lost  their 


268     THE  HONOR  OF  THE  NAME 

heads !  But  Lacheneur  retained  all  his  habitual  coolness.  In 
spite  of  the  luxury  that  surrounded  him,  his  own  habits  con- 
tinued simple  and  frugal.  He  never  had  an  attendant  for  his 
own  person.  His  large  income  was  almost  entirely  consecrated 
to  the  improvement  of  the  estate  or  to  the  purchase  of  more 
land.  And  yet  he  was  not  avaricious.  In  all  that  concerned 
his  wife  or  children  he  did  not  count  the  cost.  His  son  Jean 
had  been  educated  in  Paris,  for  he  wished  him  to  be  fitted 
for  any  position.  Unwilling  to  consent  to  a  separation  from 
his  daughter,  he  had  entrusted  her  to  the  care  of  a  resident 
governess.  Sometimes  his  friends  accused  him  of  an  inordinate 
ambition  for  his  children ;  but  at  any  such  remarks  he  would 
sadly  shake  his  head  and  reply:  "All  I  want  is  to  insure  them 
a  modest  and  comfortable  future,  though  it  is  folly  indeed  to 
count  upon  the  time  to  come.  Thirty  years  ago  who  would 
have  foreseen  that  the  Sairmeuse  family  would  ever  be  deprived 
of  their  estates?" 

With  such  opinions  he  should  have  been  a  good  master;  and 
such  he  was,  though  no  one  ever  thought  better  of  him  on  that 
account.  His  former  comrades  could  not  forgive  him  for  his 
sudden  elevation,  and  seldom  spoke  of  him  without  wishing  his 
ruin  in  ambiguous  language. 

Alas  !  evil  days  were  to  come.  Toward  the  close  of  the  year 
1812  he  lost  his  wife,  while  the  disasters  of  1813  swept  away 
a  large  portion  of  his  personal  fortune,  invested  in  a  manufac- 
turing enterprise.  At  the  advent  of  the  First  Restoration,  he 
was  obliged  to  conceal  himself  for  a  time ;  and  to  cap  the 
climax  the  conduct  of  his  son,  who  was  still  in  Paris,  caused 
him  serious  disquietude.  He  already  believed  himself  the  most 
unfortunate  of  men,  and  now  here  was  another  misfortune 
threatening  him — a  misfortune  so  terrible  that  all  the  others 
were  forgotten  in  the  contemplation  of  it.  Twenty  years  had 
elapsed  since  the  day  he  had  purchased  Sairmeuse.  Twenty 
years !  And  yet  it  seemed  to  him  only  yesterday  that,  blushing 
and  trembling,  he  had  laid  those  piles  of  louis  d'or  on  the  desk 
of  the  district  receiver.  Had  he  dreamed  it?  No,  he  had  not 
dreamed  it.  His  whole  life,  with  its  struggles  and  miseries,  its 
hopes  and  fears,  its  unexpected  joys  and  blighted  hopes,  passed 
in  review  before  him. 

Lost  in  these  memories,  he  had  quite  forgotten  the  present 
situation,  when  a  commonplace  incident,  more  powerful  than 
his  daughter's  voice,  brought  him  back  to  the  threatening  real- 


THE    HONOR   OF   THE    NAME  269 

ity.  The  park  gate  leading  to  the  Chateau  de  Sairmeuse,  to 
his  chateau,  was  locked.  He  shook  it  violently  in  a  fit  of  rage, 
and  being  unable  to  break  the  lock,  found  some  relief  in 
breaking  the  bell. 

On  hearing  the  noise,  a  gardener  hastened  to  the  spot. 

"Why  is  this  gate  closed  ?"  demanded  M.  Lacheneur,  with 
unwonted  violence  of  manner.  "By  what  right  do  you  barri- 
cade my  house  when  I,  the  master,  am  out  of  doors?" 

The  gardener  tried  to  make  some  excuse.  "Hold  your 
tongue!"  interrupted  his  master.  "I  dismiss  you;  you  are  no 
longer    in    my   service." 

Leaving  the  bewildered  gardener  to  his  astonishment,  he 
walked  on  through  the  pleasure  grounds — past  the  velvet  lawns 
fringed  with  summer  flowers  and  dense  patches  of  shrubbery. 
In  the  vestibule,  paved  and  paneled  with  mosaics  of  marble, 
three  of  his  tenants  sat  awaiting  him,  for  it  was  on  "Sunday 
that  he  always  received  those  farmers  who  desired  to  confer 
with  him.  The  three  even  rose  at  his  approach,  and  deferen- 
tially doffed  their  hats.  But  he  did  not  give  them  time  to  utter 
a  word. 

"Who  allowed  you  to  enter  here  ?"  he  said  in  a  savage  voice, 
"and  what  do  you  desire  ?  They  sent  you  to  play  the  spy  on 
me,  did  they?    Well,  get  out  now  and  at  once!" 

The  three  farmers  were  even  more  bewildered  than  the 
gardener  had  been,  and  exchanged  many  comments  of  dismay. 
But  M.  Lacheneur  did  not  hear  them.  Throwing  open  a  sculp- 
tured door,  he  had  dashed  into  the  grand  saloon  followed  by 
his  frightened  daughter. 

Never  had  Marie-Anne  seen  her  father  in  such  a  mood ;  and 
she  fairly  trembled,  affected  for  the  moment  by  the  most  ter- 
rible presentiments.  She  had  heard  it  said  that  under  the  influ- 
ence o+  some  dire  calamity  men  have  sometimes  suddenly  lost 
their  reason,  and  she  was  wondering  if  her  father  had  become 
insane.  Many  might  really  have  supposed  that  such  was  the 
case,  for  his  eyes  flashed,  his  lips  twitched,  and  convulsive  shud- 
ders shook  his  entire  frame.  He  made  the  circuit  of  the 
drawing-room  as  a  wild  beast  makes  the  circuit  of  its  cage, 
uttering  harsh  imprecations  and  making  frenzied  gestures.  His 
actions  were  quite  incomprehensible.  Sometimes  he  seemed  to 
be  trying  the  thickness  of  the  carpet  with  the  toe  of  his  boot, 
and  sometimes  he  threw  himself  on  to  a  chair  or  a  sofa  as  if 
to  test  their  softness.     Occasionally  he  paused  abruptly  before 


270  THE    HONOR   OF   THE    NAME 

one  of  the  valuable  pictures  that  covered  the  walls,  or  before 
some  precious  bronze ;  and  one  might  have  supposed  him  to  be 
taking  an  inventory,  and  appraising  all  the  marvels  of  art  and 
upholstery  which  decorated  this  apartment,  the  most  sumptuous 
in  the  chateau. 

"And  I  must  renounce  all  this  !"  he  exclaimed  at  last.  "No, 
never  !  never  !  never  !    I  can  not !    I  will  not !" 

Now,  Marie-Anne  was  in  a  measure  enlightened.  But  still 
she  did  not  exactly  know  what  was  passing  in  her  father's  mind. 
Anxious  for  information,  she  left  the  low  chair  on  which  she 
had  been  sitting  and  went  to  his  side.  "Are  you  ill,  father?'* 
she  asked,  in  her  sweetest  voice ;  "what  is  the  matter  ?  What 
do  you  fear?  Why  don't  you  confide  in  me — am  I  not  your 
daughter?    Don't  you  love  me  any  longer?" 

At  the  sound  of  this  dear  voice,  M.  Lacheneur  trembled  like 
a  sleeper  suddenly  aroused  from  the  terrors  of  nightmare,  and 
cast  an  indescribable  glance  upon  his  daughter.  "Did  you  not 
hear  what  Chupin  said  to  me?"  he  replied  slowly.  "The  Due 
de  Sairmeuse  is  at  Montaignac — he  will  soon  be  here;  and  we 
are  dwelling  in  the  chateau  of  his  fathers,  and  his  domain  has 
become  ours !" 

Marie-Anne  was  well  acquainted  with  this  vexed  question 
of  the  national  lands,  a  question  which  agitated  France  for 
thirty  years,  for  she  had  heard  it  discussed  a  thousand  times. 
"Ah,  well !  dear  father,"  said  she,  "what  does  that  matter,  even 
if  we  do  hold  the  property?  You  have  bought  it  and  paid  for 
it,  haven't  you?     So  it  is  rightfully  and  lawfully  ours." 

M.  Lacheneur  hesitated  a  moment  before  replying.  He  had 
a  secret  which  suffocated  him ;  and  was  in  one  of  those  crises 
in  which  a  man,  however  strong,  totters  and  seeks  for  any  sup- 
port, however  fragile.  "You  would  be  right,  my  daughter," 
he  murmured  with  drooping  head,  "if  the  money  I  gave  in 
exchange  for  Sairmeuse  had  really  belonged  to  me." 

At  this  strange  avowal  the  young  girl  turned  pale  and  re- 
coiled a  step.  "What?"  she  faltered;  "the  gold  wasn't  yours, 
father?  Whom  did  it  belong  to  then?  where  did  it  come 
from  ?" 

The  unhappy  man  had  gone  too  far  to  retract.  "I  will  tell 
you  everything,  my  dear  girl,"  he  replied,  "and  you  shall  be 
my  judge.  You  shall  decide  everything.  When  the  Sairmeuse 
family  fled  from  France,  I  had  only  my  hands  to  depend  upon, 
and  as  it  was  almost  impossible  to  obtain  work,  I  wondered  if 


THE   HONOR   OF   THE    NAME  271 

starvation   were   not  near  at   hand.     Such   was   my   condition 
when  some  one  came  one  evening  to  tell  me  that  Mademoiselle 
Armande  de  Sairmeuse,  my  godmother,  was  dying,  and  wished 
to  speak  with  me.     I  ran  to  the  chateau.     The  messenger  had 
told  the  truth.     Mademoiselle  Armande  was   sick   unto  death. 
I  felt  aware  of  this  when  I  saw  her  lying  on  the  bed,  whiter 
than  wax.     Ah  !  if  I  were  to  live  a  hundred  years,  I  should 
never   forget  the   look   that  was   on   her   face.     It   seemed  to 
express  a  determination  to  hold  death  at  bay  until  some  task 
on  which  she  had  resolved  had  been  performed.     When  I  en- 
tered the  room  she  seemed  relieved.     'How  long  you  were  in 
coming !'   she  murmured.     I  was  about  to  make  some  excuse, 
when   she  motioned   me  to  pause,   and  ordered  her  nurses   to 
leave  the  room.    As  soon  as  we  were  alone,  'You  are  an  honest 
boy,'  said  she,  'and  I  am  about  to  give  you  a  proof  of  my  con- 
fidence.    People  believe  me  to  be  poor,  but  they  are  mistaken. 
While  my  relatives  were  gaily  ruining  themselves,  I  was  saving 
the  five  hundred  louis  which  the  duke  allowed  me  every  year. 
So  saying,  she  motioned  me  to  come  nearer  and  kneel  beside 
her  bed.     I   obeyed,  and  then   Mademoiselle   Armande  leaned 
toward  me,  fixed  her  lips  to  my  ear,  and  added:  'I  have  saved 
eighty  thousand  francs.'    I  felt  a  sudden  giddiness,  but  my  god- 
mother didn't  notice  it.     'This  amount,'  she  continued,  'is  not 
a  quarter  of  the  former  income  from  our  family  estates.     But 
now  who  knows  but  one  day  it  may  be  the  only  resource  of  the 
Sairmeuses.    I  am  going  to  place  it  in  your  charge,  Lacheneur. 
I  confide  it  to  your  honor  and  devotion.    The  estates  belonging 
to  the  emigrants  are  to  be  sold,  I  hear.     If  such  an  act  of 
injustice  is  committed,  you  will  probably  be  able  to  purchase 
our  property  for  seventy  thousand  francs.     If  the  property  is 
sold  by  the  government,  purchase  it ;  but  if  the  lands  belonging 
to  the  emigrants  are  not  sold,  take  seventy  thousand  francs  to 
the  duke,  my  nephew,  who  is  with  the  Comte  d'Artois.     The 
surplus,  that  is  to  say,  the  ten  thousand  francs  remaining,  I 
give  to  you — they  are  yours.'    When  saying  this  she  seemed  to 
recover  her  strength.     She  raised  herself  up  in  bed,  and  hold- 
ing the   crucifix  attached  to  her  rosary   against   my  lips,   she 
added:  'Swear  by  the  image  of  our  Saviour  that  you  \,_il  faith- 
fully execute  your  dying  godmother's   last  will.'     I   took   the 
required  oath,  and  an  expression  of  satisfaction  overspread  her 
features." 
M.  Lacheneur  paused.    The  recollection  of  this  scene  plainly 


272     THE  HONOR  OF  THE  NAME 

produced  a  deep  impression  on  his  mind.  "In  continuation," 
he  said,  "Mademoiselle  Armande  then  told  me  she  should  die 
content.  'You  will  have  a  protector  on  high,'  she  said.  'But 
this  is  not  all.  In  times  like  these,  this  gold  will  not  be  safe 
in  your  hands  unless  those  about  you  are  ignorant  that  you 
possess  it.  It  is  here  in  this  cupboard  at  the  head  of  my  bed, 
in  a  small  oak  chest,  which  you  must  manage  to  remove  with- 
out being  seen.  If  you  went  out  with  it  in  your  arms,  people 
might  wonder  by  and  by  what  it  contained.  The  best  plan 
would  be  to  fasten  a  sheet  round  it,  and  let  it  down  gently  from 
the  window  into  the  garden.  You  must  then  leave  the  house 
as  you  entered  it,  and  as  soon  as  you  are  outside,  you  must 
take  the  box  and  carry  it  home.  The  night  is  very  dark,  and 
no  one  will  see  you,  if  you  are  careful.  But  make  haste :  my 
strength  is  nearly  gone.'  I  did  as  Mademoiselle  Armande  sug- 
gested, and  less  than  ten  minutes  afterward  I  had  lowered  the 
box  into  the  garden  without  the  slightest  noise.  Closing  the 
window,  I  exclaimed :  'I  have  done  your  bidding,  godmother/ 
'God  be  praised.'  she  whispered,  'Sairmeuse  is  saved  !'  I  heard 
a  deep  sigh,  and  turning  round  found  that  she  was  dead." 

M.  Lacheneur  shuddered  as  he  uttered  these  last  words.  His 
emotion  was  intense,  and  for  a  moment  he  could  not  speak. 
Eventually,  in  a  hollow  voice,  he  exclaimed :  "I  called  for  aid 
— it  came.  Mademoiselle  Armande  was  loved  by  every  one; 
there  was  great  lamentation,  and  half  an  hour  of  indescribable 
confusion.  I  was  able  to  withdraw,  unnoticed,  to  run  into  the 
garden,  and  carry  away  the  box.  An  hour  later,  it  was  con- 
cealed in  the  miserable  hovel  I  inhabited,  and  the  following  year 
I  purchased  Sairmeuse." 

The  unfortunate  man  paused  again,  he  had  confessed  every- 
thing, and  now  stood  trembling  in  front  of  his  daughter  trying 
to  read  his  sentence  in  her  eyes. 

"And  can  you  hesitate?"  she  asked. 

"Ah !  you  don't  know—" 

"I  know  that  Sairmeuse  must  be  given  up." 

This  was  also  the  counsel  of  his  own  conscience,  that  faint 
voice  which  speaks  only  in  a  whisper,  but  which  all  the  tumult 
on  earth  can  not  overpower.  Still  he  hesitated.  "No  one  saw 
me  take  away  the  chest,"  he  faltered.  "If  any  one  suspected 
it,  there  is  not  a  single  proof  against  me.  But  no  one  does 
suspect  it." 

Marie-Anne     rose,     her     eyes     flashing    with     indignation. 


THE    HONOR    OF   THE    NAME  273 

"Father!"  she  exclaimed.  "Oh!  father!  If  others  know 
nothing  about  it,  can  you  forget  it?" 

M.  Lacheneur  did  not  immediately  reply.  He  seemed  to  be 
inwardly  wrestling  with  himself.  "Restitution."  he  at  last 
exclaimed.  "Yes,  then  I  will  make  restitution.  I  restitute  what 
I  received.  I  will  give  the  duke  the  eighty  thousand  francs, 
with  the  interest  on  the  amount  ever  since  I  have  had  it  in  my 
hands,  and  then  we  shall  be  quits !" 

Marie-Anne  shook  her  head.  "Why  resort  to  an  unworthy 
subterfuge  ?"  she  asked  in  a  gentle  voice.  "You  know  perfectly 
well  that  it  was  Sairmeuse  itself  that  Mademoiselle  Armande 
wished  to  entrust  to  the  servant  of  her  house.  And  it  is  Sair- 
meuse which  must  be  returned." 

The  word  "servant"  was  revolting  to  a  man  who,  at  least 
while  the  Empire  lasted,  had  been  a  power  in  the  land.  "Ah  ! 
Marie,  you  are  cruel,"  he  replied  with  intense  bitterness,  "as 
cruel  as  a  child  who  has  never  suffered — as  cruel  as  one  who, 
never  having  been  tempted  himself,  is  without  mercy  for  those 
who  have  yielded  to  temptation.  You  tell  me  that  I  was  but  a 
trustee,  and  so  indeed  I  formerly  considered  myself.  If  your 
dear  mother  were  still  alive,  she  would  tell  you  the  anxiety 
and  anguish  I  felt  on  becoming  the  master  of  riches  which 
were  not  mine.  I  was  afraid  of  myself.  I  felt  like  some  gam- 
bler to  whom  the  winnings  of  others  have  been  confided.  Your 
mother  could  tell  you  that  I  moved  heaven  and  earth  to  find 
the  Due  de  Sairmeuse.  But  he  had  left  the  Comte  d'Artois, 
and  no  one  knew  where  he  had  gone  or  what  had  become  of 
him.  Ten  years  passed  before  I  could  make  up  my  mind  to 
inhabit  the  chateau — yes,  ten  years — during  which  I  had  the 
furniture  dusted  each  morning  as  if  the  master  was  to  return 
that  very  evening.  At  last  I  ventured.  I  heard  ML  d'Escorval 
declare  that  the  duke  had  been  killed  in  battle.  So  I  took  up 
my  abode  here ;  and  day  after  day  as  the  domain  of  Sairmeuse 
grew  more  productive  and  extensive  under  my  care,  I  felt 
myself  more  and  more  its  rightful  owner." 

This  fresh  plea — this  despairing  appeal  on  behalf  of  a  bad 
cause  produced  no  impression  on  Marie-Anne's  loyal  heart. 
"Restitution  must  be  made,"  she  repeated. 

Her  father  wrung  his  hands.  "Without  mercy !"  he  ex- 
claimed ;  "she  is  without  mercy.  Unfortunate  girl !  doesn't 
she  understand  that  it  is  for  her  sake  I  wish  to  remain  where 
I  am.    I  am  old ;  familiar  with  toil  and  poverty ;  and  my  hands 


274     THE  HONOR  OF  THE  NAME 

are  still  hard  and  horny.  What  do  I  need  to  keep  me  alive  till 
the  time  comes  to  lay  me  in  the  graveyard?  A  crust  of  bread 
and  an  onion  in  the  morning,  a  bowl  of  soup  at  night,  and  a 
bundle  of  straw  to  sleep  on.  I  could  easily  return  to  that. 
But  you,  unhappy  child !  and  your  brother,  what  will  become 
of  you  both  ?" 

"We  must  not  discuss  or  haggle  with  duty,  father,"  replied 
Marie-Anne.  "I  think,  however,  that  you  are  needlessly 
alarmed.  I  believe  the  duke  is  too  noble-hearted  ever  to  allow 
you  to  want  after  the  immense  service  you  have  rendered  him." 

The  former  plowboy  of  the  house  of  Sairmeuse  laughed  a 
loud,  bitter  laugh.  "You  believe  that !"  said  he.  "Then  you 
don't  know  the  nobles  who  have  been  our  masters  for  ages. 
My  only  reward  will  be  some  callous  phrase:  'You're  a  worthy 
fellow,'  or  something  of  the  kind,  uttered  just  for  form's  sake;, 
and  you  will  see  us — me  at  my  plow,  and  you  out  at  service. 
And  if  I  venture  to  speak  of  the  ten  thousand  francs  that  were 
given  me,  I  shall  be  treated  like  an  impostor  or  an  impudent 
fool.    I  swear  this  shall  not  be !" 

"Oh,  father!" 

"No !  this  shall  not  be.  And  I  realize — as  you  can  not  real- 
ize— the  disgrace  of  such  a  fall.  You  think  you  are  beloved 
in  Sairmeuse  ?  You  are  mistaken.  We  have  been  too  fortunate 
not  to  be  the  victims  of  hatred  and  jealousy.  If  I  fall  to- 
morrow, those  who  kissed  your  hands  yesterday  will  be  ready 
to  tear  you  to  pieces !" 

Lacheneur's  eyes  glittered;  he  believed  he  had  found  a  vic- 
torious argument.  "And  then,"  resumed  he,  "you  yourself  will 
realize  the  horror  of  the  disgrace.  It  will  cost  you  the  deadly 
anguish  of  separating  from  the  man  your  heart  has  chosen?" 

At  these  words  Marie-Anne's  beautiful  eyes  filled  with  tears. 
"If  what  you  say  proves  true,  father,"  she  murmured,  in  an 
altered  voice,  "I  may,  perhaps,  die  of  sorrow;  but  I  shall  have 
to  realize  that  my  confidence  and  love  were  misplaced." 

"And  you  still  insist  upon  my  returning  Sairmeuse  to  its- 
former  owner?" 

"Honor  demands  it,  father." 

M.  Lacheneur  struck  the  chair  in  which  he  was  seated  with 
a  violent  blow  of  his  fist.  "And  if  I  continue  obstinate,"  he 
exclaimed — "if  I  keep  the  property — what  will  you  do  then?" 

"I  shall  say  to  myself,  father,  that  honest  poverty  is  better 
than  stolen  wealth.     I  shall  leave  the  chateau,  which  belongs 


THE   HONOR    OF   THE    NAME 


275 


to  the  Due  de  Sairmeuse,  and  seek  a  situation  as  a  servant  in 
the  neighborhood." 

M.  Lacheneur  sank  back  in  his  chair  sobbing.  He  knew  his 
daughter's  nature  well  enough  to  rest  assured  that  she  would 
do  what  she  said.  However,  he  was  conquered ;  Marie-Anne 
had  won  the  battle,  and  he  had  decided  to  make  the  heroic 
sacrifice  she  asked  for. 

"I  will  relinquish  Sairmeuse,"  he  faltered,  "come  what 
may — " 

He  paused  suddenly,  for  a  visitor  had  just  opened  the  door 
unheard,  and  was  now  entering  the  room.  The  newcomer  was 
a  young  man,  twenty  or  thereabouts,  of  distinguished  mien,  but 
with  a  rather  melancholy  and  gentle  manner.  On  crossing  the 
threshold  his  eyes  met  those  of  Marie-Anne,  and  a  crimson 
flush  mantled  over  both  their  faces. 

"Sir,"  said  this  young  fellow,  "my  father  sends  me  to  in- 
form you  that  the  Due  de  Sairmeuse  and  his  son  have  just 
arrived.    They  have  asked  the  hospitality  of  our  cure." 

M.  Lacheneur  rose,  unable  to  conceal  his  agitation.  "You 
will  thank  the  Baron  d'Escorval  for  his  attention,  my  dear 
Maurice,"  he  replied.  "I  shall  have  the  honor  of  seeing  him 
to-day,  after  an  important  step  which  my  daughter  and  I  are 
about  to  take." 

Young  d'Escorval  had  seen  at  the  first  glance  that  his  pres- 
ence was  inopportune,  and  accordingly  he  did  not  linger.  But 
as  he  was  taking  leave,  Marie-Anne  found  time  and  opportu- 
nity to  say  to  him  in  a  low  voice :  "I  think  I  know  your  heart, 
Maurice;  this  evening  I  shall  know  it  for  certain." 


"C*  E W  of  the  inhabitants  of  Sairmeuse  knew,  except  by  name, 
the  terrible  duke  whose  arrival  had  thrown  the  whole 
village  into  commotion.  Some  of  the  oldest  residents  had  a 
faint  recollection  of  having  seen  him  long  ago,  before  '89 
indeed,  when  he  came  to  visit  his  aunt,  Mademoiselle  Armande, 
though  under  the   monarchy  his  duties  had  seldom   permitted 


276  THE   HONOR   OF   THE   NAME 

him  to  leave  the  court.  If  he  had  given  no  signs  of  life 
during  the  Empire,  it  was  mainly  because  he  had  escaped  the 
humiliations  and  suffering  which  so  many  of  the  emigrants 
endured  in  exile.  Indeed  unlike  most  of  his  fellows  he  had 
received  a  princely  fortune  in  exchange  for  the  wealth  of  which 
the  Revolution  had  deprived  him. 

Taking  refuge  in  London  after  the  defeat  of  the  army  of 
Conde,  he  had  been  so  fortunate  as  to  please  the  only  daughter 
of  one  of  the  richest  Catholic  peers  in  England,  and  he  had 
married  her.  She  possessed  a  dowry  of  two  hundred  and  fifty 
thousand  pounds  sterling,  more  than  six  million  francs.  Still 
the  marriage  was  not  a  happy  one ;  for  the  chosen  companion 
of  the  licentious  Comte  d'Artois  not  unnaturally  proved  a 
very  indifferent  husband.  Indeed,  the  young  duchess  was  con- 
templating a  separation  when  she  died,  in  giving  birth  to  a 
little  boy,  who  was  baptized  under  the  names  of  Anne-Marie- 
Martial. 

The  loss  of  his  wife  did  not  render  the  Due  de  Sairmeuse 
inconsolable.  He  was  free  and  richer  than  he  had  ever  been. 
As  soon  therefore  as  etiquette  permitted,  he  confided  his  son 
to  the  care  of  one  of  his  wife's  relations  and  began  his  roving 
life  again.  Rumor  had  told  the  truth.  He  had  fought,  and 
fought  furiously,  against  France  first  in  the  Austrian  and 
then  in  the  Russian  ranks.  And  he  took  no  pains  to  conceal 
the  fact,  convinced  that  he  had  only  performed  his  duty.  He 
indeed  considered  that  he  had  honestly  and  loyally  gained  the 
rank  of  general,  granted  him  by  the  Emperor  of  all  the  Russias. 

He  had  not  returned  to  France  during  the  First  Restoration; 
but  his  absence  had  been  involuntary.  His  father-in-law  had 
just  died,  and  the  duke  was  detained  in  London  by  business 
connected  with  his  son's  immense  inheritance.  Then  followed 
the  "Hundred  Days,"  by  which  he  was  exasperated.  But  "the 
good  cause,"  as  he  styled  it,  having  triumphed  anew,  he  had  at 
length  hastened  back  to  France. 

Lacheneur  had  correctly  estimated  the  character  of  the  for- 
mer lord  of  Sairmeuse,  when  he  resisted  his  daughter's  en- 
treaties. The  former  plowboy  had  been  compelled  to  conceal 
himself  during  the  First  Restoration,  and  he  knew  only  too  well 
that  the  returned  emigres  had  learned  nothing  and  forgotten 
nothing.  The  Due  de  Sairmeuse  was  no  exception  to  the  rule. 
He  thought,  and  nothing  could  be  more  sadly  absurd,  that  a 
mere  act  of  authority  would  suffice  to  suppress  forever  all  the 


THE   HONOR   OF   THE   NAME  27? 

events  of  the  Revolution  and  the  Empire.  When  any  of  those 
who  had  seen  Louis  XVIII  at  the  helm  in  1814  assured  the 
duke  that  France  had  changed  in  many  respects  since  1789, 
he  responded  with  a  shrug  of  the  shoulders:  "Nonsense!  As 
soon  as  we  assert  ourselves  all  these  rascals  whose  rebellion 
alarms  you  will  quietly  slink  out  of  sight."  And  such  was 
really  his  opinion. 

On  the  road  from  Montaignac  to  Sairmeuse,  his  grace, 
comfortably  ensconced  in  a  corner  of  his  traveling  carriage, 
unfolded  his  theories  for  his  son's  benefit.  "The  king  has  been 
poorly  advised,"  he  said.  "And  indeed  I  am  disposed  to  believe 
that  he  inclines  too  much  to  Jacobinism.  If  he  would  listen 
to  my  advice,  he  would  use  the  twelve  hundred  thousand 
soldiers  our  friends  have  placed  at  his  disposal,  to  bring  his 
subjects  to  a  proper  sense  of  duty.  Twelve  hundred  thousand 
bayonets  have  far  more  eloquence  than  all  the  clauses  of  a 
charter." 

The  duke  continued  his  remarks  in  this  strain  until  the 
vehicle  approached  Sairmeuse.  Though  but  little  given  to 
sentiment,  he  was  really  affected  by  the  sight  of  the  district 
in  which  he  had  been  born — where  he  had  played  as  a  child, 
and  of  which  he  had  heard  nothing  since  Mademoiselle  Ar- 
mande's  death.  Though  change  could  be  detected  on  every  side, 
at  least  the  outlines  of  the  landscape  remained  the  same,  and 
the  valley  of  the  Oiselle  was  as  bright  and  smiling  as  in  days 
gone  by. 

"I  recognize  it!"  exclaimed  his  grace  with  a  momentary 
delight  that  made  him  forget  politics.     "I  recognize  it!" 

Soon  the  changes  became  more  striking.  The  vehicle  had 
reached  Sairmeuse,  and  rattled  over  the  stones  of  the  one  long 
street.  This  street,  in  former  years,  had  been  unpaved,  and 
had  always  been  well-nigh  impassable  in  wet  weather. 

"Ah,  ha!"  murmured  the  duke,  "this  is  an  improvement!" 

It  was  not  long  before  he  noticed  others.  The  dilapidated, 
thatched  hovels  of  the  old  regime  had  given  place  to  pretty, 
comfortable  white  cottages,  with  green  blinds  to  the  windows 
and  vines  hanging  gracefully  over  the  doors.  Soon  the  church 
came  in  view  with  the  white  flag  of  the  Bourbons  floating 
according  to  royal  command  on  the  summit  of  the  belfry  tower. 
In  the  open  square  facing  the  house  of  worship  groups  of 
peasants  were  still  engaged  in  anxious  converse. 

"What  do  you   think  of  all  these  peasants?"   inquired  the 


278     THE  HONOR  OF  THE  NAME 

duke's  son,  the  Marquis  Martial  de  Sairmeuse.  "Do  you  think 
they  look  like  people  who  are  preparing  a  triumphal  recep- 
tion for  their  old  masters?" 

The  duke  shrugged  his  shoulders.  He  was  not  the  man  to 
renounce  an  illusion  for  such  a  trifle.  "They  don't  know  that 
I  am  in  this  carriage,"  he  replied.  "When  they  know — "  At 
this  very  moment  loud  shouts  of  "Vive  Monseigneur  le  Due 
de  Sairmeuse  !"  interrupted  him. 

"Do  you  hear  that,  marquis  ?"  he  exclaimed ;  and  pleased  by 
these  cries  that  proved  he  was  in  the  right,  he  leaned  from  the 
carriage  window,  waving  his  hand  to  the  honest  Chupin  family, 
who  were  running  after  the  vehicle  with  noisy  shouts.  The 
old  rascal,  his  wife,  and  his  sons,  all  possessed  powerful  voices ; 
and  it  was  scarcely  strange  that  the  duke  should  believe  that 
the  whole  village  was  welcoming  him.  He  was  indeed  con- 
vinced of  it;  and  when  the  vehicle  stopped  before  the  house  of 
the  cure,  M.  de  Sairmeuse  was  firmly  persuaded  that  the 
popularity  of  the  nobility  was  even  greater  then  than  ever. 

Upon  the  threshold  of  the  parsonage,  stood  Bibaine,  the  vil- 
lage priest's  old  housekeeper.  She  knew  who  these  guests 
must  be,  for  a  cure's  servant  always  knows  everything  that 
is  going  on.  "The  cure  has  not  yet  returned  from  church," 
she  said,  in  reply  to  the  duke's  inquiry;  "but  if  the  gentlemen 
would  like  to  wait,  it  will  not  be  long  before  he  comes,  for  the 
poor  dear  man  has  not  yet  lunched." 

"Then  let  us  go  in,"  the  duke  said  to  his  son;  and  guided 
by  the  housekeeper,  they  entered  a  small  sitting-room  which 
M.  de  Sairmeuse  appraised  in  a  single  glance.  The  aspect  of  a 
house  reveals  the  habits  of  its  master.  Here  everything  was 
poor  and  bare,  though  scrupulously  clean.  The  walls  were 
white-washed ;  eight  or  ten  chairs  were  ranged  around,  and 
the  spoons  and  forks  on  the  clothless  table  were  of  common 
pewter.  This  abode  either  belonged  to  a  man  of  saintly  char- 
acter or  one  of  intense  ambition. 

"Will  these  gentlemen  take  any  refreshment?"  inquired 
Bibaine. 

"Upon  my  word,"  replied  Martial,  "I  must  confess  that  the 
drive  has  whetted  my  appetite  amazingly." 

"Blessed  Jesus !"  exclaimed  the  old  housekeeper,  in  evident 
despair.  "You  wish  to  lunch.  What  am  I  to  do?  I  have 
nothing !  That  is  to  say — yes — I  have  an  old  hen  left  in  the 
coop.    Give  me  time  to  wring  its  neck,  to  pick  it  and  clean  it — " 

1 — vol.  II — Gab 


THE   HONOR   OF   THE   NAME  279 

She  paused  to  listen;  footsteps  could  be  heard  in  the  passage. 
"Ah  !"  she  exclaimed,  "here  comes  our  cure !" 

The  village  priest  of  Sairmeuse,  the  Abbe  Midon  as  he  was 
called,  was  the  son  of  a  poor  farmer  in  the  environs  of  Mon- 
taignac,  and  owed  his  Latin  and  his  tonsure  to  the  privations 
of  his  family.  Tall,  angular,  and  solemn,  he  was  as  cold  and 
impassive  as  a  grave-stone 

It  was  by  immense  efforts  of  will,  and  at  the  cost  of  great 
physical  and  mental  torture  that  he  had  made  himself  what  he 
was.  Some  idea  of  the  terrible  restraint  to  which  he  had 
subjected  himself  could  be  formed  by  looking  at  his  eyes,  which 
occasionally  flashed  with  all  tht  fire  of  an  impassioned  soul. 
Was  he  old  or  young?  The  most  subtle  observer  would  have 
hesitated  to  answer  this  question  on  looking  at  his  pallid, 
emaciated  face,  cut  in  two  by  an  immense  nose — a  real  eagle's 
beak — as  thin  as  the  edge  of  a  razor.  He  wore  a  long  black 
robe,  patched  and  darned  in  numberless  places,  but  without  a 
single  spot  or  stain.  This  garment  hung  about  his  tall  atten- 
uated body  like  the  damaged  sails  around  the  mast  of  some 
disabled  ship. 

At  the  sight  of  two  strangers  occupying  his  sitting-room, 
the  village  priest  manifested  some  slight  surprise.  The  vehicle 
standing  at  the  door  haa  announced  the  presence  of  some 
unusual  visitor;  but  neither  he  nor  the  sacristan  had  been 
notified,  and  he  wondered  whom  he  had  to  deal  with,  and  what 
was  required  of  him.  Mechanically  he  turned  to  Bibaine,  but 
the  old  servant  had  taken  flight. 

The  duke  understood  his  host's  astonishment.  "Upon  my 
word,  abbe,"  he  said,  with  the  impertinent  ease  of  a  great 
nobleman,  who  makes  himself  a.  home  everywhere,  "we  hare 
taken  your  house  by  storm  and  hold  the  position,  as  you  see.  I 
am  the  Due  de  Sairmeuse,  and  this  is  my  son  the  marquis." 

The  priest  bowed,  but  he  did  not  seem  very  greatly  im- 
pressed by  his  guest's  exalted  rank.  "It  is  a  great  honor  for 
me,"  he  replied,  in  a  more  than  reserved  tone,  "to  receive  a 
visit  from  the  former  master  of  this  place." 

He  emphasized  this  word  "former,"  in  such  a  manner  that 
it  was  impossible  to  doubt  his  sentiments  and  opinions.  Un- 
fortunately," he  continued,  "you  will  not  find  here  the  comforts 
to  which  you  are  accustomed,  and  I  fear — " 

"Nonsense !"  interrupted  the  duke.  "An  old  soldier  is  not 
fastidious,   and  what   suffices   for   you,   Monsieur   l'Abbc,   will 

2— Vol.  II— Gab. 


280     THE  HONOR  OF  THE  NAME 

suffice  for  us.  And  rest  assured  that  we  shall  amply  repay 
you  in  one  way  or  another  for  any  inconvenience  we  may 
cause  you." 

The  priest's  eyes  flashed.  This  want  of  tact,  this  disagreeable 
familiarity,  this  last  insulting  remark,  kindled  the  anger  of 
the  man  concealed  beneath  the  priest. 

"Besides."  added  Martial  gaily,  "we  have  been  vastly  amused 
by  your  housekeeper's  anxieties,  and  already  know  that  there 
is  a  chicken  in  the  coop — " 

"That  is  to  say  there  was  one,  Monsieur  le  Marquis." 

The  old  housekeeper,  who  suddenly  reappeared,  explained  her 
master's  reply.  She  seemed  overwhelmed  with  despair.  "Holy 
Virgin!  what  shall  I  do?"  she  clamored.  "The  chicken  has 
disappeared.  Some  one  has  certainly  stolen  it,  for  the  coop 
is  securely  closed !" 

"Do  not  accuse  your  neighbors  hastily,"  interrupted  the  cure ; 
"no  one  has  stolen  it.  Bertrand  was  here  this  morning  to 
ask  alms  for  her  sick  daughter.  I  had  no  money,  so  I  gave 
her  the  fowl  that  she  might  make  some  good  broth  for  the 
poor  girl" 

This  explanation  changed  Bibaine's  consternation  to  fury. 
Planting  herself  in  the  centre  of  the  room,  one  hand  on  her 
hip,  and  the  other  pointing  at  her  master,  she  cried  in  a  loud 
voice,  "That  is  just  the  sort  of  a  man  he  is;  he  hasn't  as  much 
sense  as  a  baby !  Any  miserable  peasant  who  meets  him  can 
turn  him  round  his  little  finger;  and  the  bigger  the  falsehood 
the  more  readily  the  tears  come  to  his  eyes.  And  that's  the  way 
they  take  the  very  shoes  off  his  feet  and  the  bread  from  his 
mouth.  As  for  Bertrand's  daughter  she's  no  more  ill  than  I  am  !" 

"Enough,"  said  the  priest  sternly,  "enough."  Then,  knowing 
by  experience  that  his  voice  would  not  check  her  flood  of 
reproaches,  he  took  her  by  the  arm  and  led  her  out  into  the 
passage. 

The  Due  de  Sairmeuse  and  his  son  exchanged  a  glance  of 
consternation.  Was  this  a  comedy  prepared  for  their  benefit? 
Evidently  not,  since  their  arrival  had  been  unexpected.  But 
the  priest  whose  character  had  been  so  plainly  revealed  by  this 
domestic  quarrel,  was  not  a  man  to  their  taste.  At  least,  he 
was  evidently  not  the  man  they  had  hoped  to  find — the  auxiliary 
whose  assistance  was  indispensable  to  the  success  of  their  plans. 
Still  they  did  not  exchange  a  word;  but  listened,  waiting  for 
what  would  follow. 


THE   HONOR   OF    THE    NAME  281 

They  could  hear  a  discussion  in  the  passage.  The  master 
was  speaking  in  a  low  tone,  but  with  an  unmistakable  accent 
of  command,  and  the  servant  uttered  an  astonished  exclamation. 
No  distinct  word  was,  however,  audible. 

Soon  the  priest  reentered  the  sitting-room.  "I  hope,  gentle- 
men," he  said,  with  a  dignity  calculated  to  check  any  attempt 
at  sarcasm,  "that  you  will  excuse  this  ridiculous  scene.  The 
cure  of  Sairmeuse,  thank  God,  is  not  so  poor  as  his  house- 
keeper pretends." 

Neither  the  duke  nor  Martial  made  any  reply.  Their  earlier 
assurance  was  very  sensibly  diminished ;  and  M.  de  Sairmeuse 
deemed  it  advisable  to  change  the  subject.  This  he  did  by 
relating  the  events  which  he  had  just  witnessed  in  Paris ; 
profiting  by  the  occasion  to  pretend  that  his  majesty,  Louis 
XVIII,  had  been  welcomed  back  with  enthusiastic  transports 
of  affection. 

Fortunately,  the  old  housekeeper  interrupted  this  recital. 
She  entered  the  room,  loaded  with  china,  spoons,  forks,  and 
bottles,  and  behind  her  came  a  tall  man  in  a  white  apron,  with 
three  or  four  covered  dishes  in  his  hands.  It  was  an  order  to 
go  and  obtain  this  repast  from  the  village  inn  that  had  drawn 
from  Bibaine  so  many  exclamations  of  wonder  and  dismay  in 
the  passage. 

A  moment  later  the  cure  and  his  guests  took  their  places  at 
the  table.  Had  the  dinner  merely  consisted  of  the  much- 
lamented  chicken,  the  rations  would  have  been  bery  "short." 
Indeed  the  worthy  woman  was  herself  obliged  to  confess  this,  on 
seeing  the  terrible  appetites  evinced  by  M.  de  Sairmeuse  and  his 
son.  "One  would  have  sworn  that  they  hadn't  eaten  anything 
for  a  whole  fortnight,"  she  told  her  friends  the  next  day. 

The  Abbe  Midon  was  apparently  not  hungry,  though  it  was 
now  two  o'clock,  and  he  had  eaten  nothing  since  the  previous 
evening.  The  sudden  arrival  of  the  former  masters  of  Sair- 
meuse filled  his  heart  with  gloomy  forebodings ;  and  to  his  mind 
their  coming  presaged  the  greatest  misfortunes.  So  while  he 
played  with  his  knife  and  fork,  pretending  to  eat,  he  was  really 
occupied  in  watching  his  guests,  and  in  studying  them  with  all 
a  priest's  penetration,  which,  by  the  way,  is  generally  far 
superior  to  that  of  a  physician  or  a  magistrate. 

The  Due  de  Sairmeuse  was  fifty-seven,  but  looked  consider- 
ably younger.  The  storms  of  his  youth,  the  dissipation  of  his 
viper  years,  the  great  excesses  of  every  kind  in  which  he  had 


282      THE  HONOR  OF  THE  NAME 

indulged  had  failed  to  impair  his  iron  constitution.  Of  her- 
culean build,  he  was  extremely  proud  of  his  strength,  and  of 
his  hands,  which  were  well  formed,  but  large,  firmly  knit  and 
powerful,  such  hands  as  rightfully  belonged  to  a  nobleman 
whose  ancestors  had  dealt  many  a  crushing  blow  with  pon- 
derous battle-ax  and  two-handed  sword  in  the  ancient  days  of 
chivalry.  His  face  revealed  his  character.  He  possessed  all 
the  graces  and  all  the  vices  of  a  courtier.  He  was  at  the 
same  time  witty  and  ignorant,  skeptical  as  regards  religion, 
and  yet  violently  imbued  with  the  authoritative  prejudices  of 
his  class. 

Though  less  robust  than  his  father,  Martial  was  quite  as 
distinguished  looking  a  cavalier.  Young  as  he  was,  barely 
a  man,  he  had  already  been  the  hero  of  many  a  love  intrigue, 
and  more  than  one  beauty  of  renown  at  foreign  courts  had 
been  smitten  with  the  soft  gleam  of  his  large  blue  eyes,  and 
the  wavy  locks  of  golden  hair  he  inherited  from  his  mother. 
To  his  father  he  owed  energy,  courage,  and,  it  must  also  be 
added,  perversity.  But  he  was  his  superior  in  education  and 
intellect.  If  he  shared  his  father's  prejudices,  he  had  not 
adopted  them  without  weighing  them  carefully.  What  the 
father  might  do  in  a  moment  of  excitement,  the  son  was 
capable  of  doing  in  cold  blood. 

It  was  thus  that  the  abbe,  with  rare  sagacity,  read  the 
character  of  his  guests.  So  it  was  with  sorrow,  but  without 
surprise,  that  he  heard  the  duke  advance,  on  the  questions  of 
the  day,  the  impossible  ideas  that  were  shared  by  nearly  all  the 
returned  emigres.  Knowing  the  condition  of  the  country,  and 
the  state  of  the  public  opinion,  the  cure  endeavored  to  convince 
the  obstinate  nobleman  of  his  mistake;  but  upon  this  subject 
the  duke  would  not  permit  contradiction ;  and  he  was  beginning 
to  lose  his  temper,  when  Bibaine  opportunely  appeared  at  the 
parlor  door. 

"Monsieur  le  Due,"  she  said,  "M.  Lacheneur  and  his  daughter 
are   without  and  desire  to  speak  to  you." 

This  name  of  Lacheneur  awakened  no  recollection  in  the 
duke's  mind.  First  of  all,  he  had  never  lived  at  Sairmeuse. 
And  even  if  he  had,  what  courtier  of  the  ancien  regime  ever 
troubled  himseh  about  the  individual  names  of  his  peasantry, 
whom  he  regarded  with  such  profound  indifference.  When  a 
nobleman  addressed  these  people,  he  exclaimed:  "Hello!  hi 
there  !   my   worthy   fellow  !" 


THE   HONOR   OF   THE   NAME  283 

Hence  it  was  with  the  air  of  a  man  who  is  making  an  effort 
of  memory  that  the  Due  de  Sairmeuse  repeated:  "Lachen- 
eur — M.  Lacheneur — " 

But  Martial,  a  closer  observer  than  his  father,  had  noticed 
that  the  priest's  glance  wavered  at  the  mention  of  this  name. 

"Who  is  this  person,  abbe?"  lightly  asked  the  duke. 

"M.  Lacheneur,"  replied  the  priest  with  evident  hesitation, 
"is  the  present  owner  of  the  Chateau  de  Sairmeuse." 

Martial,  the  precocious  diplomat,  could  not  repress  a  smile 
on  hearing  this  reply,  which  he  had  foreseen.  But  the  duke 
bounded  from  his  chair.  "Ah !"  he  exclaimed,  "it's  the  rascal 
who  had  the  impudence — Let  him  come  in,  old  woman,  let 
him  come  in." 

Bibaine     retired,    and    the    priest's    uneasiness    increased. 
"Permit  me,   Monsieur  le   Due,"   he   hastily   said,   "to   remark 
that  M.  Lacheneur  exercises  a  great  influence  in  this  region — 
to  offend  him  would  be  impolitic — " 

"I  understand — you  advise  me  to  be  conciliatory.  Such 
sentiments  are  those  of  a  Jacobin.  If  his  majesty  listens  to 
the  advice  of  such  as  you,  all  these  sales  of  confiscated  estates 
will  be  ratified.  Zounds !  our  interests  are  the  same.  If  the 
Revolution  has  deprived  the  nobility  of  their  property,  it  has 
also  impoverished  the  clergy." 

"The  possessions  of  a  priest  are  not  of  this  world,"  coldly 
retorted   the   cure. 

M.  de  Sairmeuse  was  about  to  make  some  impertinent  re- 
joinder, when  M.  Lacheneur  appeared,  followed  by  his  daughter. 
The  wretched  man  was  ghastly  pale,  great  drops  of  perspiration 
coursed  down  his  forehead,  and  his  restless,  haggard  eyes 
revealed  his  distress  of  mind.  Marie-Anne  was  as  pale  as  her 
father,  but  her  attitude  and  the  light  gleaming  in  her  glance 
spoke  of  invincible  energy  and  determination. 

"Ah,  well !  friend,"  said  the  duke,  "so  you  are  the  owner 
of  Sairmeuse.  it  seems." 

This  was  said  with  such  a  careless  insolence  of  manner  that 
the  cure  blushed  that  a  man  whom  he  considered  his  equal  should 
be  thus  treated  in  his  house.  He  rose  and  offered  the  visitors 
chairs.  "Will  you  take  a  seat,  dear  Lacheneur?"  said  he, 
with  a  politeness  intended  as  a  lesson  for  the  duke ;  "and  you, 
also,  mademoiselle,  do  me  the  honor — " 

But  the  father  and  the  daughter  both  refused  the  proffered 
civility  with  a  motion  of  the  head. 


284     THE  HONOR  OF  THE  NAME 

"Monsieur  !e  Due,"  continued  Lacheneur,  "I  am  an  old 
servant  of  your  house — " 

"Ahi  indeed!" 

"Mademoiselle  Armande,  your  aunt,  did  my  poor  mother 
the  honor  of  acting  as  my  godmother — " 

"Ah,  yes,"  interrupted  the  duke,  "I  remember  you  now. 
Our  family  has  shown  great  kindness  to  you  and  yours.  And 
it  was  to  prove  your  gratitude,  probably,  that  you  made  haste 
to  purchase  our  estate !" 

The  former  plowboy  was  of  humble  origin,  but  his  heart  and 
'his  character  had  developed  with  his  fortunes;  he  understood 
his  own  worth.  Much  as  he  was  disliked,  and  even  detested, 
.by  his  neighbors,  every  one  respected  him.  And  here  was  a 
man  who  treated  him  with  undisguised  scorn.  Why?  By 
what  right?  Indignant  at  the  outrage,  he  made  a  movement 
as  if  to  retire.  No  one,  save  his  daughter,  knew  the  truth ;  he 
had  only  to  keep  silent,  and  Sairmeuse  remained  his.  Yes,  he 
had  still  the  power  to  keep  Sairmeuse,  and  he  knew  it,  for 
he  did  not  share  the  fears  of  the  ignorant  rustics.  He  was  too 
well  informed  not  to  be  able  to  distinguish  between  the  hopes 
of  the  emigres  and  the  reality  of  their  situation. 

He  knew  that  to  place  the  returning  noblemen  perforce  in 
repossession  of  their  ancestral  estates  would  imperil  even  the 
existence  of  the  monarchy,  despite  the  presence  of  all  the 
foreign  bayonets.  A  beseeching  word,  uttered  in  a  low  tone 
by  his  daughter,  induced  him,  however,  to  turn  again  to  the 
duke.  "If  I  purchased  Sairmeuse,"  he  answered,  in  a  voice 
husky  with  emotion,  "it  was  in  obedience  to  the  command  of 
your  dying  aunt,  and  with  the  money  she  gave  me  for  that 
purpose.  If  you  see  me  here,  it  is  only  because  I  come  to  re- 
store to  you  the  deposit  confided  to  my  keeping." 

Any  one  not  belonging  to  that  class  of  spoiled  fools  who 
ordinarily  surround  a  throne  would  have  been  deeply  touched. 
But  the  duke  thought  this  grand  act  of  honesty  and  generosity 
the  most  simple  and  natural  thing  in  the  world. 

"That's  all  very  well,  so  far  as  the  principal  is  concerned," 
said  he.  "But  let  us  speak  now  of  the  interest.  Sairmeuse,  if  E 
remember  rightly,  yielded  an  average  income  of  one  thousand 
louis  per  year.  These  revenues,  well  invested,  should  have 
amounted  to  a  considerable  amount.     Where  is  it?" 

This  claim,  thus  advanced  and  at  such  a  moment,  was  so 
outrageous,  that  Martial,  disgusted,  made  a  sign  to  his  father 


THE    HONOR   OF   THE    NAME  285 

which  the  latter  did  not  see.  But  the  cure  hoping  to  recall  the 
grasping  nobleman  to  something  like  a  sense  of  shame,  ex- 
claimed :  "Monsieur  le  Due  !    Oh,  Monsieur  le  Due !" 

Lacheneur  shrugged  his  shoulders  with  an  air  of  resignation. 
"The  income  I  have  partly  used  for  my  own  living  expenses, 
and  the  education  of  my  children ;  but  most  of  it  has  been 
expended  in  improving  the  estate,  which  to-day  yields  an  income 
twice  as  large  as  in  former  years." 

"That  is  to  say,  for  twenty  years,  M.  Lacheneur  has  played 
the  part  of  lord  of  the  manor.  A  delightful  comedy.  You  are 
rich  now,  I  suppose." 

"I  possess  nothing  at  all.  But  I  hope  you  will  allow  me  to 
take  ten  thousand  francs,  which  your  aunt  gave  me." 

"Ah !  she  gave  you  ten  thousand  francs.    And  when  ?" 

"On  the  same  evening  that  she  gave  me  the  seventy  thousand 
francs  intended  for  the  purchase  of  the  estate." 

"Perfect !  What  proof  can  you  furnish  that  she  gave  you 
this  sum?" 

Lacheneur  stood  motionless  and  speechless.  He  tried  to 
reply,  but  could  not.  If  he  opened  his  lips  it  would  only  be  to 
pour  out  a  torrent  of  menace,  insult,  and  invective. 

Marie-Anne  stepped  quickly  forward.  "The  proof,  sir," 
she  said,  in  a  clear,  ringing  voice,  "is  the  word  of  this  man, 
who,  of  his  own  free  will,  comes  to  return  to  you — to  give 
you  a  fortune." 

As  she  sprang  forward,  her  beautiful  dark  hair  escaped 
from  its  confinement,  her  rich  blood  crimsoned  her  cheeks,  her 
dark  eyes  flashed  brilliantly,  and  sorrow,  anger,  horror  at  the 
humiliation  imposed  upon  her  father,  imparted  a  sublime  ex- 
pression to  her  face.  She  was  so  beautiful  that  Martial  gazed 
at  her  with  absolute  wonder.  "Lovely!"  he  murmured  in 
English;  "beautiful  as  an  angel!" 

These  words,  which  she  understood,  abashed  Marie-Anne. 
But  she  had  said  enough;  her  father  felt  that  he  was  avenged. 
He  drew  from  his  pocket  a  roll  of  papers  and  threw  them  upon 
the  table. 

"Here  are  your  titles,"  he  said,  addressing  the  duke  in  a 
tone  full  of  implacable  hatred.  "Keep  the  legacy  your  aunt 
gave  me,  I  wish  nothing  of  yours.  I  shall  never  set  foot  in 
Sairmeuse  again.  Penniless  I  entered  it,  penniless  I  will 
leave  it!" 

He  walked  out  of  the  room  with  head  proudly  erect,  and  when 


286 


THE  HONOR  OF  THE  NAME 


they  were  outside,  he  merely  said  to  his  daughter;  "You  see, 
I  told  you  so !" 

"You  have  done  your  duty,"  she  replied;  "it  is  those  who 
haven't  done  theirs  who  are  to  be  pitied !" 

She  had  no  opportunity  to  say  more,  for  Martial  came  run- 
ning after  them,  anxious  for  another  chance  of  seeing  this  girl 
whose  beauty  had  made  such  an  immediate  impression  upon 
his  mind.  "I  hastened  after  you,"  he  said  addressing  Marie- 
Anne,  rather  than  M.  Lacheneur,  "to  reassure  you.  All  this 
will  be  arranged,  Mademoiselle.  Eyes  so  beautiful  as  yours 
should  never  know  tears.  I  will  be  your  advocate  with  my 
father—" 

"Mademoiselle  Lacheneur  has  no  need  of  an  advocate !" 
interrupted  a  harsh  voice. 

Martial  turned,  and  saw  the  young  man  who  that  morning 
had  gone  to  warn  M.  Lacheneur  of  the  duke's  arrival.  Accost- 
ing him,  he  exclaimed,  in  an  insolent  voice,  "I  am  the  Marquis 
de  Sairmeuse." 

"And  I,"  said  the  other  quietly,  "am  Maurice  d'Escorval." 

They  surveyed  one  another  for  a  moment,  each  expecting, 
perhaps,  an  insult  from  the  other.  Instinctively,  they  felt  they 
were  to  be  enemies;  and  the  glances  they  exchanged  were  full 
of  animosity.  Perhaps  they  had  a  presentiment  that  they  were 
to  be  the  champions  of  two  different  principles,  as  well  as 
rivals  in  love. 

Martial,  remembering  his  father,  yielded:  "We  shall  meet 
again,  M.  d'Escorval,"  he  said,  as  he  retired. 

At  this  threat,  Maurice  shrugged  his  shoulders,  and  replied, 
"You  had  better  not  desire  it." 


HP  HE  residence  of  the  Baron  d'Escorval,  the  brick  structure 
*  with  stone  dressings,  seen  from  the  avenue  leading  to  the 
Chateau  de  Sairmeuse,  was  small  and  unpretentious.  Its  chief 
attraction  was  a  pretty  lawn  extending  to  the  banks  of  the 
Oiselle  in  front,  and  a  small  but  shady  park  in  the  rear.     It 


THE   HONOR   OF    THE   NAME  287 

was  known  as  the  Chateau  d'Escorval,  but  such  an  appellation 
was  a  piece  of  the  grossest  flattery.  Any  petty  manufacturer 
who  has  amassed  a  small  fortune  would  desire  a  larger,  hand- 
somer, and  more  imposing  structure  for  his  residence. 

M.  d'Escorval — and  history  will  record  the  fact  to  his  honor 
— was  not  a  rich  man.  Although  he  had  been  entrusted  with 
several  of  those  missions  from  which  generals  and  diplomats 
often  return  laden  with  millions,  his  worldly  possessions  only 
consisted  of  the  little  patrimony  bequeathed  him  by  his  father ; 
a  property  which  yielded  an  income  of  from  twenty  to  twenty- 
five  thousand  francs  a  year.  His  modest  dwelling,  situated 
about  a  mile  from  Sairmeuse,  represented  ten  years'  savings. 
He  had  built  it  in  1806  from  a  plan  drawn  by  his  own  hand, 
and  it  was  the  dearest  spot  he  had  on  earth.  He  always 
hastened  to  this  retreat  when  work  allowed  him  a  little  rest, 
though  on  this  occasion  he  had  not  come  to  Escorval  of  his 
own  free  will,  for  he  had  been  compelled  to  leave  Paris  by  the 
proscription  list  of  July  24 — that  fatal  list  which  summoned 
the  valiant  Ney,  the  enthusiastic  Labedoyere,  and  the  virtuous 
Drouot   before   a   court-martial. 

Even  in  the  seclusion  of  his  country  seat,  M.  d'Escorval's 
situation  was  not  without  danger,  for  he  was  one  of  those  who, 
some  days  before  the  disaster  of  Waterloo,-  had  strongly  urged 
the  emperor  to  order  the  execution  of  Fouche,  the  former  min- 
ister of  police.  Now,  Fouche  knew  of  this  advice ;  and  to-day 
he  was  all-powerful.  Hence,  M.  d'Escorval's  friends  wrote  to 
him  from  Paris  to  be  very  careful.  But  he  put  his  trust  in 
Providence,  and  faced  the  future,  threatening  though  it  was, 
with  the  unalterable  serenity  of  a  pure  conscience. 

The  baron  was  still  young;  he  was  not  yet  fifty,  but  anxiety, 
work,  and  long  nights  passed  in  struggling  with  the  most 
arduous  difficulties  of  the  imperial  policy  had  aged  him  before 
his  time.  He  was  tall,  slightly  inclined  to  embonpoint,  and 
stooped  a  little.  His  calm  eyes,  serious  mouth,  broad,  furrowed 
forehead,  and  austere  manner  at  once  inspired  respect.  "He 
must  be  stern  and  inflexible,"  said  those  who  saw  him  for  the 
first  time.  But  they  were  mistaken.  If,  in  the  exercise  of  his 
official  duties,  he  had  always  had  the  strength  to  resist  any 
temptation  to  swerve  from  the  right  path :  if,  when  duty  was 
at  stake,  he  was  as  rigid  as  iron,  in  private  life  he  was  as 
unassuming  as  a  child,  and  kind  and  gentle  even  to  the  verge 
of  weakness.    To  this  nobility  of  character  he  owed  his  domes- 


288     THE  HONOR  OF  THE  NAME 

tic  happiness,  that  rare  boon  which  after  all  is  the  one  great 
treasure  of  life. 

During  the  bloodiest  epoch  of  the  Reign  of  Terror,  M. 
d'Escorval  had  saved  from  the  guillotine  a  young  girl,  named 
Victorie-Laure  d'Alleu,  a  distant  cousin  of  the  Rhetaus  of 
Commarin,  as  beautiful  as  an  angel,  and  only  three  years 
younger  than  himself.  He  loved  her — and  though  she  was  an 
orphan,  destitute  of  fortune,  he  married  her,  considering  the 
treasure  of  her  virgin  heart  of  far  greater  value  than  the 
largest  dowry.  She  was  an  honest  woman  as  her  husband  was 
an  honest  man,  in  the  strictest,  most  rigorous  sense  of  the  word. 
She  was  seldom  seen  at  the  Tuileries,  where  M.  d'Escorval's 
worth  made  him  eagerly  welcomed.  The  splendors  of  the  im- 
perial court,  outshining  even  the  pomp  of  the  Grand  Monarque, 
had  no  attractions  for  her.  She  reserved  her  grace,  beauty, 
youth,  and  accomplishments  for  the  adornment  of  her  home. 
Her  husband  was  everything  for  her.  She  lived  in  him  and 
through  him.  She  had  not  a  thought  which  did  not  belong  to 
him;  and  her  happiest  hours  were  those  he  could  spare  from 
his  arduous  labors  to  devote  to  her.  And  when  in  the  evening 
they  sat  beside  the  fire  in  their  modest  drawing-room,  with  their 
son  Maurice  playing  on  the  rug  at  their  feet,  it  seemed  to  them 
that  they  had  nothing  to  wish  for  here  below. 

The  overthrow  of  the  Empire  surprised  them  in  the  hey- 
day of  happiness.  Surprised  them?  Scarcely.  For  a  long 
time  M.  d'Escorval  had  seen  the  prodigious  edifice,  raised  by 
the  genius  whom  he  had  made  his  idol,  totter  as  if  about  to 
fall.  Certainly,  he  was  troubled  by  this  fall  when  at  last  it 
came,  but  he  was  truly  heart-broken  at  beholding  all  the  treason 
and  cowardice  which  followed  it.  He  was  disgusted  and  horri- 
fied at  the  rising  of  the  sons  of  mammon,  eager  to  gorge  them- 
selves with  the  spoil.  Under  these  circumstances,  exile  from 
Paris  seemed  an  actual  blessing;  and  he  remarked  to  the  baro- 
ness that  in  the  seclusion  of  the  provinces  they  would  soon  be 
forgotten.  In  his  innermost  heart,  however,  he  was  not  with- 
out misgivings — misgivings  shared  by  his  wife,  who  trembled 
for  her  husband's  safety,  although  to  spare  him  all  alarm  she 
strove  to  preserve  a  placid  countenance. 

On  the  first  Sunday  in  August,  M.  and  Madame  d'Escorval 
had  been  unusually  sad.  A  vague  presentiment  of  approaching 
misfortune  weighed  heavily  upon  their  hearts.  At  the  moment 
when  Lacheneur  presented  himself  at  the  parsonage  they  were 


THE   HONOR   OF   THE    NAME  289' 

sitting  on  the  terrace  in  front  of  their  house,  gazing  anxiously 
at  the  roads  leading  from  Escorval  to  the  chateau,  and  to  the 
village  of  Sairmeuse.  Apprised  that  same  morning  of  the 
duke's  arrival  by  his  friends  at  Montaignac,  the  baron  had  sent 
his  son  to  warn  M.  Lacheneur.  He  had  requested  him  to  return 
as  soon  as  possible;  and  yet  the  hours  were  rolling  by,  and 
Maurice  had  not  returned. 

"What  if  something  has  happened  to  him!"  thought  the 
anxious  parents. 

No,  at  that  moment  nothing  had  happened  to  him,  though 
a  word  from  Mademoiselle  Lacheneur  had  sufficed  to  make 
him  forget  his  usual  deference  to  his  father's  wishes.  "This 
evening,"  she  had  said,  "I  shall  certainly  know  your  heart." 
What  could  this  mean?  Could  she  doubt  him?  Tortured  by 
anxieties,  he  could  not  make  up  his  mind  to  go  home  again 
without  having  had  an  explanation,  and  he  loitered  near  the 
chateau  hoping  that  Marie-Anne  would  reappear. 

She  did  reappear  at  last,  but  leaning  on  her  father's  arm. 
Young  D'Escorval  followed  them  at  a  distance,  and  soon  saw 
them  enter  the  parsonage.  What  they  wanted  there  he  couldn't 
guess,  though  he  knew  that  the  duke  and  his  son  were  inside. 
The  time  that  the  Lacheneur?  remained  in  the  Abbe  Midon's 
house  seemed  a  century  to  Maurice,  who  paced  restlessly  up 
and  down  the  market-place.  At  last,  however,  Marie-Anne  and 
her  father  reappeared,  and  he  was  about  to  join  them  when 
he  was  prevented  by  the  appearance  of  Martial,  whose  prom- 
ises he  overheard. 

Maurice  knew  nothing  of  life;  he  was  as  innocent  as  a  child, 
but  he  could  not  mistake  the  intentions  that  had  dictated  the 
step  taken  by  the  Marquis  de  Sairmeuse.  At  the  thought  that 
a  libertine's  caprice  should  for  an  instant  rest  on  the  pure  and 
beautiful  girl  he  loved  with  all  the  strength  of  his  being — the 
girl  he  had  sworn  should  be  his  wife — all  his  blood  mounted 
madly  to  his  brain.  He  felt  a  wild  longing  to  chastise  the 
marquis  ;  but  fortunately — unfortunately,  perhaps — his  hand  was 
stayed  by  the  recollection  of  a  phrase  he  had  heard  his  father 
repeat  a  thousand  times :  "Calmness  and  irony  are  the  only 
weapons  worthy  of  the  strong."  And  at  the  remembrance  of 
these  words  he  acquired  sufficient  strength  of  will  to  appear 
calm,  though  in  reality  he  was  beside  himself  with  passion. 

"Ah !  I  will  find  you  again,"  he  repeated,  however,  through 
his  set  teeth  as  he  watched  his  enemy  move  away.     He  then 


290     THE  HONOR  OF  THE  NAME 

turned  and  discovered  that  Marie-Anne  and  her  father  had  left 
him.  He  saw  them  standing  about  a  hundred  yards  off,  and 
although  he  was  surprised  at  their  indifference,  he  made  haste 
to  join  them,  and  addressed  himself  to  M.  Lacheneur. 

"We  are  just  going  to  your  father's  house,"  was  the  only 
reply  he  received,  and  this  in  an  almost  ferocious  tone. 

A  glance  from  Marie-Anne  commanded  silence.  He  obeyed, 
and  walked  a  few  steps  behind  them,  his  head  bowed  upon  his 
breast,  terribly  anxious,  and  vainly  seeking  to  explain  to  him- 
self what  had  taken  place.  His  manner  betrayed  such  intense 
grief  that  his  mother  divined  a  misfortune  as  soon  as  she  caught 
sight  of  him. 

All  the  anguish  which  this  courageous  woman  had  hidden 
for  a  month  found  utterance  in  a  single  cry :  "Ah !  here  is 
misfortune!"  said  she:  "we  shall  not  escape  it." 

It  was  indeed  misfortune.  One  could  no  longer  doubt  it  on 
seeing  M.  Lacheneur  enter  the  drawing-room.  He  walked  with 
the  heavy  and  uncertain  step  of  a  drunken  man ;  his  eyes  were 
void  of  expression,  his  features  were  distorted  and  his  lips 
trembled. 

"What  has  happened?"  eagerly  asked  the  baron. 

But  the  whilom  proprietor  of  Sairmeuse  did  not  seem  to  hear 
him.  "Ah  !  I  warned  her,"  he  murmured,  continuing  a  mono- 
logue he  had  begun  before  entering  the  room.  "Yes,  I  told  my 
daughter  so." 

Madame  d'Escorval,  after  kissing  Marie-Anne,  drew  the  girl 
toward  her.  "What  has  happened?  For  heaven's  sake  tell  me 
what  has  happened  !"  she  exclaimed. 

With  a  gesture  of  resignation,  the  girl  motioned  her  to  look 
at  M.  Lacheneur,  and  listen  to  him. 

The  latter  seemed  to  wake  up;  he  passed  his  hand  across  his 
forehead  and  wiped  away  the  moisture  from  his  eyes.  "It  is 
only  this,  M.  le  Baron,"  said  he  in  a  harsh,  unnatural  voice:  'I 
rose  this  morning  the  richest  landowner  in  the  district,  and  J 
shall  lie  down  to-night  poorer  than  the  poorest  beggar  in  Sair- 
meuse. I  had  everything;  and  now  I  have  nothing,  nothing 
but  my  two  hands.  They  earned  me  my  bread  for  twenty-five 
years ;  they  will  earn  it  for  me  now  until  the  day  of  my  death. 
I  had  a  beautiful  dream;  it  is  over." 

In  the  presence  of  this  outburst  of  despair,  M.  d'Escorval 
turned  pale.  "You  must  exaggerate  your  misfortune,"  he  fal- 
tered; "explain  what  has  happened." 


THE   HONOR   OF   THE    NAME  291 

Unconscious  of  what  he  was  doing,  M.  Lacheneur  threw  his 
hat  upon  a  chair,  and  flinging  back  his  long,  gray  hair,  he  said: 
"To  you  I  will  tell  everything.  I  came  here  for  that  purpose. 
I  know  you ;  I  know  your  heart.  And  have  you  not  done  me 
the  honor  to  call  me  your  friend?" 

Then,  without  omitting  a  detail,  he  related  the  scene  which 
had  just  taken  place  at  the  parsonage.  The  baron  listened  with 
intense  astonishment,  almost  doubting  the  evidence  of  his  own 
senses;  while  Madame  d'Escorval's  indignant  exclamations 
showed  that  she  was  utterly  revolted  by  such  injustice. 

But  there  was  one  listener,  whom  Marie-Anne  alone  observed, 
who  was  most  intensely  moved  by  Lacheneur's  narrative.  This 
listener  was  Maurice.  Leaning  against  the  door,  pale  as  death, 
he  tried  in  vain  to  repress  the  tears  of  rage  and  grief  which 
rushed  to  his  eyes.  To  insult  Lacheneur  was  to  insult  Marie- 
Anne — that  is  to  say,  to  injure,  to  outrage  him  in  what  he  held 
dearest  in  the  world.  Had  Martial  now  been  within  his  reach 
he  would  certainly  have  paid  dearly  for  the  insults  heaped  on 
the  father  of  the  girl  that  Maurice  loved.  However,  young 
D'Escorval  swore  that  the  chastisement  he  contemplated  was 
only  deferred — that  it  should  surely  come.  And  it  was  not  mere 
angry  boasting.  This  young  man,  so  modest  and  gentle  in 
manner,  had  albeit  a  heart  that  was  inaccessible  to  fear.  His 
beautiful,  dark  eyes,  which  usually  had  the  trembling  timidity 
of  a  girl's  could  meet  an  enemy's  gaze  without  flinching. 

When  M.  Lacheneur  had  repeated  the  last  words  he  addressed 
to  the  Due  de  Sairmeuse,  M.  d'Escorval  offered  him  his  hand. 
"I  have  told  you  already  that  I  was  your  friend,"  he  said,  in 
a  voice  faltering  with  emotion ;  "but  I  must  tell  you  to-day  that 
I  am  proud  of  having  such  a  friend  as  you." 

Lacheneur  trembled  at  the  touch  of  the  loyal  hand  which 
clasped  his  so  warmly,  and  his  face  betrayed  his  inward 
satisfaction. 

"If  my  father  had  not  returned  the  estate,"  obstinately  mur- 
mured Marie-Anne,  "he  would  have  been  an  unfaithful  guar- 
dian— a  thief.    He  has  only  done  his  duty." 

M.  d'Escorval  turned  to  the  young  girl  a  little  surprised. 
"You  speak  the  truth,  mademoiselle,"  he  said,  reproachfully; 
"but  when  you  are  as  old  as  I  am  and  have  had  my  experience, 
you  will  know  that  the  accomplishment  of  a  duty  is,  under 
certain  circumstances,  an  act  of  heroism  of  which  only  few 
persons  are  capable." 


292      THE  HONOR  OF  THE  NAME 

M.  Lacheneur  exclaimed  .warmly  to  his  friend :  "Ah  !  your 
words  do  me  good.     Now,  I  am  glad  of  what  I  have  done." 

The  baroness  rose,  too  much  a  woman  to  know  how  to  resist 
the  generous  dictates  of  her  heart.  "And  I,  also,  Lacheneur," 
said  she,  "desire  to  press  your  hand.  I  wish  to  tell  you  that 
I  esteem  you  as  much  as  I  despise  those  who  have  tried  to 
humiliate  you,  when  they  should  have  fallen  at  your  feet.  They 
are  heartless  monsters,  and  I  don't  believe  the  like  of  them 
are  to  be  found  oh  earth." 

"Alas !"  sighed  the  baron,  "the  Allies  have  brought  back 
plenty  of  others  who,  like  the  Sairmeuses,  think  that  the  world 
was  created  exclusively  for  their  benefit." 

"And  yet  these  people  wish  to  be  our  masters,"  growled 
Lacheneur. 

By  some  strange  fatality  no  one  chanced  to  hear  this  last 
remark.  Had  it  been  overheard,  and  had  the  speaker  been 
questioned,  he  would  probably  have  disclosed  some  of  the  proj^ 
ects  just  forming  in  his  mind;  and  then  many  disastrous  conse- 
quences might  have  been  averted. 

M.  d'Escorval  had  now  regained  his  usual  coolness.  "Now, 
my  dear  friend,"  he  asked,  "what  course  do  you  propose  to 
pursue  with  these  members  of  the  Sairmeuse  family?" 

"They  will  hear  nothing  more  from  me — for  some  time  at 
least." 

"What!  Shall  you  not  claim  the  ten  thousand  francs  they 
owe  you?" 

"I  shall  ask  them  for  nothing." 

"You  will  be  compelled  to  do  so.  Since  you  have  alluded  to 
the  legacy,  your  own  honor  requires  that  you  should  insist 
upon  its  payment  by  all  legal  means.  There  are  still  judges 
in  France." 

M.  Lacheneur  shook  his  head.     "The  judges  will  not  grant 
me  the  justice  I  desire.    I  shall  not  apply  to  them." 
"But—" 

"No,  no.  I  wish  to  have  nothing  more  to  do  with  these  men. 
I  shall  not  even  go  to  the  chateau  to  remove  either  my  own 
clothes  or  my  daughter's.  If  they  send  them  to  us— very  well. 
If  they  like  to  keep  them  so  much  the  better.  The  more 
shameful,  infamous,  and  odious  their  conduct  the  better  I  shall 
be  satisfied." 

The  baron  made  no  reply;  but  his  wife  spoke,  believing  that 
she  had  a  sure  means  of  conquering  this  incomprehensible  ob- 


THE    HONOR   OF   THE    NAME  293 

stinacy.  "I  could  understand  your  determination  if  you  were 
alone  in  the  world,"  said  she,  "but  you  have  children." 

"My  son  is  eighteen,  madame;  he  is  in  good  health  and  has 
had  an  excellent  education.  He  can  make  his  own  way  in 
Paris  if  he  chooses  to  remain  there." 

"But  your  daughter?" 

"Marie-Anne  will  remain  with  me." 

M.  d'Escorval  thought  it  his  duty  to  interfere.  "Take  care, 
my  dear  friend,  that  your  grief  doesn't  tamper  with  your  rea- 
son," said  he.  "Reflect !  What  will  become  of  you — your 
daughter  and  yourself?" 

Lacheneur  smiled  sadly.  "Oh,"  he  replied,  "we  are  not  as 
destitute  as  I  said.  I  exaggerated  our  misfortune.  We  are  still 
landowners.  Last  year  an  old  cousin,  whom  I  could  never 
induce  to  come  and  live  with  us  at  Sairmeuse,  died,  and  left 
everything  she  had  to  Marie- Anne ;  so  we've  still  got  a  poor 
little  cottage  near  La  Reche,  with  a  little  garden  and  a  few 
acres  of  barren  land.  In  compliance  with  my  daughter's  en- 
treaties, I  repaired  the  cottage,  and  furnished  it  with  a  table, 
some  chairs,  and  a  couple  of  beds.  It  was  then  intended  as  a 
home  for  old  Father  Guvat  and  his  wife.  And  in  the  midst  of 
my  wealth  and  luxury,  I  said  to  myself:  'How  comfortable 
those  two  old  people  will  be  there.'  Well,  what  I  thought  so 
comfortable  for  others  will  be  good  enough  for  me  now.  I  can 
raise  vegetables,  and  Marie-Anne  shall  sell  them." 

Was  he  speaking  seriously?  Maurice  must  have  supposed 
so,  for  he  sprang  forward.  "This  shall  not  be,  Lacheneur !" 
he  exclaimed. 

"What !" 

"No,  this  shall  not  be,  for  I  love  Marie-Anne,  and  I  ask  you 
to  give  her  to  me  for  my  wife." 

Maurice  and  Marie-Anne's  affections  for  each  other  did  not 
date  from  yesterday.  As  children  they  had  played  together  in 
the  parks  of  Sairmeuse  and  Escorval.  They  had  shared  many 
a  butterfly  hunt,  and  many  a  search  for  pebbles  on  the  river 
banks;  and  oft  times  had  they  rolled  in  the  hay  while  their 
mothers  sauntered  through  the  meadows  bordering  the  Oiselle. 

For  their  mothers  were  friends.  Madame  Lacheneur  had 
been  reared  like  most  poor  peasant  girls ;  that  is  to  say,  on  her 
marriage  day  she  only  succeeded  with  great  difficulty  in  inscrib- 
ing her  name  upon  the  register.  But  from  her  husband's  ex- 
ample  she   learnt   that   prosperity,    as   well    as   noble    lineage 


294      THE  HONOR  OF  THE  NAME 

entails  numerous  obligations ;  hence  with  rare  courage,  crowned 
with  still  rarer  success,  she  undertook  to  acquire  an  education 
in  keeping  with  her  rank  and  fortune.  And  the  baroness  made 
no  effort  to  resist  the  feelings  of  sympathy  which  led  her 
toward  this  meritorious  young  woman,  in  whom  it  was  easy 
to  discern  a  mind  of  many  natural  gifts,  and  a  nature  which, 
despite  low  birth,  was  instinctively  refined.  When  Madame 
Lacheneur  died,  Madame  d'Escorval  mourned  for  her  as  she 
would  have  mourned  for  a  favorite  sister. 

From  that  moment  Maurice's  attachment  assumed  a  more 
serious  character.  Educated  at  a  college  in  Paris,  his  masters 
sometimes  complained  of  his  want  of  application.  "If  your 
professors  are  not  satisfied  with  you,"  said  his  mother,  "you 
shall  not  go  to  Escorval  for  the  holidays,  and  then  you  will  not 
see  your  friend."  Now  this  simple  threat  always  sufficed  to 
make  the  schoolboy  resume  his  studies  with  redoubled  diligence. 
So  each  succeeding  year  strengthened  as  it  were  the  love  which 
preserved  Maurice  from  the  restlessness  and  errors  of  youth. 

The  two  children  were  equally  timid  and  artless,  and  equally 
infatuated  with  each  other.  Long  walks  in  the  twilight  under 
their  parents'  eyes,  a  glance  that  revealed  their  delight  at  meet- 
ing, flowers  exchanged  between  them  and  religiously  preserved 
— such  were  their  simple  pleasures.  That  magical  word  love — so 
sweet  to  utter,  and  so  sweet  to  hear — had  never  once  dropped 
from  their  lips.  Maurice's  audacity  had  never  gone  beyond  a 
furtive  pressure  of  the  hand. 

The  parents  could  not  be  ignorant  of  this  mutual  affection; 
and  if  they  pretended  to  shut  their  eyes,  it  was  only  because 
it  neither  displeased  them  nor  disturbed  their  plans.  M.  and 
Madame  d'Escorval  saw  no  objection  to  their  son's  marriage 
with  a  girl  whose  nobility  of  character  they  appreciated,  and 
who  was  as  beautiful  as  she  was  good.  That  she  was  the 
richest  heiress  in  the  province  was  naturally  no  objection.  So 
far  as  M.  Lacheneur  was  concerned,  he  was  delighted  at  the 
prospect  of  a  marriage  which  would  ally  him,  a  former  plow- 
boy,  with  an  old  and  generally  respected  family.  Hence,  al- 
though the  subject  had  never  been  directly  alluded  to  either  by 
the  baron  or  Lacheneur,  there  was  withal  a  tacit  agreement 
between  the  two  families.  Indeed,  the  marriage  was  consid- 
ered as  a  foregone  conclusion. 

And  yet  Maurice's  impetuous,  unexpected  declaration  struck 
every  one  dumb.    In  spite  of  his  agitation,  the  young  man  per- 


THE   HONOR   OF   THE    NAME  295 

ceived  the  effect  his  words  had  produced,  and  frightened  by  his 
own  boldness,  he  turned  toward  his  father  with  a  look  of  inter- 
rogation. The  baron's  face  was  grave,  even  sad ;  but  his 
attitude  expressed  no  displeasure. 

This  gave  renewed  courage  to  the  anxious  lover.  "You  will 
excuse  me,"  he  said,  addressing  Lacheneur,  "for  presenting  my 
request  in  such  a  manner,  and  at  such  a  time.  But  surely  it 
is  at  the  moment  when  misfortune  overtakes  one  that  true 
friends  should  declare  themselves,  and  deem  themselves  fortu- 
nate if  their  devotion  can  obliterate  the  remembrance  of  such 
infamous  treatment  as  that  to  which  you  have  been  subjected." 

As  he  spoke,  he  was  watching  Marie-Anne.  Blushing  and 
embarrassed,  she  turned  away  her  head,  perhaps  to  conceal  the 
tears  which  gushed  forth  from  her  eyes — tears  of  joy  and  grati- 
tude. The  love  of  the  man  she  worshiped  had  come  forth 
victorious  from  a  test  which  many  heiresses  might  in  vain 
resort  to.  Now  could  she  truly  say  that  she  knew  Maurice's 
heart. 

Maurice  speedily  continued :  "I  have  not  consulted  my  father, 
sir ;  but  I  know  his  affection  for  me  and  his  esteem  for  you. 
When  the  happiness  of  my  life  is  at  stake  he  will  not  oppose 
me.  He,  who  married  my  dear  mother  without  a  dowry,  must 
understand  my  feelings." 

With  these  words  Maurice  paused,  awaiting  the  verdict. 

"I  approve  your  course,  my  son,"  said  M.  d'Escorval,  "you 
have  behaved  like  an  honorable  man.  Certainly  you  are  very 
young  to  become  the  head  of  a  family ;  but,  as  you  say,  circum- 
stances demand  it." 

Then,  turning  to  M.  Lacheneur,  he  added :  "My  dear  friend, 
on  my  son's  behalf  I  ask  you  for  your  daughter's  hand  in 
marriage." 

Maurice  had  not  expected  so  little  opposition.  In  his  delight 
he  was  almost  tempted  to  bless  the  hateful  Due  de  Sair- 
meuse,  to  whom  he  would  owe  his  future  happiness.  He 
sprang  toward  his  father,  and  seizing  his  hands,  he  raised  them 
to  his  lips,  faltering :  "Thanks ! — you  are  so  good  !  I  love  you 
so  !    Oh,  how  happy  I  am  !" 

Unfortunately,  the  poor  boy's  joy  was  premature.  A  gleam 
of  pride  flashed  in  M.  Lacheneur's  eyes ;  but  his  face  soon 
resumed  its  gloomy  expression.  "Believe  me.  M.  le  Baron." 
said  he,  "I  am  deeply  touched  by  what  you  and  your  son  have 
said — yes,  deeply  touched.     You  wish  to  make  me  forget  my 


296     THE  HONOR  OF  THE  NAME 

humiliation ;  but  for  this  very  reason,  I  should  be  the  most 
contemptible  of  men  if  I  did  not  refuse  the  great  honor  you 
desire  to  confer  upon  my  daughter." 

"What!"  exclaimed  the  baron  in  utter  astonishment;  "you 
refuse  ?" 

"I  am  compelled  to  do  so." 

Although  momentarily  thunderstruck,  Maurice  soon  renewed 
the  attack  with  an  energy  no  one  had  ever  suspected  in  his 
character.  "Do  you  wish  to  ruin  my  life,  to  ruin  our  lives," 
he  exclaimed ;  "for  if  I  love  Marie- Anne  she  also  loves  me." 

It  was  easy  to  see  that  he  spoke  the  truth.  The  unhappy 
girl,  crimson  with  happy  blushes  a  moment  earlier,  had  now 
turned  as  white  as  marble  and  glanced  imploringly  toward  her 
father. 

"It  can  not  be,"  repeated  M.  Lacheneur ;  "and  the  day  will 
arrive  when  you  will  bless  the  decision  I  have  come  to." 

Alarmed  by  her  son's  evident  dismay,  Madame  d'Escorval 
interposed :  "You  must  have  reasons  for  this  refusal,"  said 
she. 

"None  that  I  can  disclose,  madame.  But  as  long  as  I  can 
prevent  it,  my  daughter  shall  never  be  your  son's  wife." 

"Ah  !  it  will  kill  my  child !"  exclaimed  the  baroness. 

M.  Lacheneur  shook  his  head.  "M.  Maurice,"  said  he,  "is 
young;  he  will  soon  console  himself — and  forget." 

"Never !"  interrupted  the  unhappy  lover — "never  !" 

"And  your  daughter?"  inquired  the  baroness. 

Ah !  this  was  the  weak  spot  in  L'acheneur's  armor :  a  mother's 
instinct  had  prompted  the  baroness's  last  words.  The  whilom 
lord  of  Sairmeuse  hesitated  for  a  moment,  and  it  was  not 
without  a  struggle  that  his  will  gained  the  mastery  over  his 
heart :  "Marie- Anne,"  he  replied  slowly,  "knows  her  duty  too 
well  not  to  obey  me.  When  I  have  told  her  the  motive  that 
governs  my  conduct  she  will  resign  herself,  and  if  she  suffers 
she  will  know  how  to  conceal  her  sufferings." 

He  suddenly  paused.  In  the  distance  a  report  of  musketry 
could  be  plainly  heard.  Each  face  grew  paler :  for  circum- 
stances imparted  to  these  sounds  an  ominous  significance  to 
anxious  hearts.  Both  M.  d'Escorval  and  Lacheneur  sprang 
out  upon  the  terrace.  But  everything  was  silent  again.  Far 
as  the  horizon  stretched,  nothing  unusual  could  be  discerned. 
The  limpidity  of  the  azure  sky  was  unimpaired,  and  not  the 
faintest  cloudlet  of  smoke  rose  above  the  trees. 


THE    HONOR   OF   THE    NAME  297 

"It  is  the  enemy,"  muttered  M.  Lacheneur  in  a  tone  which 
told  how  gladly  he  would  have  shouldered  his  gun  and  with 
five  hundred  others  marched  against  the  allies. 

He  paused.  The  reports  were  repeated  with  still  greater 
violence,  and  for  five  minutes  or  so  succeeded  each  other  with- 
out cessation.  It  seemed  even  as  if  some  pieces  of  artillery 
had  been  discharged. 

M.  d'Escorval  listened  with  knitted  brows.  "This  is  very 
strange ;  but  yet  it  is  scarcely  the  fire  of  a  regular  engagement," 
he  murmured. 

To  remain  any  longer  in  such  a  state  of  uncertainty  was 
out  of  the  question.  "If  you  will  allow  me,  father,"  ventured 
Maurice,  "I  will  try  and  ascertain — " 

"Go,"  replied  the  baron  quietly  j  "but  if  there  should  be  any- 
thing, which  I  doubt,  don't  expose  yourself  to  useless  danger, 
but  return." 

"Oh !  be  prudent !"  nervously  insisted  Madame  d'Escorval, 
who  already  saw  her  son  exposed  to  peril. 

"Be  prudent !"  also  entreated  Marie-Anne,  who  alone  under- 
stood the  attraction  that  danger  might  have  for  a  lover  in 
despair. 

These  cautions  were  unnecessary.  As  Maurice  was  rushing 
to  the  gate,  his  father  stopped  him. 

"Wait,"  said  he,  "here  comes  some  one  who  may,  perhaps, 
be  able  to  enlighten  us." 

A  peasant  was  passing  along  the  road  leading  from  Sair- 
meuse.  He  was  walking  bareheaded  and  with  hurried  strides 
in  the  middle  of  the  dusty  highway,  brandishing  his  stick 
as  if  soon  to  threaten  some  invisible  enemy,  and  he  came 
near  enough  for  the  party  on  the  terrace  to  distinguish  his 
features. 

"Ah  !  it's  Chanlouineau !"  exclaimed  M.  Lacheneur. 

"The  owner  of  the  vineyards  on  the  Borderie?" 

"The  same !  The  best-looking  young  farmer  in  the  district, 
and  the  best  in  heart  as  well.  Ah  !  he  has  good  blood  in  his 
veins ;  we  may  well  be  proud  of  him." 

"Ask  him  to  stop,"  said  M.  d'Escorval. 

"Ah !  Chanlouineau !"  shouted  Lacheneur,  leaning  over  the 
balustrade. 

The  young  farmer  raised  his  head. 

"Come  up  here,"  resumed  Lacheneur;  "the  baron  wishes  to 
speak  with  you." 


298      THE  HONOR  OF  THE  NAME 

Chanlouineau  replied  by  a  gesture  of  assent,  and  opening  the 
garden  gate  soon  crossed  the  lawn.  He  had  a  furious  look  in 
his  face,  and  the  state  of  his  clothes  showed  plainly  enough 
that  he  had  been  fighting.  He  had  lost  his  collar  and  necktie, 
and  the  muscles  of  his  neck  were  swollen  as  if  by  the  pressure 
of  some  vigorous  hand. 

"What's  going  on?"  eagerly  asked  Lacheneur.  "Is  there 
a  battle?" 

"Oh,  there's  no  battle,"  replied  the  young  farmer,  with  a 
nervous  laugh.  "The  firing  you  heard  is  in  honor  of  the  Due 
de  Sairmeuse." 

"What !" 

"Oh,  it's  the  truth.  It's  all  the  work  of  that  scoundrel, 
Chupin.  If  ever  he  comes  within  reach  of  my  arm  again,  he 
will  never  steal  any  more." 

M.  Lacheneur  was  confounded.  "Tell  us  what  has  happened," 
he  said,  excitedly. 

"Oh,  it's  simple  enough.  When  the  duke  arrived  at  Sair- 
meuse, Chupin,  with  his  two  rascally  boys,  and  that  old  hag, 
his  wife,  ran  after  the  carriage  like  beggars  after  a  diligence, 
crying,  'Vive  Monseigneur  le  due !'  The  duke  was  delighted, 
for  he  no  doubt  expected  a  volley  of  stones,  so  he  gave  each 
of  the  wretches  a  five- franc  piece.  This  money  abetted  Chupin's 
appetite,  so  he  took  it  into  his  head  to  give  the  duke  such  a 
reception  as  was  given  the  emperor.  Having  learned  from 
Bibaine,  whose  tongue  is  as  long  as  a  viper's,  everything  that 
had  occurred  at  the  parsonage  between  the  duke  and  you, 
M.  Lacheneur,  he  came  and  proclaimed  the  news  on  the  market- 
place. When  the  fools  heard  it,  all  those  who  had  purchased 
national  lands  got  frightened.  Chupin  had  counted  on  this,  and 
soon  he  began  telling  the  poor  fools  that  they  must  burn  powder 
under  the  duke's  nose  if  they  wished  him  to  confirm  their  titles 
to  their  property." 

"And  did  they  believe  him?" 

"Implicitly.  It  didn't  take  them  long  to  make  their  prepara- 
tions. They  went  to  the  mairie  and  took  the  firemen's  muskets 
and  the  guns  used  for  firing  salutes  on  fete  days;  the  mayor 
gave  them  powder,  and  then  you  heard  the  result.  When  I  left 
Sairmeuse  there  was  more  than  two  hundred  idiots  in  front  of 
the  parsonage  shouting  'Vive  Monseigneur !  Vive  le  Due  de 
Sairmeuse !'  at  the  top  of  their  voices." 

"The  same  pitiful  farce  that  was  played  in  Paris,  only  on  a 


THE   HONOR   OF   THE    NAME  299 

smaller  scale,"  murmured  the  Baron  d'Escorval.  "Avarice  and 
human  cowardice  are  the  same  all  the  world  over." 

Meanwhile,  Chanlouineau  was  proceeding  with  his  narrative. 
"To  make  the  fete  complete,  the  devil  must  have  warned  all 
the  nobility  of  the  district,  for  they  all  hastened  to  the  spot. 
They  say  that  M.  de  Sairmeuse  is  the  king's  favorite,  and  that 
he  can  do  just  as  he  pleases.  So  you  may  imagine  how  they 
all  greeted  him!  I'm  only  a  poor  peasant,  but  I'd  never  lie 
down  in  the  dust  before  any  man  like  these  old  nobles,  who 
are  so  haughty  with  us,  did  before  the  duke.  They  even  kissed 
his  hands,  and  he  allowed  them  to  do  so.  He  walked  about  the 
square  with  the  Marquis  de  Courtornieu — " 

"And  his  son  ?"  interrupted  Maurice. . 

"The  Marquis  Martial,  eh?  Oh,  he  was  also  strutting  about 
with  Mademoiselle  Blanche  de  Courtornieu  on  his  arm.  Ah ! 
I  can't  understand  how  people  can  call  her  pretty — a  little  bit 
of  a  thing,  so  blond  that  one  might  almost  take  her  hair  for 
white.  Ah,  they  did  laugh,  those  two,  and  poke  fun  at  the 
peasants  into  the  bargain.  Some  of  the  villagers  say  they  are 
going  to  be  married.  And  even  this  evening  there's  to  be  a 
banquet  at  the  Chateau  de  Courtornieu  in  the  duke's  honor." 

"You've  only  forgotten  one  thing,"  said  M.  Lacheneur  when 
Chanlouineau  paused.  "How  is  it  your  clothes  are  torn ;  it 
seems  as  if  you'd  been  fighting." 

The  young  farmer  hesitated  for  a  moment,  and  it  was  with 
evident  reluctance  that  he  replied :  "I  can  tell  you  all  the  same. 
While  Chupin  was  preaching,  I  preached  as  well,  but  not  in 
the  same  strain.  The  scoundrel  reported  me.  So,  in  crossing 
the  square,  the  duke  stopped  before  me  and  remarked:  'So  you 
are  an  evil-disposed  person  ?'  I  said  I  wasn't,  though  I  knew 
my  rights.  Then  he  took  me  by  the  coat  and  shook  me,  and 
told  me  he'd  cure  me  and  take  possession  of  his  vineyard  again. 
The  deuce !  When  I  felt  the  old  rascal's  hand  on  me  my  blood 
boiled.  I  pinioned  him.  But  six  or  seven  men  fell  on  me,  and 
compelled  me  to  let  him  go.  But  he  had  better  make  up  his 
mind  not  to  come  prowling  about  my  vineyard !" 

The  young  farmer  clenched  his  hands,  and  his  eyes  flashed 
ominously ;  he  evidently  had  an  intense  thirst  for  vengeance. 
M.  d'Escorval  remained  silent,  fearing  to  aggravate  this  hatred, 
so  imprudently  kindled,  and  the  explosion  of  which  might  have 
terrible  results. 

M.  Lacheneur  had  risen  from  his  chair.    "I  must  go  and  take 


300      THE  HONOR  OF  THE  NAME 

possession  of  my  cottage,"  he  remarked  to  Chanlouineau;  "will 
you  accompany  me?    I  have  a  proposal  to  make  to  you." 

M.  and  Madame  d'Escorval  endeavored  to  detain  him,  but 
he  would  not  allow  himself  to  be  persuaded,  and  a  minute  later 
he,  his  daughter,  and  Chanlouineau  had  taken  their  departure. 
However,  Maurice  did  not  despair,  for  Marie-Anne  had  prom- 
ised to  meet  him  on  the  following  day  in  the  pine  grove  near 
La  Reche. 

Chanlouineau  had  correctly  reported  the  reception  which  the 
villagers  of  Sairmeuse  had  given  to  the  duke.  The  artful 
Chupin  had  found  a  sure  means  of  kindling  a  semblance  of 
enthusiasm  among  the  callous,  calculating  peasants  who  were 
his  neighbors. 

He  was  a  dangerous  fellow,  this  old  poacher  and  farmyard 
thief.  Shrewd  he  always  was;  cautious  and  pathetic  when 
necessary ;  bold  as  those  who  possess  nothing  can  afford  to 
be ;  in  short,  one  of  the  most  consummate  scoundrels  that  ever 
breathed.  The  peasants  feared  him,  and  yet  they  had  no  con- 
ception of  his  real  character.  All  the  resources  of  his  mind 
had  hitherto  been  expended  in  evading  the  provisions  of  the 
rural  code.  To  save  himself  from  falling  into  the  hands  of 
the  gendarmes,  to  steal  a  few  sacks  of  wheat  without  detection, 
he  had  expended  talents  of  intrigue  which  would  have  sufficed 
to  make  the  fortune  of  twenty  diplomats.  Circumstances,  as 
he  always  said,  had  been  against  him.  Hence,  he  desperately 
caught  at  the  first  and  only  opportunity  worthy  of  his  genius 
that  had  ever  presented  itself. 

Of  course,  the  wily  rustic  told  his  fellow  villagers  nothing 
of  the  true  circumstances  which  had  attended  the  restoration 
of  Sairmeuse  to  its  former  owner.  From  him  the  peasants 
only  learned  the  bare  fact ;  and  the  news  spread  rapidly  from 
group  to  group.  "M.  Lacheneur  has  given  up  Sairmeuse,"  said 
Chupin.  "Chateau,  forests,  vineyards,  fields — he  surrenders 
everything." 

This  was  enough,  and  more  than  enough,  to  terrify  every 
landowner  in  the  village.  If  Lacheneur,  this  man  who  was 
so  powerful  in  their  eyes,  considered  the  danger  so  threaten- 
ing that  he  deemed  it  necessary  or  advisable  to  make  a  complete 
surrender,  what  was  to  become  of  them — poor  devils — without 
aid,  without  counsel,  without  defense?  They  were  told  that 
the  government  was  about  to  betray  their  interests;  that  a 
decree  was  in  process  of  preparation  which  would  render  their 


THE    HONOR   OF    THE    NAME  301 

litle-deeds  worthless.  They  could  see  no  hope  of  salvation, 
except  through  the  duke's  generosity — that  generosity  which 
Chupin  painted  with  the  glowing  colors  of  a  rainbow. 

When  a  man  is  not  strong  enough  to  weather  the  gale,  he 
must  bow  like  the  reed  before  it,  and  rise  again  after  the  storm 
has  passed :  to  this  conclusion  the  frightened  peasantry  came. 
Accordingly  they  bowed.  And  their  apparent  enthusiasm  was 
all  the  more  vociferous,  on  account  of  the  rage  and  fear  that 
filled  their  hearts.  A  close  observer  would  have  detected  an 
undercurrent  of  anger  and  menace  in  their  shouts ;  and  in  point 
of  fact  each  villager  murmured  to  himself:  "What  do  we  risk 
by  crying,  'Vive  le  due?'  Nothing,  absolutely  nothing.  If  he's 
satisfied  with  that  as  a  compensation  for  his  lost  property — all 
well  and  good  !  If  he  isn't  satisfied,  we  shall  have  time  by  and 
by  to  adopt  other  measures."  Hence  they  all  shouted  themselves 
hoarse. 

And  while  the  duke  was  sipping  his  coffee  in  the  cure's  little 
sitting-room,  he  expressed  his  lively  satisfaction  at  the  scene 
outside.  He,  this  great  lord  of  times  gone  by,  this  unconquer- 
able, incorrigible  man  of  absurd  prejudices  and  obstinate  illu- 
sions, accepting  these  acclamations  as  if  they  had  been  bona  fide. 
Without  the  least  semblance  of  doubt,  he  blandly  mistook  the 
counterfeit  coin  for  genuine  money.  "How  you  have  deceived 
me,  to  be  sure,"  he  said  to  the  Abbe  Midon.  "How  could  you 
declare  that  your  people  were  unfavorably  disposed  toward  us?" 

The  Abbe  Midon  was  silent.  What  could  he  reply  ?  He  could 
not  understand  this  sudden  revolution  in  public  opinion — this 
abrupt  change  from  gloom  and  discontent  to  excessive  gaiety. 
Something  must  have  transpired  of  which  he  was  not  aware. 
Somebody  must  have  been  at  work  among  the  peasantry. 

It  was  not  long  before  it  became  apparent  who  that  some- 
body was.  Emboldened  by  his  success  outside,  Chupin  ventured 
to  present  himself  at  the  parsonage.  He  entered  the  sitting- 
room,  scraping  and  cringing,  his  back  bent  double,  and  an 
obsequious  smile  upon  his  lips.  He  came  as  an  ambassador, 
he  declared,  with  numerous  protestations  of  respect ;  he  came 
to  implore  "monseigneur"  to  show  himself  upon  the  market-place. 

"Ah,  well — yes,"  exclaimed  the  duke,  rising  from  his  seat ; 
"yes,  I  will  yield  to  the  wishes  of  these  good  people.  Follow 
me,  marquis !" 

As  the  duke  appeared  on  the  threshold  of  the  parsonage,  a 
loud  shout  rent  the  air;  a  score  of  muskets  blazed  away,  and 


802      THE  HONOR  OF  THE  NAME 

the  old  salute  guns  belched  forth  smoke  and  fire.  Never  had 
Sairmeuse  heard  such  a  salvo  of  artillery,  and  the  shock  of 
the  report  shattered  three  windows  at  the  inn  of  the  Boeuf 
Couronne. 

The  Due  de  Sairmeuse  knew  how  to  preserve  an  appear- 
ance of  haughty  indifference.  Any  display  of  emotion  was,  in 
his  opinion,  vulgar;  but  in  reality  he  was  perfectly  delighted, 
so  delighted  that  he  desired  to  reward  his  welcomers.  A  glance 
over  the  deeds  handed  him  by  Lacheneur  had  shown  him  that 
Sairmeuse  had  been  restored  to  him  virtually  intact.  The  por- 
tions of  the  immense  domain  which  had  been  detached  and  sold 
separately  were,  after  all,  of  little  importance.  Now,  the  duke, 
already  schooled  in  a  measure  by  his  son,  thought  it  would  be 
politic,  and  at  the  same  time  inexpensive,  to  abandon  all  claim  to 
these  few  acres,  now  shared  by  forty  or  fifty  peasants. 

"My  friends,"  he  exclaimed  in  a  loud  voice,  "I  renounce,  for 
myself  and  for  my  descendants,  all  claim  to  the  lands  belonging 
to  my  house  which  you  have  purchased.  They  are  yours — I 
give  them  to  you  !" 

By  this  absurd  semblance  of  a  gift,  M.  de  Sairmeuse  thought 
to  add  the  finishing  touch  to  his  popularity.  A  great  mistake! 
It  simply  assured  the  popularity  of  Chupin,  the  organizer  of 
the  farce.  While  the  duke  was  promenading  through  the  crowd 
with  a  proud  and  self-satisfied  air,  the  peasants,  despite  their 
seemingly  respectful  attitude,  were  secretly  laughing  and  jeer- 
ing at  him.  And  if  they  promptly  took  his  part  against  Chan- 
louineau,  it  was  only  because  his  gift  was  still  fresh  in  their 
minds ;  except  for  that  his  grace  might  have  fared  badly  indeed. 

The  duke,  however,  had  but  little  time  to  think  of  this  en- 
counter, which  produced  a  vivid  impression  on  his  son.  One 
of  his  former  companions  in  exile,  the  Marquis  de  Courtornieu, 
whom  he  had  informed  of  his  arrival,  now  appeared  on  the 
place,  and  hastened  to  welcome  him.  The  marquis  was  accom- 
panied by  his  daughter,  Mademoiselle  Blanche.  Martial  could 
not  do  otherwise  than  offer  his  arm  to  the  daughter  of  his 
father's  friend;  and  the  young  couple  took  a  leisurely  prome- 
nade under  the  shade  of  the  lofty  trees,  while  the  duke  renewed 
his  acquaintance  with  all  the  nobility  of  the  neighborhood. 

There  was  not  a  single  nobleman  who  did  not  hasten  to  press 
the  Due  de  Sairmeuse's  hand.  First,  he  possessed,  it  was  said, 
an  estate  in  England  valued  at  more  than  twenty  millions  of 
francs.     Then,  he  was  the  king's  favorite,  and  each  member  of 


THE    HONOR    OF    THE    NAME 


808 


the  local  aristocracy  had  some  favor  to  ask  for  himself,  his 
relatives,  or  friends.  Poor  king!  If  he  had  had  twenty  king- 
doms of  France  to  divide  like  a  cake  between  all  these  cor- 
morants, he  would  yet  have  failed  to  satisfy  their  voracious 
appetites. 

That  evening,  after  a  grand  banquet  at  the  Chateau  de  Cour- 
tornieu,  the  duke  slept  at  the  Chateau  de  Sairmeuse,  in  the 
room  which  had  been  so  lately  occupied  by  Lacheneur.  He 
was  gay,  chatty,  and  full  of  confidence  in  the  future. 

"I'm  like  Louis  XVIII  in  Bonaparte's  bedroom,"  he  said  to 
his  son  in  a  jocular  tone;  then  adding  with  a  shade  of  senti- 
ment, "Ah  !  it's  good  to  be  in  one's  own  house  again  !" 

But  Martial  only  tendered  a  mechanical  reply.  His  mind  was 
occupied  in  thinking  of  two  women,  who  had  made  a  deep 
impression  on  his  heart  that  day.  He  was  thinking  of  two 
girls  so  utterly  unlike — Blanche  de  Courtornieu  and  Marie-Anne 
Lacheneur. 


ONLY  those  who.  in  the  bright  springtime  of  life,  have  loved, 
and  been  loved  in  return,  who  have  suddenly  seen  an  im- 
passable gulf  open  between  them  and  their  future  happiness,  can 
realize  Maurice  d'Escorval's  disappointment.  All  the  dreams  of 
his  life,  all  his  future  plans,  were  based  upon  his  love  for  Marie- 
Anne.  If  this  love  failed  him,  the  enchanted  castle  which  hope 
had  erected  would  crumble  and  fall,  burying  him  beneath  its 
ruins.  Without  Marie-Anne  he  saw  neither  aim  nor  motive  in 
existence.  Still  he  did  not  suffer  himself  to  be  deluded  by  false 
hopes.  Although  at  first  his  appointed  meeting  with  Marie-Anne 
on  the  following  day  seemed  salvation  itself,  on  reflection  he 
was  forced  to  admit  that  this  interview  could  bring  no  change, 
since  everything  depended  upon  the  will  of  a  third  person, 
M.  Lacheneur. 

Maurice  spent  the  remainder  of  Sunday  in  mournful  silence. 
Dinner-time  came ;  and  he  took  his  seat  at  the  table,  but  it  was 
impossible  for  him  to  eat,  and  he  soon  requested  his  parents' 

J — Vol.  11 — GaD 


304     THE  HONOR  OF  THE  NAME 

permission  to  withdraw.  M.  d'Escorval  and  the  baroness  ex- 
changed sorrowful  glances,  but  did  not  offer  any  comment. 
They  respected  his  grief,  knowing  that  a  sorrow  such  as  his 
would  only  be  aggravated  by  any  attempt  at  consolation. 

"Poor  Maurice  !"  murmured  Madame  d'Escorval,  as  soon  as 
her  son  had  left  the  room.  "Perhaps  it  will  not  be  prudent  for 
us  to  leave  him  entirely  to  the  dictates  of  despair." 

The  baron  shuddered.  He  divined  only  too  well  his  wife's 
sad  apprehensions.  ''We  have  nothing  to  fear,"  he  replied 
quickly;  "I  heard  Marie-Anne  promise  to  meet  Maurice  to- 
morrow in  the  grove  near  La  Reche." 

The  baroness,  who  in  her  anxiety  had  momentarily  dreaded 
lest  Maurice  might  commit  suicide,  now  breathed  more  freely. 
Still  she  was  a  mother,  and  her  husband's  assurance  did  not 
completely  satisfy  her.  She  hastily  went  upstairs,  softly  opened 
the  door  of  her  son's  room  and  looked  in. 

He  was  so  engrossed  in  gloomy  thought  that  he  neither  heard 
her  nor  even  for  an  instant  suspected  the  presence  of  the  anxious 
mother  who  was  fondly  watching  over  him.  He  was  sitting  at 
the  window,  his  elbows  resting  on  the  sill  and  his  head  between 
his  hands.  There  was  no  moon,  but  the  night  was  clear,  and 
over  and  beyond  the  light  fog,  which  indicated  the  course  of  the 
Oiselle,  rose  the  towers  and  turrets  of  the  massive  Chateau  de 
Sairmeuse.  More  than  once  had  Maurice  sat  silently  gazing  at 
this  stately  pile,  which  sheltered  all  that  he  held  dearest  and 
most  precious  in  the  world.  From  his  windows  Marie-Anne's 
casement  could  be  perceived,  and  the  throbbing  of  his  heart 
would  quicken  whenever  he  saw  it  lighted  up.  "She  is  there," 
he  would  think,  "in  her  virgin  chamber.  She  is  praying  on  her 
bended  knees,  and  she  murmurs  my  name  after  her  father's, 
imploring  Heaven's  blessing  upon  us  both." 

But  this  evening  Maurice  was  not  waiting  for  a  light  to  gleam 
through  the  panes  of  that  dear  window.  Marie-Anne  was  no 
longer  at  Sairmeuse — she  had  been  driven  away.  Where  was 
she  now?  She,  accustomed  to  all  the  luxury  that  wealth  could 
procure,  no  longer  had  any  home  save  a  poor  thatch-roofed 
hovel,  the  walls  of  which  were  not  even  whitewashed,  and 
whose  only  floor  was  the  earth  itself,  dusty  as  the  public  high- 
way in  summer,  and  frozen  or  muddy  in  winter.  She  was 
reduced  to  the  necessity  of  occupying  herself  the  humble  abode 
which,  in  her  charitable  heart,  she  had  intended  as  an  asylum 
for  one  of  her  pensioners.     What  was  she  doing  now?    Doubt- 


THE   HONOR   OF    THE    NAME  305 

less  she  was  weeping;  and  at  this  thought  poor  Maurice  felt 
heartbroken. 

What  was  his  surprise,  a  little  after  midnight,  to  see  the  cha- 
teau brilliantly  illuminated.  The  duke  and  his  son  had  repaired 
there  after  the  banquet  given  by  the  Marquis  de  Courtornieu; 
and  before  going  to  bed  they  made  a  tour  of  inspection  through 
their  ancestral  abode.  M.  de  Sairmeuse  had  not  crossed  its 
threshold  for  two-and-twenty  years,  and  Martial  had  never  seen 
it  in  his  life.  Maurice  could  see  the  lights  leap  from  story  to 
story,  from  casement  to  casement,  until  at  last  even  Marie- 
Anne's  windows  were  illuminated. 

At  this  sight  the  unhappy  youth  could  not  restrain  a  cry  of 
rage.  These  men,  these  strangers,  dared  to  enter  this  virgin 
bower  which  he,  even  in  thought,  scarcely  ventured  to  picture. 
No  doubt  they  trampled  carelessly  over  the  delicate  carpet  with 
their  heavy  boots,  and  Maurice  trembled  to  think  of  the  liberties 
which,  in  their  insolent  familiarity,  they  might  perhaps  venture 
to  take.  He  fancied  he  could  see  them  examining  and  handling 
the  thousand  petty  trifles  with  which  young  girls  love  to  sur- 
round themselves,  impudently  opening  the  drawers  and  perhaps 
inquisitively  reading  an  unfinished  letter  lying  on  the  writing- 
desk.  Never  until  this  night  had  Maurice  supposed  it  possible 
to  hate  any  one  as  now  he  hated  these  two  men. 

At  last,  in  despair,  he  threw  himself  on  to  his  bed,  and  passed 
the  remainder  of  the  night  in  thinking  over  what  he  should 
say  to  Marie-Anne  on  the  morrow,  and  in  seeking  for  some 
means  to  remove  the  difficulties  obstructing  his  path  to  happi- 
ness. He  rose  at  daybreak  and  spent  the  early  morning  wan- 
dering about  the  park,  fearing  and  yet  longing  for  the  hour 
that  would  decide  his  fate.  Madame  d'Escorval  was  obliged 
to  exert  all  her  authority  to  make  him  take  some  food,  for  he 
had  quite  forgotten  that  he  had  spent  twenty-four  hours  without 
eating.     At  last,  when  eleven  o'clock  struck,  he  left  the  house. 

The  lands  of  La  Reche  are  situated  across  the  Oiselle,  and 
Maurice,  to  reach  his  destination,  had  to  take  a  ferry  a  short 
distance  from  his  home.  As  he  approached  the  river-bank,  he 
perceived  six  or  seven  peasants  who  were  waiting  to  cross. 
They  were  talking  in  a  loud  voice,  and  did  not  notice  young 
d'Escorval  as  he  drew  near  them. 

"It  is  certainly  true,"  Maurice  heard  one  of  the  men  say. 
*'I  heard  it  from  Chanlouineau  himself  only  last  evening.  He 
was  wild  with  delight.     'I  invite  you  all  to  the  wedding!"  he 


306     THE  HONOR  OF  THE  NAME 

cried.    'I  am  betrothed  to  M.  Lacheneur's  daughter ;  the  affair's 
decided.'  " 

Maurice  was  well-nigh  stunned  by  this  astounding  news,  and 
he  was  actually  unable  to  think  or  to  move. 

"Besides,"  he  heard  the  same  man  say,  "Chanlouineau's  been 
in  love  with  her  for  a  long  time.  Every  one  knows  that. 
Haven't  you  ever  noticed  his  eyes  when  he  met  her — red-hot 
coals  were  nothing  to  them.  But  while  her  father  was  so  rich, 
he  didn't  dare  speak.  However,  now  that  the  old  man  has 
met  with  this  trouble,  he  has  ventured  to  offer  himself,  and  is 
accepted." 

"An  unfortunate  thing  for  him,"  remarked  one  of  the  listeners. 

"Why  so?" 

"If  M.  Lacheneur  is   ruined  as  they  say — " 

The  others  laughed  heartily.  "Ruined — M.  Lacheneur !"  they 
exclaimed  in  chorus.  "How  absurd !  He's  richer  than  all  of 
us  put  together.  Do  you  suppose  he's  been  stupid  enough  not 
to  put  anything  by  during  all  these  years?  He  hasn't  put  his 
money  in  ground,  as  he  pretends,  but  somewhere  else." 

"What  you  are  saying  is  untrue  !"  interrupted  Maurice,  indig- 
nantly.   "M.  Lacheneur  left  Sairmeuse  as  poor  as  he  entered  it." 

On  recognizing  M.  d'Escorval's  son,  the  peasants  became 
extremely  cautious ;  and  to  all  his  questions  they  would  only 
give  vague,  unsatisfactory  answers.  A  Sairmeuse  rustic  is 
usually  so  dreadfully  afraid  of  compromising  himself  that  he 
will  never  give  a  frank  reply  to  a  question  if  he  has  the 
slightest  reason  to  suspect  that  his  answer  might  displease  his 
questioner.  However,  what  Maurice  had  heard  before  sufficed 
to  fill  his  heart  with  doubt.  Directly  he  had  crossed  the  Oiselle, 
he  pushed  on  rapidly  toward  La  Reche,  murmuring  as  he  went : 
"What!  Marie-Anne  marry  Chanlouineau?  No;  that  can  not 
be.     It  is  impossible  !" 

The  spot  termed  La  Reche — literally  the  Waste — where 
Marie-Anne  had  promised  to  meet  Maurice,  owed  its  name  to 
the  rebellious  sterile  nature  of  its  soil.  It  seems  to  have  been 
cursed  by  nature.  Boulders  strewed  the  sandy  surface,  and  vain 
indeed  had  been  all  the  attempts  at  culture.  It  is  only  here  and 
there  among  the  broom  that  a  few  stunted  oaks  with  straggling 
branches  manage  to  exist.  But  at  the  edge  of  this  barren  tract 
rises  a  shady  grove.  Here  the  firs  are  straight  and  strong,  with 
wild  clematis  and  honeysuckle  clinging  to  their  stems  and 
branches,   for  the  winter  floods  have  washed  down   from  the 


THE    HONOR   OF   THE    NAME  307 

high  lands  and  'eft  among  the  rocks  sufficient  soil  to  sustain 
them. 

On  reaching  this  grove,  Maurice  consulted  his  watch.  It 
was  just  noon ;  he  had  feared  he  was  late,  but  he  was  fully 
an  hour  in  advance  of  the  appointed  time.  He  seated  himself 
on  a  ledge  of  one  of  the  high  rocks  scattered  among  the  firs, 
whence  he  could  survey  the  entire  Reche,  and  waited. 

The  weather  was  sultry  in  the  extreme.  The  rays  of  the 
scorching  August  sun  fell  on  the  sandy  soil,  and  speedily  with- 
ered the  few  weeds  which  had  sprung  up  since  the  last  rainfall. 
The  stillness  was  profound.  Not  a  sound  broke  the  silence,  not 
even  the  chirp  of  a  bird,  the  buzzing  of  an  insect,  nor  the 
faintest  whisper  of  a  breeze  passing  through  the  firs.  All 
nature  was  apparently  asleep — taking  its  siesta — and  there  was 
nothing  to  remind  one  of  life,  motion,  or  mankind.  This  repose 
of  nature,  which  contrasted  so  vividly  with  the  tumult  raging 
in  his  own  heart,  soon  exerted  a  beneficial  effect  on  Maurice. 
These  few  moments  of  solitude  afforded  him  an  opportunity 
to  regain  his  composure,  and  to  collect  his  thoughts,  scattered 
by  the  storm  of  passion,  as  leaves  are  scattered  by  the  fierce 
November  gale. 

With  sorrow  comes  experience,  and  that  cruel  knowledge  of 
life  which  teaches  one  to  guard  one's  self  against  one's  hopes. 
It  was  not  until  he  heard  the  conversation  of  the  peasants 
standing  near  the  ferry  that  Maurice  fully  realized  the  horror 
of  Lacheneur's  position.  Suddenly  precipitated  from  the  social 
eminence  he  had  attained,  the  whilom  lord  of  Sairmeuse  found, 
in  the  valley  of  humiliation  into  which  he  was  cast,  only  hatred, 
distrust,  and  scorn.  Both  factions  despised  and  derided  him. 
Traitor,  cried  one ;  thief,  cried  the  other.  He  no  longer  held 
any  social  status.  He  was  the  fallen  man,  the  man  who  had 
been,  and  who  was  no  more.  Was  not  the  excessive  misery  of 
such  a  position  a  sufficient  explanation  of  the  strangest  and 
wildest  resolutions? 

This  thought  made  Maurice  tremble.  Connecting  the  con- 
versation of  the  peasants  with  the  words  spoken  by  Lacheneur 
to  Chanlouineau  on  the  preceding  evening  at  Escorval,  he  came 
to  the  conclusion  that  this  report  of  Marie-Anne's  marriage  to 
the  young  farmer  was  not  so  improbable  as  he  had  at  first 
supposed.  But  why  should  M.  Lacheneur  give  his  daughter 
to  an  uncultured  peasant?  From  mercenary  motives?  Cer- 
tainly not,  since  he  had  just  refused  an  alliance  of  which  he 


308      THE  HONOR  OF  THE  NAME 

had  been  justly  proud  even  in  his  days  of  prosperity.  Could  it 
be  in  order  to  satisfy  his  wounded  pride  then?  Perhaps  so; 
possibly  he  did  not  wish  it  to  be  said  that  he  owed  anything 
to  a  son-in-law. 

Maurice  was  exhausting  all  his  ingenuity  and  penetration  in 
endeavoring  to  solve  this  knotty  point,  when  at  last,  along  the 
footpath  crossing  the  waste,  he  perceived  a  figure  approaching 
him.  It  was  Marie-Anne.  He  rose  to  his  feet,  but  fearing 
observation  did  not  venture  to  leave  the  shelter  of  the  grove. 
Marie-Anne  must  have  felt  a  similar  fear,  for  as  she  hurried 
on  she  cast  anxious  glances  on  every  side.  Maurice  remarked, 
not  without  surprise,  that  she  was  bareheaded,  and  had  neither 
shawl  nor  scarf  about  her  shoulders. 

As  she  reached  the  edge  of  the  wood,  he  sprang  toward  her, 
and  catching  hold  of  her  hand  raised  it  to  his  lips.  But  this 
hand  which  she  had  so  often  yielded  to  him  was  now  gently 
withdrawn,  and  with  so  sad  a  gesture  that  he  could  not  help 
feeling  there  was  no  hope. 

"I  came,  Maurice,"  she  began,  "because  I  could  not  endure 
the  thought  of  your  anxiety.  By  doing  so  I  have  betrayed  my 
father's  confidence.  He  was  obliged  to  leave  home,  and  I  has- 
tened here ;  and  yet  I  promised  him,  only  two  hours  ago,  that 
I  would  never  see  you  again.    You  hear  me — never !" 

She  spoke  hurriedly,  but  Maurice  was  appalled  by  the  firmness 
of  her  accent.  Had  he  been  less  agitated,  he  would  have  seen 
what  a  terrible  effort  this  semblance  of  calm  cost  the  girl  he  loved. 
He  would  have  detected  the  agony  she  was  striving  to  conceal  in 
the  pallor  of  her  cheeks,  the  twitching  of  her  lips,  and  the  red- 
ness of  her  eyelids,  which,  although  recently  bathed  with  fresh 
water,  still  betrayed  the  tears  she  had  wept  during  the  night. 

"If  I  have  come,"  she  continued,  "it  is  only  to  tell  you  that, 
for  your  own  sake,  as  well  as  for  mine,  you  must  not  retain  the 
slightest  shadow  of  hope.  It  is  all  over ;  we  must  separate  for- 
ever !  It  is  only  weak  natures  that  revolt  against  a  destiny 
which  can  not  be  altered.  Let  us  accept  our  fate  uncomplain- 
ingly. I  wished  to  see  you  once  more,  and  to  bid  you  be  of 
good  courage.    Go  away,  Maurice — leave  Escorval — forget  me  !" 

"Forget  you,  Marie-Anne !"  exclaimed  the  poor  fellow,  "for- 
get you!"  His  eyes  met  hers,  and  in  a  husky  voice  he  added: 
"Will  you  then  forget  me?" 

"I  am  a  woman,  Maurice — " 

But  he  interrupted  her.    "Ah !  I  did  not  expect  this,"  he  said, 


THE   HONOR   OF   THE   NAME  309 

despondingly.  "Poor  fool  that  I  was !  I  believed  you  would 
surely  find  a  way  to  touch  your  father's  heart." 

She  blushed  slightly,  and  with  evident  hesitation  replied: 
"I  threw  myself  at  my  father's  feet,  but  he  repulsed  me." 

Maurice  was  thunderstruck,  but  recovering  himself:  "It  was 
because  you  did  not  know  how  to  speak  to  him  !"  he  exclaimed 
with  passionate  emphasis ;  "but  I  shall  know  how  I  will  present 
such  arguments  that  he  will  be  forced  to  yield.  Besides,  what 
right  has  he  to  ruin  my  happiness  with  his  caprices?  I  love 
you,  you  love  me,  and  by  the  right  of  love,  you  are  mine — 
mine  rather  than  his !  I  will  make  him  understand  this,  you 
shall  see.    Where  is  he?    Where  can  I  find  him?"' 

Already  he  was  starting  to  go,  he  knew  not  where,  when 
Marie-Anne  caught  him  by  the  arm.  "Remain  here."'  she  an- 
swered in  a  tone  of  authority  surprising  in  one  of  her  sex  and 
youth,  "remain  !  Ah,  you  have  failed  to  understand  me,  Mau- 
rice. But  you  must  know  the  truth.  I  am  acquainted  now  with 
the  reasons  of  my  father's  refusal ;  and  though  his  decision 
should  cost  me  my  life,  I  approve  it.  Don't  try  to  find  my 
father.  If  he  were  moved  by  your  prayers,  and  gave  his  con- 
sent, I  should  have  the  courage  to  refuse  mine !" 

Maurice  was  so  beside  himself  that  this  reply  did  not  en- 
lighten him.  Crazed  with  anger  and  despair,  regardless  even 
of  how  he  spoke  to  the  woman  he  loved  so  deeply,  he  exclaimed : 
"Is  it  for  Chanlouineau,  then,  that  you  are  reserving  your  con- 
sent ?  I've  already  heard  that  he  goes  about  everywhere  saying 
you  will  soon  be  his  wife." 

Marie-Anne  could  not  conceal  all  resentment  of  these  words ; 
and  yet  there  was  more  sorrow  than  anger  in  the  glance  she 
cast  on  Maurice.  "Must  I  stoop  so  low  as  to  defend  myself 
from  such  an  imputation?"  she  asked  sadly.  "Must  I  tell  you 
that  even  if  I  suspect  such  an  arrangement  between  my  father 
and  Chanlouineau,  I  have  not  been  consulted?  Must  I  tell  you 
that  there  are  some  sacrifices  which  are  beyond  the  strength 
of  human  nature?  Understand  this:  I  have  found  strength  to 
renounce  the  man  I  love — I  shall  never  be  able  to  accept  another 
in  his  place !" 

Maurice  hung  his  head,  abashed  by  her  earnest  words,  and 
dazzled  by  the  sublime  expression  of  her  face.  Reason  returned 
to  him ;  he  realized  the  enormity  of  his  suspicions,  and  was 
horrified  with  himself  for  having  dared  to  give  them  utterance. 
"Oh  !  forgive  me  !"  he  faltered,  "forgive  me  !" 


310 


THE  HONOR  OF  THE  NAME 


What  did  the  mysterious  motive  of  all  these  events  which 
had  so  rapidly  succeeded  each  other,  what  did  M.  Lacheneur's 
secrets  or  Marie- Anne's  reticence  matter  to  him  now?  He  was 
seeking  some  chance  of  salvation,  and  believed  that  he  had 
found  it.  "We  must  fly !"  he  exclaimed ;  "fly  at  once  without 
pausing  to  look  back.  Before  night  we  shall  have  crossed  the 
frontier."  So  saying,  he  sprang  toward  her  with  outstretched 
arms  as  if  to  seize  her  and  carry  her  off. 

But  she  checked  him  by  a  single  look.  "Fly !"  said  she  re- 
proachfully; "fly! — and  is  it  you,  Maurice,  who  thus  advises 
me  ?  What !  while  my  poor  father  is  crushed  with  misfortune, 
am  I  to  add  despair  and  shame  to  his  sorrows?  His  friends 
have  deserted  him;  must  I,  his  daughter,  also  abandon  him? 
Ah!  if  I  did  that,  I  should  be  a  vile,  cowardly  creature!  If, 
when  I  believed  my  father  to  be  the  true  owner  of  Sairmeuse, 
he  had  asked  of  me  such  a  sacrifice  as  that  I  consented  to  last 
night,  I  might,  perhaps,  have  resolved  on  doing  what  you  say. 
I  might  have  left  Sairmeuse  in  broad  daylight  on  my  lover's 
arm,  for  it  isn't  the  world  I  fear !  But  if  one  might  fly  from 
the  chateau  of  a  wealthy,  happy  father,  one  can  not  desert  a 
despairing,  penniless  parent.  Leave  me,  Maurice,  where  honor 
holds  me.  It  will  not  be  difficult  for  me,  the  daughter  of  gen- 
erations of  peasants,  to  become  a  peasant  myself.  Leave  me ! 
I  can  not  endure  any  more !  Go !  and  remember  that  it  is 
impossible  to  be  utterly  wretched  if  one's  conscience  is  clean 
and  one's  duty  fulfilled !" 

Maurice  was  about  to  reply,  when  a  crackling  of  dry  branches 
made  him  turn  his  head.  Scarcely  ten  paces  off,  Martial  de 
Sairmeuse  was  standing  under  the  firs  leaning  on  his  gun. 


'T'HE  Due  de  Sairmeuse  had  indulged  in  but  little  sleep  on 
*■  the  night  of  his  return,  or,  as  he  phrased  it,  "of  his  restora- 
tion." Although  he  pretended  to  be  inaccessible  to  the  emotions 
which  agitate  the  common  herd,  the  scenes  of  the  day  had  in 
point  of  fact  greatly  excited  him;  and,  on  lying  down  to  rest, 


THE   HONOR    OF   THE    NAME  311 

he  could  not  help  reviewing  them,  although  he  made  it  a  rule 
of  life  never  to  reflect.  While  exposed  to  the  scrutiny  of  the 
village  peasants  and  of  his  own  aristocratic  acquaintances,  he 
had  felt  that  honor  required  him  to  appear  cold  and  indifferent 
to  everything  that  transpired,  but  as  soon  as  he  was  alone  in 
the  privacy  of  his  own  bedroom,  he  gave  free  vent  to  his 
satisfaction. 

This  satisfaction  amounted  to  perfect  joy,  almost  verging 
on  delirium.  He  was  now  forced  to  admit  to  himself  Lache- 
neur  had  rendered  him  an  immense  service  in  voluntarily  re- 
storing Sairmeuse.  This  man  to  whom  he  had  displayed  the 
blackest  ingratitude,  this  man,  honest  to  heroism,  whom  he  had 
treated  like  an  unfaithful  servant,  had  just  relieved  him  of  an 
anxiety  which  had  long  poisoned  his  life.  Indeed,  Lacheneur 
had  just  placed  the  Due  de  Sairmeuse  beyond  the  reach  of  a 
very  possible  calamity  which  he  had  dreaded  for  some  time 
back. 

If  his  secret  anxiety  had  been  made  known,  it  would  have 
caused  some  little  merriment.  The  less  fortunate  of  the  re- 
turning emigres  were  in  the  habit  of  remarking  that  the  Sair- 
meuses  would  never  know  want,  as  they  possessed  property  in 
England  of  a  value  of  many  million  francs.  Broadly  speaking, 
the  statement  was  true,  only  the  property  in  question — property 
coming  from  Martial's  mother  and  maternal  grandfather — had 
not  been  left  to  the  duke,  but  to  Martial  himself.  It  is  true 
that  the  Due  de  Sairmeuse  enjoyed  absolute  control  over  this 
enormous  fortune ;  he  disposed  of  the  capital  and  the  immense 
revenues  just  as  he  pleased,  although  in  reality  everything  be- 
longed to  his  son — to  his  only  son.  The  duke  himself  possessed 
nothing — a  pitiful  income  of  twelve  hundred  francs,  or  so, 
strictly  speaking,  not  even  the  means  of  subsistence. 

Martial,  who  was  just  coming  of  age,  had  certainly  never 
uttered  a  word  which  might  lead  his  father  to  suppose  that  he 
had  any  intention  of  removing  the  property  from  his  control ; 
still  this  word  might  some  day  or  another  be  spoken,  and  at  the 
thought  of  such  a  contingency  the  duke  shuddered  with  horror. 
He  saw  himself  reduced  to  a  pension,  a  very  handsome  pension 
undoubtedly,  but  still  a  fixed,  immutable,  regular  allowance,  by 
which  he  would  be  obliged  to  regulate  his  expenditure.  He 
would  have  to  calculate  that  two  ends  might  meet — he,  who 
had  been  accustomed  to  inexhaustible  coffers.  "And  this  will 
necessarily  happen  sooner  or  later,"  he  thought. 


312      THE  HONOR  OF  THE  NAME 

"If  Martial  should  marry,  if  he  should  become  ambitious,  or 
meet  with  evil  counselors,  then  my  reign  will  end." 

Hence,  the  duke  watched  and  studied  his  son  much  as  a 
jealous  woman  studies  and  watches  the  lover  she  mistrusts. 
He  thought  he  could  read  in  his  son's  eyes  many  thoughts 
which  Martial  never  had ;  he  carefully  noted  whether  the  Mar- 
quis was  gay  or  sad,  careless  or  preoccupied,  and  according  to 
the  young  man's  mood,  he  became  reassured  or  grew  still  more 
alarmed.  Sometimes  he  imagined  the  worst.  "If  I  should 
quarrel  by  and  by  with  Martial,"  he  thought,  "he  would  take 
possession  of  his  entire  fortune,  and  I  should  be  left  absolutely 
without  bread." 

To  a  man  like  the  Due  de  Sairmeuse,  who  judged  the  senti- 
ments of  others  by  his  own,  these  torturing  apprehensions 
proved  a  terrible  chastisement ;  and  there  were  days  when 
his  personal  poverty  and  impotence  well-nigh  drove  him  mad. 
"What  am  I?"  he  would  say  to  himself  in  a  fit  of  rage.  "A 
mere  plaything  in  the  hands  of  a  child.  My  son  owns  me.  If 
I  displease  him,  he  will  cast  me  aside.  Yes,  he  will  be  able 
to  dismiss  me  just  as  he  would  a  lackey.  If  I  enjoy  his  for- 
tune, it  will  be  because  he  allows  me  to  do  so.  I  owe  my 
very  existence,  as  well  as  my  luxuries,  to  his  charity.  But  a 
moment's  anger,  even  a  whim,  may  deprive  me  of  everything." 

With  such  ideas  in  his  brain,  the  duke  could  not  love  his  son. 
Indeed,  he  hated  him.  He  passionately  envied  him  all  the  ad- 
vantages he  possessed — his  youth,  his  millions,  his  physical 
good  looks,  and  his  talents,  which  were  really  of  a  superior 
order.  We  every  day  meet  mothers  who  are  jealous  of  their 
daughters,  and  in  the  same  way  there  are  fathers  who  are 
jealous  of  their  sons.  This  was  one  of  those  cases.  The  duke, 
however,  showed  no  outward  sign  of  mental  disquietude ;  and  if 
Martial  had  possessed  less  penetration,  he  might  have  believed 
that  his  father  adored  him.  However,  if  he  had  detected  the 
duke's  secret,  he  did  not  reveal  his  knowledge,  nor  did  he  abuse 
his  power.  Their  manner  toward  each  other  was  perfect.  The 
duke  was  kind  even  to  weakness ;  Martial  full  of  deference. 
But  their  relations  were  not  those  of  father  and  son.  One  was 
in  constant  fear  of  displeasing  the  other ;  the  other  a  little  too 
sure  of  his  power.  They  lived  on  a  footing  of  perfect  equality, 
like  two  companions  of  the  same  age.  From  this  trying  situa- 
tion, Lacheneur  had  now  rescued  the  duke.  On  becoming  once 
more  the  owner  of  Sairmeuse,  an  estate  worth  more  than  three 


THE   HONOR   OF   THE   NAME  813 

million  francs,  his  grace  freed  himself  from  his  son's  tyranny; 
and  recovered  all  his  liberty.  What  brilliant  projects  flitted 
through  his  brain  that  night!  He  beheld  himself  the  richest 
landowner  in  the  province ;  and  in  addition  he  was  the  king's 
chosen  friend.  To  what  then  might  he  not  aspire?  Such  a 
prospect  enchanted  him.  He  felt  quite  young  again :  he  had 
shaken  off  the  twenty  years  he  had  spent  in  exile.  So,  rising 
before  nine  o'clock,  he  went  to  Martial's  room  to  rouse  him. 

On  returning  from  dining  with  the  Marquis  de  Courtornieu, 
the  evening  before,  the  duke  had  promenaded  through  the 
chateau ;  but  this  hasty  inspection  by  candle-light  had  not  satis- 
fied his  curiosity.  He  wished  to  visit  everything  in  detail  now 
that  it  was  day.  So,  followed  by  his  son,  he  explored  one  after 
another  the  numerous  rooms  of  this  princely  abode ;  and  at 
every  step  he  took,  the  recollections  of  childhood  crowded  upon 
him.  Lacheneur  had  such  a  wonderful  respect  for  all  the 
■appointments  of  the  chateau  that  the  duke  found  things  as  old 
as  himself  religiously  preserved,  and  occupying  the  old  familiar 
places  from  which  they  had  never  been  removed. 

"Decidedly,  Marquis,"  he  exclaimed  when  his  inspection  was 
•concluded,  "this  Lacheneur  wasn't  such  a  rascal  as  I  supposed. 
I  am  disposed  to  forgive  him  a  great  deal,  on  account  of  the 
care  he  has  taken  of  our  house  in  our  absence." 

Martial  seemed  engrossed  in  thought.  "I  think,  sir,"  he 
said,  at  last,  "that  we  should  show  our  gratitude  to  this  man 
by  paying  him  a  large  indemnity." 

This  last  word  excited  the  duke's  anger.  "An  indemnity!" 
he  exclaimed.  "Are  you  mad,  Marquis?  Think  of  the  income 
he  has  received  out  of  my  estate.  Have  you  forgotten  the  cal- 
culation made  for  us  last  evening  by  the  Chevalier  de  la 
Livandiere?" 

"The  chevalier  is  a  fool !"  declared  Martial,  promptly.  "He 
forgot  that  Lacheneur  has  trebled  the  value  of  Sairmeuse.  I 
think  our  family  honor  requires  us  to  give  this  man  an  indem- 
nity of  at  least  a  hundred  thousand  francs.  This  would,  more- 
over, be  a  good  stroke  of  policy  in  the  present  state  of  public 
sentiment,  and  his  majesty  would,  I  am  sure,  be  much  pleased 
if  we  did  so." 

"Stroke  of  policy" — "public  sentiment" — "his  majesty."  You 
might  have  obtained  almost  anything  from  M.  de  Sairmeuse  by 
such  words  and  arguments  as  these. 

"Heavenly    powers !"    he    exclaimed ;    "a    hundred    thousand 


814     THE  HONOR  OF  THE  NAME 

francs !  how  you  talk !     It  is  all  very  well  for  you,  with  your 
fortune  !     Still,  if  you  really  think  so — " 

"Ah !  my  dear  sir,  isn't  my  fortune  yours  ?  Yes,  such  is 
really  my  opinion.  So  much  so,  indeed,  that,  if  you  will  permit 
it,  I  will  see  Lacheneur  myself,  and  arrange  the  matter  in  such 
a  way  that  his  pride  won't  be  wounded.  It  would  be  worth  our 
while  to  retain  such  devotion  as  his." 

The  duke  opened  his  eyes  to  their  widest  extent.  "Lache- 
neur's  pride !"  he  murmured.  "Worth  while  to  retain  his  devo- 
tion !  Why  do  you  talk  in  that  strain  ?  What's  the  reason  of 
this  extraordinary  interest?" 

He  paused,  enlightened  by  a  sudden  recollection.  "Ah,  I 
understand!"  he  exclaimed;  "I  understand.  He  has  a  pretty 
daughter."     Martial  smiled  without  replying. 

"Yes,  as  pretty  as  a  rose,"  continued  the  duke;  "but  a  hun- 
dred thousand  francs ;  zounds !  That's  a  round  sum  to  pay  for 
such  a  whim.     But,  if  you  insist  upon  it — " 

After  this  the  matter  was  settled,  and,  two  hours  later,  armed 
with  the  authorization  he  had  solicited,  Martial  started  on  his 
mission.  The  first  peasant  he  met  told  him  the  way  to  the 
cottage  which  M.  Lacheneur  now  occupied.  "Follow  the 
river,"  said  the  man,  "and  when  you  see  a  pine  grove  on  your 
left,  cross  through  it  and  follow  the  path  over  the  waste." 

Martial  was  crossing  through  the  grove  when  he  heard  the 
sound  of  voices.  He  approached,  recognized  Marie-Anne  and 
Maurice  d'Escorval,  and,  obeying  an  angry  impulse,  paused. 

During  the  decisive  moments  of  life,  when  one's  entire 
future  depends  on  a  word  or  a  gesture,  twenty  contradictory 
inspirations  can  traverse  the  mind  in  the  time  occupied  by  a 
flash  of  lightning. 

On  thus  suddenly  perceiving  the  young  Marquis  de  Sair- 
meuse,  Maurice  d'Escorval's  first  thought  was :  How  long  has 
he  been  here?  Has  he  been  playing  the  spy?  Has  he  been 
listening  to  us?  What  did  he  hear?  His  first  impulse  was  to 
spring  upon  his  enemy,  to  strike  him  in  the  face,  and  compel 
him  to  engage  in  a  hand-to-hand  struggle.  The  thought  of 
Marie-Anne  checked  him,  however.  He  reflected  upon  the  pos- 
sible, even  probable,  results  of  a  quarrel  arising  under  such 
circumstances.  The  combat  which  would  ensue  would  cost 
this  pure  young  girl  her  reputation.  Martial  would  talk  about 
it;  and  country  folks  are  pitiless.  He  could  imagine  Marie- 
Anne   becoming   the    talk   of  the   neighborhood,   and   saw   the 


THE    HONOR   OF   THE    NAME  315 

finger  of  scorn  pointed  at  her.  Accordingly,  he  made  a  great 
effort  and  mastered  his  anger.  These  reflections  occupied 
merely  a  few  seconds,  and  then  young  D'Escorval,  politely 
touching  his  hat,  advanced  toward  Martial  and  observed : 

"You  are  a  stranger,  sir,  and  have  no  doubt  lost  your  way  ?" 

His  words  were  ill-chosen,  and  defeated  his  prudent  inten- 
tions. A  curt  "Mind  your  own  business"  would  have  been  less 
wounding.  He  forgot  that  this  word  "stranger"  was  the  most 
deadly  insult  that  one  could  cast  in  the  face  of  the  former 
emigres,  now  returning  in  the  rear  of  the  Allies. 

However,  the  young  marquis  did  not  change  his  nonchalant 
attitude.  He  touched  the  peak  of  his  hunting  cap  with  one 
finger,  and  replied :  "It's  true  I've  lost  my  way." 

Marie-Anne,  despite  her  agitation,  easily  perceived  that  her 
presence  alone  restrained  the  hatred  animating  these  young 
men.  Their  attitude,  and  the  glance  with  which  they  measured 
each  other,  plainly  spoke  of  hostile  feelings.  If  one  of  them 
was  ready  to  spring  upon  the  other,  the  latter  was  on  the  alert, 
prepared  to  defend  himself. 

A  short  pause  followed  the  marquis's  last  words.  At  length 
he  spoke  again.  "A  peasant's  directions  are  not  generally  re- 
markable for  their  clearness,"  he  said,  lightly;  "and  for  more 
than  an  hour  I  have  been  trying  to  find  the  house  to  which  M. 
Lacheneur  has  retired." 

"Ah !" 

"I  am  sent  to  him  by  the  Due  de  Sairmeuse,  my  father." 

Knowing  what  he  did,  Maurice  supposed  that  these  strangely 
rapacious  individuals  had  some  fresh  claim  to  make.  "I  thought," 
said  he,  "that  all  relations  between  M.  Lacheneur  and  M.  de 
Sairmeuse  were  broken  off  yesterday  evening  at  the  abbe's 
house." 

This  was  said  in  the  most  provoking  tone,  and  yet  Martial 
never  so  much  as  frowned.  He  had  sworn  that  he  would  re- 
main calm,  and  he  had  strength  enough  to  keep  his  word.  "If 
these  relations  have  been  broken  off,"  he  replied,  "believe  me, 
M.  d'Escorval,  it  is  no  fault  of  ours." 

"Then  it  is  not  as  people  say?" 

"What  people?    Who?" 

"The  people  here  in  the  neighborhood." 

"Ah!     And  what  do  these  people  say?" 

"The  truth;  that  you  have  been  guilty  of  an  offense  which 
a  man  of  honor  could  never  forgive  nor  forget." 


316     THE  HONOR  OF  THE  NAME 

The  young  marquis  shook  his  head  gravely.  "Your  con- 
demnation is  very  hasty,  sir,"  he  said,  coldly.  "Permit  me  to 
hope  that  M.  Lacheneur  will  be  less  severe  than  you  are ;  and 
that  his  resentment,  his  just  resentment,  I  confess,  will  vanish 
before  a  truthful  explanation." 

Martial  profited  by  the  effect  he  had  produced  to  walk 
toward  Marie-Anne,  and,  addressing  himself  exclusively  to 
her,  now  seemed  to  completely  ignore  Maurice's  presence.  "For 
there  has  been  a  mistake — a  misunderstanding,  mademoiselle," 
he  continued.  "Do  not  doubt  it.  The  Sairmeuses  are  not 
ingrates.  How  could  any  one  have  supposed  that  we  would 
intentionally  give  offense  to  a  devoted  friend  of  our  family, 
and  that  at  a  moment  when  he  had  rendered  us  such  signal 
service !  A  true  gentleman  like  my  father,  and  a  hero  of  probity 
like  yours,  can  not  fail  to  esteem  each  other.  I  admit  that 
yesterday  M.  de  Sairmeuse  did  not  appear  to  advantage ;  but 
the  step  he  takes  to-day  proves  his  sincere  regret." 

Certainly  this  was  not  the  cavalier  tone  which  Martial  had 
employed  in  speaking  to  Marie-Anne  for  the  first  time  on  the 
square  in  front  of  the  church.  He  had  removed  his  cap,  his 
attitude  was  full  of  deference,  and  he  spoke  as  respectfully  as 
though  he  were  addressing  some  haughty  duchess,  instead  of 
the  humble  daughter  of  that  "rascal"  Lacheneur.  Was  this  only 
a  roue's  maneuvre  ?  Or  had  a  true  sense  of  this  noble  girl's  ster- 
ling worth  penetrated  his  heart  ?  Perhaps  it  was  both.  At  all 
events  it  would  have  been  difficult  for  him  to  say  how  far  the 
homage  he  thus  paid  was  intentional,  and  how  far  involuntary. 

"My  father,"  he  continued,  "is  an  old  man  who  has  had 
cruel  sufferings.  Exile  is  hard  to  bear.  But  if  sorrow  and 
deception  have  embittered  his  character,  they  have  not  changed 
his  heart.  His  apparent  imperiousness  conceals  a  kindness  of 
heart  which  I  have  often  seen  degenerate  into  positive  weak- 
ness. And — why  should  I  not  confess  it? — the  Due  de  Sair- 
meuse, with  his  white  hair,  still  retains  the  illusions  of  a  child. 
He  refuses  to  believe  that  the  world  has  progressed  during  the 
past  twenty  years.  Moreover,  people  had  deceived  him  by  the 
most  absurd  fabrications.  To  speak  plainly,  even  while  we 
were  in  Montaignac,  M.  Lacheneur's  enemies  succeeded  in 
prejudicing  my  father  against  him." 

One  might  have  sworn  that  Martial  was  speaking  the  truth ; 
for  his  voice  was  so  persuasive,  and  his  glance,  his  gestures, 
and  the  expression  on  his  face  corresponded  so  fittingly  with 


THE   HONOR   OF   THE    NAME  317 

his  words.  Maurice,  who  felt  certain  that  young  De  Sair- 
meuse  was  lying,  impudently  lying,  was  abashed  by  this  scien- 
tific prevarication,  so  universally  practised  in  good  society,  but 
of  which  he  was  happily  and  utterly  ignorant.  However,  if  the 
marquis  were  lying,  what  did  he  want  here,  and  what  was  the 
meaning  of  this  farce? 

"Need  I  tell  you,  mademoiselle,"  Martial  resumed,  "all  that 
I  suffered  last  evening  in  the  little  sitting-room  in  the  par- 
sonage? Never  in  my  whole  life  can  I  recollect  such  a  cruel 
moment !  I  understood,  and  I  did  honor  to  M.  Lacheneur's 
heroism.  Hearing  of  our  arrival,  he  came  without  hesitation, 
without  delay,  to  voluntarily  surrender  a  princely  fortune — and 
he  was  insulted.  This  excessive  injustice  horrified  me.  And  if 
I  did  not  openly  protest  against  it — if  I  did  not  show  my  indig- 
nation— it  was  only  because  contradiction  drives  my  father  to 
the  verge  of  frenzy.  And  what  good  would  it  have  done  for 
me  to  protest?  Your  filial  love  and  piety  had  a  far  more 
powerful  effect  than  any  words  of  mine  would  have  had.  You 
were  scarcely  out  of  the  house  before  the  duke,  already  ashamed 
of  his  injustice,  said  to  me:  T  have  been  wrong,  but  I  am 
an  old  man ;  it  is  hard  for  me  to  decide  to  make  the  first 
advance ;  you,  marquis,  go  and  find  M.  Lacheneur,  and  obtain 
his  forgiveness.'  " 

Marie-Anne,  redder  than  a  peony,  and  terribly  embarrassed, 
lowered  her  eyes.  "I  thank  you,  sir,"  she  faltered,  "in  my 
father's  name — " 

"Oh!  do  not  thank  me,"  interrupted  Martial  earnestly;  "it 
will  be  my  duty,  on  the  contrary,  to  give  yon  thanks,  if  you 
can  induce  M.  Lacheneur  to  accept  the  reparation  which  is 
due  to  him — and  he  will  accept  it,  if  you  will  only  condescend 
to  plead  our  cause.  Who  could  resist  your  sweet  voice,  your 
beautiful,  beseeching  eyes?" 

However  inexperienced  Maurice  might  be,  he  could  no  longer 
fail  to  comprehend  Martial's  intentions.  This  man,  whom  he 
mortally  hated  already,  dared  to  speak  of  love  to  Marie-Anne, 
and  in  his  presence.  In  other  words,  the  marquis,  not  content 
with  having  ignored  and  insulted  him,  presumed  to  take  an 
insolent  advantage  of  his  supposed  simplicity.  The  certainty 
of  this  outrage  made  his  blood  boil.  He  seized  Martial  by  the 
arm,  and  threw  him  forcibly  against  a  fir  tree,  several  paces  off. 
"This  last  is  too  much,  Marquis  de  Sairmeuse  !"  he  cried. 

Maurice's  attitude  was  so  threatening  that  Martial  fully  ex- 


318      THE  HONOR  OF  THE  NAME 

pected  another  attack.  He  had  fallen  on  one  knee;  without 
rising  he  now  raised  his  gun,  as  if  to  take  aim.  It  was  not 
from  anything  like  cowardice  that  the  Marquis  de  Sairmeuse 
felt  an  impulse  to  fire  upon  an  unarmed  foe ;  but  the  affront 
which  he  had  received  was  in  his  opinion  so  dastardly  that  he 
would  have  shot  Maurice  like  a  dog,  rather  than  feel  the  weight 
of  his  hand  upon  his  arm  again. 

For  some  minutes  previously,  Marie-Anne  had  been  expect- 
ing and  hoping  for  Maurice's  outburst  of  anger.  She  was  even 
more  inexperienced  than  her  lover ;  but  she  was  a  woman,  and 
could  not  fail  to  understand  the  meaning  of  the  young  marquis's 
manner.  He  was  evidently  "paying  his  court  to  her."  And 
with  what  intentions  it  was  only  too  easy  to  divine.  Her  agita- 
tion, while  the  marquis  spoke  to  her  in  an  unceasingly  tender 
voice,  had  changed  at  first  to  stupor,  and  then  to  indignation,  as 
she  realized  his  marvelous  audacity.  After  that,  how  could  she 
help  blessing  the  act  of  violence  which  had  curtailed  a  situation 
so  insulting  for  herself  and  so  humiliating  for  Maurice?  An 
ordinary  woman  would  have  thrown  herself  between  two  men 
anxious  to  kill  each  other ;  but  Marie- Anne  remained  impassive. 
Was  it  not  Maurice's  duty  to  protect  her  when  she  was  insulted  ? 
Who,  then,  if  not  he,  should  defend  her  from  this  young  roue's 
insolent  gallantry?  She  would  have  blushed,  she  who  was 
energy  personified,  to  love  a  weak  and  pusillanimous  man. 

But,  after  all,  intervention  was  quite  unnecessary;  for  Mau- 
rice understood  that  the  situation  required  him  to  be  very 
cautious  under  penalty  of  giving  the  offending  party  the  advan- 
tage. He  felt  that  Marie-Anne  must  not  be  regarded  as  the 
cause  of  the  quarrel ;  and  this  thought  at  once  produced  a 
powerful  reaction  in  his  mind.  He  recovered,  as  if  by  magic, 
his  usual  coolness  and  the  free  exercise  of  his  faculties. 

"Yes,"  he  resumed,  in  a  bold  voice,  "this  is  hypocrisy  enough. 
To  dare  to  prate  of  reparation  after  the  insults  that  you  and 
yours  have  inflicted  is  adding  intentional  humiliation  to  injury 
— and  I  will  not  permit  it." 

Martial  had  thrown  aside  his  gun ;  he  now  rose,  and  with 
a  phlegm  he  had  learned  in  England,  complacently  brushed  his 
dusty  knee.  He  was  too  discerning  not  to  perceive  that  Mau- 
rice had  purposely  disguised  the  true  cause  of  his  passionate 
outburst;  and  though  he  would  not  have  been  displeased  if 
young  D'Escorval  had  confessed  the  truth,  the  matter  was  after 
all  of  little  moment. 


THE   HONOR   OF   THE    NAME  319 

However,  it  was  necessary  to  make  some  reply,  and  to  pre- 
serve the  superiority  which  he  imagined  he  had  hitherto  main- 
tained. "You  will  never  know,  sir,"  he  said,  glancing  alter- 
nately at  his  gun  and  at  Marie-Anne,  "all  that  you  owe  to 
Mademoiselle  Lacheneur.    We  shall  meet  again,  I  hope — " 

"You  have  made  that  remark  before,"  Maurice  interrupted, 
tauntingly.  "Nothing  is  easier  than  to  find  me.  The  first 
peasant  you  meet  will  point  out  the  Baron  d'Escorval's  house." 

"Very  good,  sir,  I  can't  promise  but  that  two  of  my  friends 
will  call  upon  you." 

"Oh  !  whenever  you  please  !" 

"Certainly;  but  it  would  gratify  me  to  know  by  what  right 
you  make  yourself  the  judge  of  M.  Lacheneur's  honor,  and  take 
upon  yourself  to  defend  what  has  not  been  attacked.  Who  has 
given  you  this  right?" 

From  Martial's  sneering  tone,  Maurice  felt  certain  the  mar- 
quis had  overheard  at  least  a  part  of  his  conversation  with 
Marie-Anne.  "My  right."  he  replied,  "is  that  of  friendship. 
If  I  tell  you  that  your  advances  are  unwelcome,  it  is  because 
I  know  that  M.  Lacheneur  will  accept  nothing  from  you.  No, 
nothing,  no  matter  how  you  may  disguise  the  alms  you  offer 
merely  to  appease  your  own  consciences.  He  will  never  forgive 
the  affront  which  is  his  honor  and  your  shame.  Ah !  you 
thought  to  degrade  him,  Messieurs  de  Sairmeuse  !  and  you  have 
raised  him  far  above  your  own  mock  grandeur.  He  receive 
anything  from  you !  Go  and  learn  that  your  millions  can  never 
give  you  a  pleasure  equal  to  the  ineffable  joy  he  will  feel  when 
he  sees  you  roll  by  in  your  carriage,  for  he  can  say  to  himself : 
'Those  people  owe  everything  to  me !'  " 

Maurice  spoke  with  such  an  intensity  of  feeling  that  Marie- 
Anne  could  not  resist  the  impulse  to  press  his  hand ;  and  this 
gesture  was  his  revenge  on  Martial,  who  turned  pale  with 
passion. 

"But  I  have  still  another  right,"  continued  Maurice.  "My 
father  yesterday  had  the  honor  of  asking  M.  Lacheneur  for  his 
daughter's  hand — " 

"And  I  refused  it !"  cried  a  terrible  voice. 

The  marquis,  Marie-Anne,  and  Maurice  turned  with  a  move- 
ment of  mingled  alarm  and  surprise.  M.  Lacheneur  was  be- 
side them,  and  just  behind  him  stood  Chanlouineau,  surveying 
the  group  with  threatening  eyes. 

"Yes,  I  refused  it,"  resumed  M.  Lacheneur,  "and  I  do  not 


320     THE  HONOR  OF  THE  NAME 

believe  that  my  daughter  will  marry  any  one  without  my  con- 
sent. What  did  you  promise  me  this  morning,  Marie-Anne? 
And  yet  you  grant  a  rendezvous  to  gallants  in  the  grove?  Go 
home  at  once !" 

"But,  father—" 

"Go  home !"  he  repeated  angrily.  "Go  home,  I  command 
you." 

Marie- Anne  did  not  utter  another  word;  but,  with  a  look  of 
resignation,  turned  to  depart,  though  not  without  bestowing  on 
Maurice  a  saddened  gaze  in  which  he  read  a  last  farewell. 

As  soon  as  she  was  some  twenty  paces  off,  M.  Lacheneur, 
with  folded  arms,  confronted  the  baron's  son.  "As  for  you, 
M.  d'Escorval,"  said  he,  "I  hope  that  you'll  no  longer  prowl 
round  about  my  daughter — " 

"I  swear  to  you,  sir — " 

"Oh,  no  oaths,  if  you  please.  It  is  an  evil  action  to  try  and 
turn  a  young  girl  from  her  duty,  which  is  obedience.  You  have 
severed  forever  all  connection  between  your  family  and  mine." 

Maurice  tried  to  excuse  himself ;  but  M.  Lacheneur  inter- 
rupted him.     "Enough!  enough!"  said  he;  "go  back  home." 

And  as  the  young  fellow  hesitated,  he  seized  him  by  the 
collar  and  dragged  him  to  the  little  footpath,  leading  through 
the  grove.  This  was  the  work  of  scarcely  ten  seconds,  and  yet 
Lacheneur  found  time  to  whisper  in  Maurice's  ear,  in  his  former 
friendly  tones :  "Go,  you  young  wretch !  do  you  want  to  render 
all  my  precautions  useless?" 

He  watched  Maurice  as  the  latter  disappeared,  bewildered 
by  the  scene  he  had  witnessed,  and  stupefied  by  what  he  had 
just  heard;  and  it  was  not  until  the  late  lord  of  Sairmeuse  saw 
that  young  D'Escorval  was  out  of  hearing  that  he  turned  to 
Martial.  "As  I  have  had  the  honor  of  meeting  you,  M.  le 
Marquis,"  said  he,  "I  deem  it  my  duty  to  inform  you  that  Chu- 
pin  and  his  sons  are  searching  for  you  everywhere.  It  is  at  the 
request  of  the  duke,  your  father,  who  is  anxious  for  you  to  go 
at  once  to  the  Chateau  de  Courtornieu."  Then,  turning  to 
Chanlouineau,  he  added :  "We  will  now  proceed  on  our 
way." 

But  Martial  detained  him  with  a  gesture.  "I  am  much  sur- 
prised to  hear  that  they  are  seeking  me,"  said  he.  "My  father 
knows  very  well  where  he  sent  me — I  was  going  to  your  house, 
at  his  request." 

"To  my  house?" 


THE   HONOR   OF   THE    NAME 


321 


"Yes,  to  your  house,  to  express  our  sincere  regret  for  the 
scene  which  took  place  at  the  parsonage  yesterday  evening." 
And  then,  without  waiting  for  any  rejoinder,  Martial,  with 
wonderful  cleverness  and  felicity  of  expression,  began  to  repeat 
to  the  father  the  story  he  had  just  related  to  the  daughter. 
According  to  his  version,  the  duke  and  himself  were  in  despair. 
How  could  M.  Lacheneur  suppose  them  guilty  of  such  black 
ingratitude?  Why  had  he  retired  so  precipitately?  The  Due 
de  Sairmeuse  held  at  M.  Lacheneur's  disposal  any  amount 
which  it  might  please  him  to  mention — sixty,  a  hundred  thou- 
sand francs,  even  more. 

But  M.  Lacheneur  did  not  appear  to  be  dazzled  in  the  least; 
and  when  Martial  had  concluded,  he  replied  respectfully,  but 
coldly,  that  he  would  consider  the  matter. 

This  coldness  amazed  Chanlouineau,  who  when  the  marquis, 
after  many  earnest  protestations,  at  last  turned  his  face  home- 
ward, naively  declared:  "We  have  misjudged  these  people." 

But  M.  Lacheneur  shrugged  his  shoulders.  "And  so  you 
are  foolish  enough  to  suppose  that  he  offered  all  that  money 
to  met" 

"Zounds  !    I  have  ears." 

"Ah  well !  my  poor  boy,  you  must  not  believe  all  they  hear 
if  you  have.  The  truth  is,  these  large  sums  were  intended  to 
win  my  daughter's  favor.  She  has  taken  the  marquis's  fancy, 
and — he  wishes  to  make  her  his  mistress — " 

Chanlouineau,  stopped  short,  with  eyes  flashing  and  hands 
clenched.  "Good  heavens!"  he  exclaimed,  "prove  that  and  I 
am  yours,  body  and  soul — to  do  anything  you  like !" 


"  AH,  what  a  girl  she  is,  this  Marie- Anne  Lacheneur.  I've 
>**■  never  met  the  like  of  her  before — what  beauty,  grace,  and 
dignity  combined — "  thus  soliloquized  Martial  when  after  leaving 
the  grove  he  turned  in  the  direction  of  Sairmeuse.  At  the  risk 
of  losing  his  way  he  took  what  seemed  to  be  the  shortest  course, 
cutting  across  the  fields  and  leaping  the  ditches  with  the  aid  of 


322      THE  HONOR  OF  THE  NAME 

his  gun.  He  found  a  peculiar  pleasure  in  picturing  Marie- 
Anne  as  he  had  just  seen  her.  Now  blushing  and  growing 
pale  with  frightened  modesty,  and  now  raising  her  head  with 
haughty  pride  and  disdain.  Who  would  have  suspected  that 
such  girlish  artlessness  and  such  outward  frigidity  of  manner 
concealed  an  energetic  nature  and  an  impassioned  soul?  What 
an  expression  of  love  lighted  up  her  large  black  eyes  when 
she  glanced  at  young  D'Escorval !  Ah,  to  be  looked  at  thus 
only  for  a  moment  was  felicity  indeed.  No  wonder  that  Maurice 
d'Escorval  was  madly  in  love  with  her.  Was  not  he — the  mar- 
quis— in  love  with  her  himself?  "Ah,"  exclaimed  he,  "come 
what  may  she  shall  be  mine." 

Thus  meditating,  the  Marquis  de  Sairmeuse  turned  to  the 
strategic  side  of  the  question — to  assist  him  in  the  study  of 
which  he  was,  despite  his  recent  manhood,  able  to  bring  con- 
siderable experience.  His  debut,  he  was  forced  to  admit,  had 
been  neither  fortunate  nor  adroit.  Compliments  and  offers  of 
money  had  alike  been  rejected.  If  Marie-Anne  had  heard  his 
covert  insinuations  with  evident  horror,  M.  Lacheneur  had 
received  with  even  more  than  coldness  his  repeated  offers  of 
actual  wealth.  Moreover,  he  remembered  Chanlouineau's  ter- 
rible eyes;  and  the  way  the  sturdy  rustic  measured  him.  Had 
Marie-Anne  made  but  a  sign,  the  young  farmer  would  have 
crushed  him  like  an  egg-shell,  without  the  least  thought  of  his 
noble  ancestors.  Probably  the  stalwart  young  peasant  was 
another  of  Marie-Anne's  visitors,  in  which  case  there  would 
be  three  rivals  for  her  favor.  However,  the  more  difficult  the 
undertaking  seemed,  the  more  Martial's  passions  were  inflamed. 
He  reflected  that  his  blunders  might  after  all  be  repaired;  for 
occasions  of  meeting  would  not  be  wanting,  since  he  must  have 
frequent  interviews  with  M.  Lacheneur  in  effecting  a  formal 
transfer  of  Sairmeuse.  If  he  could  only  win  the  father  over 
to  his  side.  With  the  daughter  his  course  was  plain.  Profit- 
ing by  experience  he  must  henceforth  be  as  timid  as  he  had 
hitherto  been  bold,  and  she  would  be  hard  to  please  if  she  were 
not  flattered  by  such  a  triumph  of  her  beauty.  Young  D'Escorval 
remained  to  be  disposed  of.  True,  the  baron's  son  had  been 
rudely  dismissed  by  M.  Lacheneur,  and  yet  the  latter's  anger 
seemed  rather  far-fetched  to  be  absolutely  real.  Was  this  inci- 
dent merely  a  comedy,  and  if  so  who  had  Lacheneur  wished 
to  deceive — he — the  marquis — or  Chanlouineau?  And  then,  if 
there  had  been  deception,  what  could  have  been  its  motive  ?    On 


THE   HONOR   OF   THE    NAME  323 

the  other  hand  it  was  impossible  to  call  young  D'Escorval  to 
account  for  his  insolence,  for  if  even  a  pretext  were  found, 
Marie-Anne  would  never  forgive  the  man  who  raised  his  hand 
against  one  who,  for  the  time  being,  was  apparently  her  favored 
lover — so,  hard  as  it  was,  Martial  must  yet  swallow  Maurice's 
affront  in  silence.  Ah,  he  would  have  given  a  handsome  sum 
to  any  one  who  would  have  devised  a  means  of  sending  the 
baron's  son  away  from  the  neighborhood. 

Revolving  in  his  mind  these  ideas  and  plans,  the  precise  con- 
sequence of  which  he  could  neither  calculate  nor  foresee, 
Martial  was  walking  up  the  avenue  leading  to  the  Chateau  de 
Sairmeuse  when  he  heard  hurried  footsteps  behind  him.  He 
turned  and  paused  on  seeing  two  men  running  after  him  and 
motioning  him  to  stop.  The  younger  was  one  of  Father  Chupin's 
sons,  and  the  other  the  old  rascal  himself. 

The  quondam  poacher  had  been  enrolled  among  the  servants 
charged  with  preparing  Sairmeuse  for  the  duke's  reception ;  and 
he  was  already  doing  everything  in  his  power  to  make  him- 
self indispensable.  'Ah,  M.  le  Marquis,"  he  cried,  "we  have 
been  searching  for  you  everywhere,  my  son  and  I.  It  was 
M.  le  Due—" 

"Very  well,"  said  Martial  dryly.     "I  am  returning — " 

But  Chupin  was  not  oversensitive ;  and,  despite  his  curt  recep- 
tion, he  ventured  to  follow  the  marquis,  at  a  little  distance 
behind  it  is  true,  but  still  sufficiently  near  to  make  himself 
heard.  He  also  had  his  schemes,  and  it  was  not  long  before 
he  began  to  repeat  all  the  calumnies  that  had  lately  been  spread 
about  the  neighborhood  in  reference  to  Lacheneur.  Why  did 
he  choose  this  subject  in  preference  to  any  other?  Did  he  sus- 
pect the  young  marquis's  passion  for  Marie- Anne?  Perhaps  so: 
at  all  events  he  described  Lacheneur  (he  no  longer  styled  him 
"Monsieur")  as  a  thorough  rascal.  The  complete  surrender  of 
Sairmeuse,  he  said,  was  only  a  farce,  for  Marie-Anne's  father 
must  possess  thousands,  and  hundreds  of  thousands,  of  francs, 
since  he  was  about  to  marry  his  daughter.  Any  suspicions 
the  old  scoundrel  may  have  entertained  became  certainties  when 
he  heard  Martial  eagerly  ask,  "What !  is  Mademoiselle  Lache- 
neur going  to  be  married?" 

"Yes,  sir." 

"And  who's  the  happy  man?" 

"Why,  Chanlouineau,  the  fellow  the  peasants  wanted  to  kill 
yesterday  on  the  market-place  because  he  was  so  disrespectful 


324     THE  HONOR  OF  THE  NAME 

to  the  duke.  He  is  an  avaricious  man ;  and  if  Marie- Anne  does 
not  bring  him  a  good  round  sum  as  a  dowry,  he  will  never 
marry  her,  no  matter  how  beautiful  she  may  be." 

"Are  you  sure  of  what  you  say?" 

"Oh,  it's  quite  true.  My  eldest  son  heard  from  Chanloui- 
neau  and  from  Lacheneur  that  the  wedding  would  take  place 
within  a  month."  And  turning  to  his  son,  the  old  knave  added : 
"Is  it  not  true,  boy?" 

"Yes,"  promptly  replied  the  youth,  although  he  had  heard 
nothing  of  the  kind. 

Martial  made  no  rejoinder.  Perhaps  he  was  ashamed  at 
having  allowed  himself  to  listen  to  all  this  tittle-tattle ;  though 
on  the  other  hand  he  could  not  but  feel  grateful  to  Chupin  for 
such  important  information.  Lacheneur's  conduct  now  ap- 
peared all  the  more  mysterious.  Why  had  he  refused  to  give 
his  daughter  to  Maurice  d'Escorval?  why  did  he  wish  to  marry 
her  to  a  peasant?  His  conduct  must  be  guided  by  some  potent 
motive. 

Thus  cogitating,  the  young  marquis  reached  Sairmeuse,  where 
a  strange  scene  awaited  him.  On  the  broad  gravel  walk  inter- 
vening between  the  peristyle  of  the  chateau  and  the  lawn  a 
huge  pile  of  furniture,  crockery,  linen,  and  clothes  might  be 
perceived.  Half  a  dozen  lackeys  were  running  to  and  fro 
executing  the  orders  of  the  Due  de  Sairmeuse,  who  stood  on 
the  threshold  of  the  building,  and  a  passer-by  would  have  sup- 
posed that  the  occupants  of  the  chateau  were  moving.  To 
Martial  the  scene  was  inexplicable.  Approaching  his  father, 
and  saluting  him  respectfully,  he  inquired  what  it  meant. 

The  duke  burst  into  a  hearty  laugh.  "Why,  can't  you  guess?" 
he  replied.  "Why,  it's  very  simple.  When  the  lawful  master 
returns  home  he  finds  it  delightful  the  first  night  to  sleep  under 
the  usurper's  counterpane,  but  afterward  it  is  not  so  pleasant. 
Everything  here  reminds  me  too  forcibly  of  M.  Lacheneur.  It 
seems  to  me  that  I  am  in  his  house,  and  the  thought  is  unen- 
durable. So  I  have  had  them  collect  everything  belonging  to 
him  and  to  his  daughter — everything  in  fact  which  did  not 
belong  to  the  chateau  in  former  years,  and  the  servants  will 
put  all  these  goods  and  chattels  into  a  cart  and  carry  them 
to  him." 

The  young  marquis  gave  fervent  thanks  to  heaven  that  he 
had  arrived  before  it  was  too  late.  Had  his  father's  project 
been  executed,  he  might  have  oid  farewell  to  all  his  hopes  for- 


THE    HONOR   OF   THE    NAME  325 

ever.     "You  don't  surely  mean  to  do  this,   M.   le   Due?'"   he 
said  earnestly. 

"And  why  not,  pray?     Who  can  prevent  me  from  doing  it?" 

"No  one,  most  assuredly.  But  you  yourself  will  decide  on 
reflection  that  a  man  who  has  not  conducted  himself  too  badly 
has  at  least  a  right  to  some  consideration." 

The  duke  seemed  greatly  astonished.  "Consideration !"  he 
exclaimed.  "This  rascal  has  a  right  to  some  consideration ! 
You  must  be  joking  surely.  What!  I  give  him — that  is  to 
say — you  give  him  a  hundred  thousand  francs,  and  that  doesn't 
satisfy  him !  He  is  entitled  to  consideration  !  You,  who  are 
after  the  daughter,  may  treat  him  to  as  much  consideration  as 
you  like,  but  /  shall  do  as  I  please !" 

"You  have  a  perfect  right  to  do  so,  M.  le  Due,"  replied 
Martial,  "but  I  would  respectfully  observe  that  if  I  were  in 
your  place  I  should  think  twice  before  acting.  Lacheneur  has 
surrendered  Sairmeuse;  that  is  all  very  well,  but  how  can  you 
authenticate  your  claim  to  the  property?  Suppose  you  impru- 
dently irritated  him.  What  would  you  do  if  he  changed  his 
mind?     What  would  become  of  your  right  to  the  estate?" 

M.  Sairmeuse  turned  livid.  "Zounds !"  he  exclaimed.  "I  had 
not  thought  of  that.  Here,  you  fellows,  take  all  these  things 
indoors  again,  and  quickly!"  And  as  the  lackeys  prepared  to 
obey  his  orders,  "Now,"  he  remarked,  "let  us  hasten  to  Cour- 
tornieu.  They  have  already  sent  for  us  twice.  It  must  be  busi- 
ness of  the  utmost  importance  which  demands  our  attention." 

The  Chateau  de  Courtornieu  is,  next  to  that  of  Sairmeuse, 
the  most  magnificent  seigniorial  seat  in  the  district  of  Montai- 
gnac.  When  the  carriage  conveying  Martial  and  his  father 
turned  from  the  public  highway  into  the  long  narrow,  rough  by- 
road leading  to  this  historic  mansion,  the  jolting  aroused  the 
duke  from  a  profound  reverie  into  which  he  had  fallen  on 
leaving  Sairmeuse. 

The  marquis  thought  that  he  had  caused  this  unusual  fit  of 
abstraction.  "It  is  the  result  of  my  adroit  maneuvre,"  he  said 
to  himself,  not  without  secret  satisfaction.  "Until  the  restitu- 
tion of  Sairmeuse  is  legalized,  I  can  make  my  father  do  any- 
thing I  wish;  yes,  anything.  And  if  it  is  necessary,  he  will 
even  invite  Lacheneur  and  Marie-Anne  to  his  table." 

Martial  was  mistaken,  however.  The  duke  had  already  for- 
gotten the  matter,  for  his  most  vivid  impressions  were  more 
fleeting   than    the    briefest    summer    shower.      After    suddenly 


326     THE  HONOR  OF  THE  NAME 

lowering  the  glass  window  in  front  of  the  carriage,  and  order- 
ing the  coachman  to  walk  his  horses  up  the  road,  he  turned  to 
his  son  and  remarked :  "Let  us  have  a  few  minutes'  chat.  Are 
you  really  in  love  with  that  girl  Lacheneur  ?" 

Martial  could  not  repress  a  start.  "Oh !  in  love,"  said  he, 
lightly,  "that  would  perhaps  be  saying  too  much.  Let  me  say 
she  has  taken  my  fancy,  that  will  be  sufficient." 

The  duke  glanced  at  his  son  with  a  bantering  air.  "Really, 
you  delight  me !"  he  exclaimed.  "I  feared  that  this  love  affair 
might  derange,  at  least  for  the  moment,  certain  plans  that  I 
have  formed — for  I  have  formed  certain  plans  for  you." 

"The  deuce !" 

"Yes,  I  have  my  plans,  and  I  will  communicate  them  to  you 
later  in  detail.  I  will  content  myself  to-day  by  recommending 
you  to  study  Mademoiselle  Blanche  de  Courtornieu." 

Martial  made  no  reply.  This  recommendation  was  indeed 
superfluous.  If  Mademoiselle  Lacheneur  had  made  him  forget 
momentarily  Mademoiselle  de  Courtornieu  that  morning,  the 
remembrance  of  Marie-Anne  was  now  effaced  by  the  radiant 
image  of  Blanche. 

"Before  discussing  the  daughter,"  resumed  the  duke,  "let  us 
speak  of  the  father.  He  is  one  of  my  best  friends ;  and  I  know 
him  thoroughly.  You  have  heard  men  reproach  me  for  what 
they  style  my  prejudices,  haven't  you?  Well,  in  comparison 
with  the  Marquis  de  Courtornieu,  I  am  only  a  mere  Jacobin." 

"Oh!  father!" 

"Really,  such  is  the  case.  If  I  am  behind  the  age  in  which 
I  live,  he  belongs  to  the  reign  of  Louis  XIV.  Only — for  there 
is  an  only — the  principles  which  I  openly  profess,  he  keeps 
locked  up  in  his  snuff-box — and  trust  him  for  not*  forgetting 
to  open  it  at  the  proper  moment.  He  has  suffered  cruelly  for 
his  opinions,  in  the  sense  of  having  so  often  been  obliged  to 
conceal  them.  He  concealed  them,  first,  under  the  Consulate, 
when  he  returned  from  exile.  He  dissimulated  them  even  more 
courageously  under  the  Empire — for  he  played  the  part  of  a 
chamberlain  to  Bonaparte,  this  dear  marquis.  But,  hush  !  don't 
remind  him  of  that  proof  of  heroism;  he  has  bitterly  deplored 
it  since  the  battle  of  Lutzen." 

This  was  the  tone  in  which  M.  de  Sairmeuse  was  accus- 
tomed to  speak  of  his  best  friends.  "The  history  of  the  mar- 
quis's fortune,"  he  continued,  "is  the  history  of  his  marriages 
— I  say  marriages,  because  he  has  married  a  number  of  times, 


THE   HONOR   OF   THE    NAME  327 

and  always  advantageously.  Yes,  in  a  period  of  fifteen  years 
he  has  had  the  misfortune  to  lose  three  wives,  each  richer  than 
the  other.  His  daughter's  mother  was  his  third  and  last  wife, 
a  Cisse  Blossac — who  died  in  1809.  He  comforted  himself 
after  each  bereavement  by  purchasing  a  quantity  of  lands  or 
bonds.  So  that  now  he  is  as  rich  as  you  are,  and  his  influence 
is  powerful  and  widespread.  I  forgot  one  detail,  however.  He 
believes,  they  tell  me,  in  the  growing  power  of  the  clergy,  and 
has  become  very  devout." 

The  duke  checked  himself,  for  the  carriage  had  entered  the 
marquis's  grounds,  and  was  now  approaching  the  grand  entrance 
of  the  Chateau  de  Courtornieu.  As  the  wheels  grated  over  the 
gravel,  M.  de  Courtornieu  himself  appeared  on  the  threshold 
of  the  mansion  and  hastily  descended  the  steps  to  receive  his 
guests  in  person.  This  was  a  flattering  distinction,  which  he 
seldom  lavished  upon  his  visitors.  The  marquis  was  long  rather 
than  tall,  and  very  solemn  in  deportment.  His  angular  form 
was  surmounted  by  a  remarkably  small  head  (a  distinctive  char- 
acteristic of  his  race),  covered  with  thin,  glossy  black  hair, 
and  lighted  by  cold,  round  black  eyes.  The  pride  that  becomes 
a  nobleman,  and  the  humility  that  befits  a  Christian,  were  con- 
tinually at  war  with  each  other  in  his  countenance.  He  pressed 
the  hands  of  MM.  de  Sairmeuse  with  a  great  show  of  friendship, 
and  overwhelmed  them  with  compliments  expressed  in  a  thin, 
nasal  voice,  which,  coming  from  his  elongated  frame,  was  as 
astonishing  as  would  be  the  sound  of  a  flute  issuing  from  the 
pipes  of  an  orphicleide. 

"At  last  you  have  come,"  he  said;  "we  were  waiting  for 
you  before  beginning  to  deliberate  on  a  very  grave  and  delicate 
matter.  We  are  thinking  of  addressing  a  petition  to  his  maj- 
esty. The  nobility,  who  have  suffered  so  much  during  the 
Revolution,  have  a  right  to  expect  ample  compensation.  Our 
neighbors,  to  the  number  of  sixteen,  are  now  assembled  in  my 
cabinet,  transformed  for  the  time  into  a  council  chamber." 

Martial  shuddered  at  the  thought  of  all  the  ridiculous  and 
tiresome  conversation  he  would  probably  be  obliged  to  listen 
to;  and  his  father's  recommendation  occurred  to  him.  "Shall 
we  not  have  the  honor  of  paying  our  respects  to  Mademoiselle 
de  Courtornieu  !"  he  asked. 

"My  daughter  must  be  in  the  drawing-room  with  our  cousin." 
replied  the  marquis  in  an  indifferent  tone,  "at  least,  if  she  is 
not  in  the  garden." 

4 — Vol.  II— Gab. 


328     THE  HONOR  OF  THE  NAME 

This  might  be  construed  as,  "Go  and  look  for  her  if  you 
choose."  At  any  rate  so  Martial  understood  the  marquis;  and 
accordingly,  when  the  hall  was  reached,  he  allowed  his  father 
and  M.  de  Courtornieu  to  go  upstairs  without  him.  At  his  re- 
quest a  servant  opened  the  drawing-room  door,  but  he  found 
that  apartment  empty.  He  then  turned  into  the  garden,  and 
after  a  fruitless  search  was  retracing  his  steps  toward  the  house, 
when,  in  the  recesses  of  a  shady  bower,  he  espied  the  flowing 
folds  of  a  white  silk  dress.  Surmising  that  the  wearer  of  this 
dainty  toilet  was  Mademoiselle  de  Courtornieu,  he  advanced 
toward  the  bower,  and  his  heart  throbbed  quicker  when  he 
perceived  that  he  was  right.  Mademoiselle  Blanche  was  seated 
on  a  garden  bench  beside  an  elderly  lady  to  whom  she  was 
reading  a  letter  in  a  low  voice.  She  was  evidently  greatly  pre- 
occupied, since  she  did  not  hear  Martial's  approach.  Pausing 
at  about  a  dozen  paces  from  the  bower  the  susceptible  young 
marquis  lingered,  blissfully  contemplating  the  charming  tableau 
presented  to  his  gaze. 

Blanche  de  Courtornieu  was  not  absolutely  beautiful ;  but 
she  was  as  pretty,  as  piquant,  and  as  dainty  as  heart  could 
desire.  Bewitching  indeed  were  her  large  velvety  blue  eyes,  her 
dimpled  chin,  and  fresh  pouting  lips.  She  was  a  blonde — but 
one  of  those  dazzling,  radiant  blondes  found  only  in  the  coun- 
tries of  the  sun — and  her  hair,  drawn  high  upon  the  top  of  her 
head,  escaped  on  all  sides  in  a  profusion  of  glittering  ringlets 
which  seemed  almost  to  sparkle  in  the  play  of  the  light  breeze. 
One  might,  perhaps,  have  wished  her  a  trifle  taller.  But  she 
had  the  winning  charm  of  all  delicately  formed  women;  and  her 
figure  was  deliciously  symmetrical  and  admirably  proportioned. 

The  old  axiom  that  appearances  are  often  deceitful  could  not, 
however,  have  been  better  exemplified  than  in  the  case  of  this 
apparently  innocent,  artless  girl.  The  candor  sparkling  in  her 
eyes  concealed  a  parched,  hollow  soul,  worthy  of  an  experienced 
woman  of  the  world,  or  of  some  old  courtier.  Being  the  only 
daughter  of  a  millionaire  grand-seigneur,  she  had  been  so  petted 
by  all  who  approached  her,  so  bespattered  with  adulation  that 
every  good  quality  she  might  have  possessed  had  been  blighted 
in  the  bud  by  the  poisonous  breath  of  flattery.  She  was  only 
nineteen ;  and  still  it  was  impossible  for  any  one  to  have  been 
more  susceptible  to  the  charms  of  wealth  and  ambition.  She 
dreamed  of  a  position  at  court  as  most  girls  dream  of  a  lover. 
If  she  had  deigned  to  notice  Martial — and  she  had  remarked 


THE   HONOR   OF   THE   NAME  329 

him — it  was  only  because  her  father  had  told  her  that  this 
young  man  might  raise  his  wife  to  the  highest  sphere  of  power 
— a  statement  she  had  greeted  with  a  "Very  well,  we  will  see!" 
that  would  have  changed  an  enamored  suitor's  love  into  disgust. 

After  Martial  had  loitered  a  few  minutes  in  contemplation 
he  made  up  his  mind  to  advance,  and  Mademoiselle  Blanche, 
on  seeing  him.  sprang  up  with  a  pretty  affectation  of  intense 
timidity.  Bowing  low  before  her,  the  young  marquis  exclaimed 
in  a  tone  of  profound  deference :  "M.  de  Courtornieu,  made- 
moiselle, was  so  kind  as  to  tell  me  where  I  might  have  the 
honor  of  finding  you.  I  had  not  courage  enough  to  brave  those 
formidable  discussions  indoors ;  but — "  He  paused,  and  point- 
ing to  the  letter  the  young  girl  held  in  her  hand,  he  added :  "But 
I  fear  that  I  am  interrupting  you." 

"Oh  !  not  in  the  least,  Monsieur  le  Marquis,  although  this 
letter  which  I  have  just  been  reading  has,  I  confess,  deeply 
interested  me.  It  was  written  by  a  poor  child  in  whom  I  have 
taken  a  great  interest — whom  I  have  sent  for  at  times  when  I 
felt  lonely — Marie-Anne  Lacheneur." 

Accustomed  from  his  infancy  to  the  hypocrisy  of  drawing- 
rooms,  the  young  marquis  had  taught  his  face  not  to  betray 
his  feelings.  He  could  have  laughed  gaily  with  anguish  at  his 
heart ;  he  could  have  preserved  the  sternest  gravity  when  in- 
wardly convulsed  with  merriment.  And  yet,  the  mention  of 
Marie-Anne's  name  coming  from  Mademoiselle  de  Courtornieu 
caused  his  glance  to  waver.  The  thought  that  they  knew  each 
other  flashed  through  his  brain,  and  then  with  equal  rapidity 
he  recovered  his  self-possession.  But  Mademoiselle  de  Courtor- 
nieu had  perceived  his  momentary  agitation.  "What  can  it 
mean  ?"  she  wondered,  much  disturbed.  Still,  it  was  with  a 
perfect  assumption  of  innocence  that  she  continued:  "In  fact, 
you  must  have  seen  her,  this  poor  Marie-Anne,  M.  le  Marquis, 
since  her  father  was  the  guardian  of  Sairmeuse?" 

"Yes.  I  have  seen  her,  mademoiselle,"  replied  Martial,  quietly. 

"Is  she  not  remarkably  beautiful  ?  Her  beauty  is  of  an  un- 
usual type,  it  quite  takes  one  by  surprise." 

A  fool  would  have  protested.  The  marquis  was  not  guilty 
of  such  folly.     "Yes,  she  is  very  beautiful."  said  he. 

Blanche  de  Courtornieu  was  slightly  disconcerted  by  this 
apparent  frankness ;  and  it  was  with  an  air  of  hypocritical  com- 
passion that  she  murmured :  "Poor  girl !  What  will  become  of 
her?     Here  is  her  father  reduced  to  digging  the  ground." 


330     THE  HONOR  OF  THE  NAME 

"Oh !  you  exaggerate,  mademoiselle ;  my  father  will  always 
preserve  Lacheneur  from  anything  of  that  kind.'* 

"Of  course — I  might  have  known  that — but  where  will  he 
find  a  husband  for  Marie- Anne?" 

"One  has  been  found  already.  I  understand  that  she  is  to 
marry  a  farmer  in  the  neighborhood,  who  has  some  little  prop- 
erty— a  young  fellow  named  Chanlouineau." 

Mademoiselle  le  Courtornieu,  with  all  her  apparent  artless- 
ness,  was  more  cunning  than  the  marquis.  She  had  satisfied 
herself  that  she  had  just  grounds  for  her  suspicions;  and  she 
experienced  a  certain  anger  on  finding  him  so  well  informed 
in  regard  to  everything  that  concerned  Mademoiselle  Lache- 
neur. "And  do  you  fancy  this  is  the  husband  she  dreamed  of?" 
she  inquired,  still  in  a  tone  of  affected  benevolence.  "Ah,  well ! 
God  grant  that  she  may  be  happy;  for  we  were  very  fond  of 
her,  very — were  we  not,  Aunt  Medea?" 

"Yes,  very,"  replied  Aunt  Medea,  who  was  the  elderly  lady 
seated  on  the  bench  beside  the  Courtornieu  heiress.  She  was 
a  poor  relation  whom  M.  de  Courtornieu  had  installed  at  the 
chateau  as  his  daughter's  chaperone,  and  she  earned  her  daily 
bread  by  playing  the  part  of  echo  to  the  authoritative  Blanche. 

"It  grieves  me  to  see  these  friendly  relations,  which  were  so 
dear  to  me,  broken  off,"  resumed  Mademoiselle  de  Courtornieu. 
"But  listen  to  what  Marie-Anne  writes."  So  saying,  she  pro- 
duced Madeomiselle  Lacheneur's  letter  and  read  as  follows : 
"My  dear  Blanche — You  know  that  the  Due  de  Sairmeuse  ha^ 
returned.  The  news  fell  upon  us  like  a  thunderbolt.  My 
father  and  I  had  grown  too  accustomed  to  consider  the  deposit 
entrusted  to  our  fidelity  as  our  own  property,  and  now  we  have 
been  punished  for  doing  so.  At  least  we  have  done  our  duty, 
and  now  everything  is  finished.  She  whom  you  have  called 
your  friend  will  henceforth  be  only  a  poor  peasant  girl,  as  her 
mother  was  before  her." 

The  most  attentive  observer  would  have  supposed  that  Made- 
moiselle Blanche  was  experiencing  the  keenest  emotion.  One 
would  have  sworn  that  it  was  only  by  intense  effort  that  she 
succeeded  in  restraining  her  tears — that  they  were  even  trem- 
bling beneath  the  long  lashes  shading  her  eyes.  In  point  of 
fact,  however,  she  was  trying  to  discover  some  indication  of 
Martial's  feelings.  But  now  he  was  on  his  guard,  and  he 
listened  to  the  perusal  of  the  note  with  an  imperturbable  air. 
She  continued: 


THE    HONOR   OF   THE    NAME  331 

"I  should  not  be  telling  the  truth  if  I  said  that  I  have  not 
suffered  on  account  of  this  sudden  change.  But  I  have  courage 
left,  and  I  shall  learn  how  to  submit.  I  shall,  I  hope,  also 
have  strength  to  forget,  for  I  must  forget !  The  remembrances 
of  past  happiness  would  make  my  present  misery  intolerable." 

Mademoiselle  de  Courtornieu  suddenly  folded  up  the  letter. 
"Can  you  understand  such  pride  as  that?"  said  she.  "And 
they  accuse  us  daughters  of  the  nobility  of  being  proud !" 

Martial  made  no  response.  He  felt  that  his  trembling  voice 
would  betray  him.  Great  as  was  the  emotion  he  concealed, 
it  would  have  been  all  the  greater  if  he  had  been  allowed  to 
read  the  concluding  lines : — 

"One  must  live,  my  dear  Blanche,"  added  Marie-Anne,  "and 
I  feel  no  false  shame  in  asking  you  to  aid  me.  I  sew  very 
nicely,  as  you  know,  and  I  could  earn  my  livelihood  by  em- 
broidery if  I  knew  more  people.  I  will  call  to-day  at  Cour- 
tornieu to  ask  you  to  give  me  a  list  of  ladies  to  whom  I  can 
present  myself  on  your  recommendation." 

But  Mademoiselle  de  Courtornieu  had  taken  good  care  not 
to  allude  to  this  touching  request.  She  had  read  the  com- 
mencement of  the  letter  to  Martial  as  a  test,  and  plainly 
perceived  that  if  her  new-born  suspicions  were  correct,  at  all 
events  the  young  marquis  was  resolved  not  to  betray  himself 
any  further.  Rising  from  the  bench,  she  now  accepted  bis 
arm  to  return  to  the  house.  She  seemed  to  have  forgotten 
her  friend,  and  soon  engaged  in  a  gay  flirtation.  They  were 
sauntering  along  toward  the  chateau,  when  the  sound  of  voices 
engaged  in  animated  debate  reached  their  ears.  The  council 
convened  in  M.  de  Courtornieu's  cabinet  was  angrily  discussing 
the  proposed  address  to   the  king. 

Mademoiselle  Blanche  paused.  "I  am  trespassing  upon  your 
kindness,  M.  le  Marquis,"  said  she.  "I  am  boring  you  with  my 
silly  chatter  when  you  would  undoubtedly  prefer  to  be  up 
stairs." 

"Certainly  not,"  replied  Martial  laughing.  "What  should  I 
do  there?  Men  of  action  only  intervene  when  the  orators 
have  finished." 

He  spoke  so  energetically,  in  spite  of  his  jesting  tone,  that 
Mademoiselle  de  Courtornieu  was  fascinated.  She  saw  before 
her,  she  believed,  a  man  who,  as  her  father  had  said,  would 
rise  to  the  highest  position  in  the  political  world.  Unfortu- 
nately,  her   admiration   was   disturbed  by   a   ring  at  the   great 


332      THE  HONOR  OF  THE  NAME 

bell  which  always  announced  visitors.  She  faltered,  let  go 
her  hold  on  Martial's  arm,  and  exclaimed  in  an  earnest  tone. 
"Ah,  no  matter.  I  wish  very  much  to  know  what  is  going 
on  up  stairs.  If  I  ask  my  father  he  will  laugh  at  my  curiosity, 
while  you,  if  you  are  present  at  the  conference,  can  tell  me 
everything." 

A  wish  thus  expressed  was  a  command.  Martial  bowed  and 
withdrew.  "She  dismisses  me,"  he  said  to  himself  as  he 
mounted  the  staircase,  "nothing  could  be  more  evident;  and 
that  without  much  ceremony.  Why  the  deuce  did  she  want  to 
get  rid  of  me?" 

Why?  Because  that  single  peal  of  the  bell  announced  a 
visitor  to  her;  because  she  was  expecting  a  visit  from  the 
former  friend  whose  letter  she  had  just  been  reading;  and 
because  she  wished  at  any  cost  to  prevent  a  meeting  between 
Martial  and  Marie-Anne.  She  did  not  love  the  young  marquis, 
and  yet  an  agony  of  jealousy  was  torturing  her.  Such  was 
the  nature  of  Mademoiselle  Blanche. 

Her  presentiments  were  realized.  It  was  indeed  Mademoiselle 
Lacheneur  whom  she  found  awaiting  her  in  the  drawing-room. 
Marie-Anne  was  paler  than  usual ;  but  nothing  in  her  manner 
betrayed  the  frightful  anguish  she  had  suffered  during  the  past 
few  days.  In  asking  her  former  friend  for  a  list  of  ladies  to 
whom  she  could  recommend  her,  she  spoke  as  calmly  and  as 
quietly  as  in  former  days  when  she  had  ofttimes  called  at 
Courtornieu  and  invited  Blanche  to  spend  a  day  at  Sairmeuse. 
Then  the  two  girls  embraced  each  other,  their  roles  were  re- 
versed. It  was  Marie-Anne  who  had  been  crushed  by  mis- 
fortune; but  it  was  Blanche  who  wept.  However,  while  writ- 
ing down  the  names  of  the  persons  in  the  neighborhood  with 
whom  she  was  acquainted,  Mademoiselle  de  Courtornieu  did 
not  neglect  this  favorable  opportunity  for  verifying  the  sus- 
picions which  Martial's  momentary  agitation  had  roused  in 
her  breast. 

"It  is  inconceivable,"  she  remarked  to  her  friend,  "that  the 
Due  de  Sairmeuse  should  allow  you  to  be  reduced  to  such 
an  extremity." 

Marie-Anne's  nature  was  so  loyal,  that  although  the  remark 
was  leveled  against  a  man  who  had  treated  her  father  most 
cruelly,  she  at  once  resented  its  injustice.  "The  duke  is  not 
to  blame,"  she  replied  gently,  "he  offered  us  a  very  consider- 
able sum,  this  morning,  through  his  son." 


THE   HONOR   OF   THE   NAME 


333 


Mademoiselle  Blanche  started  as  if  a  viper  had  stung  her. 
"So  vou  have  seen  the  Marquis,  Marie- Anne?"  she  said. 

"Yes." 

"Has  he  been  to  your  house?" 

.  "He  was  going  there,  when  he  met  me  in  the  grove  near  La 
Reche."  As  Marie-Anne  spoke  the  recollection  of  Martial's 
impertinent  gallantry  brought  a  blush,  to  her  cheeks. 

Blanche,  despite  her  precocious  experience,  misunderstood 
the  cause  of  her  friend's  confusion.  Still  she  was  an  adapt  at 
dissimulation,  and  she  took  leave  of  Marie-Anne  with  every 
outward  sign  of  sincere  affection.  In  reality,  however,  she  was 
wellnigh  suffocating  with  rage.  "What !"  she  thought,  "they 
have  met  but  once,  and  yet  they  are  so  strongly  impressed  with 
one  another !     Do  they  love  each  other  already  ?" 


DLANCHE  DE  COURTORNIEU  would  probably  have 
*"*  been  extremely  astonished  if  Martial  had  faithfully  reported 
to  her  everything  he  heard  in  her  father's  cabinet.  He  was 
himself  passably  amazed  by  the  opinions  he  heard  expressed 
and  the  projects  he  heard  enunciated.  Above  all,  he  was 
really  disgusted  with  the  ridiculous  greed  displayed  by  M. 
de  Courtornieu's  noble  guests.  Decorations,  fortune,  honors, 
power — they  desired  everything.  They  were  satisfied  that  their 
sentimental  devotion  to  the  throne  deserved  the  most  munifi- 
cent rewards;  and  it  was  only  the  most  modest  among  them, 
who  declared  that  he  would  rest  content  with  the  epaulets 
of  lieutenant-general.  Recrimination,  rancor,  and  reproach 
were  persistently  indulged  in,  and  the  Marquis  de  Courtor- 
nieu,  who  acted  as  president  of  the  council,  soon  grew  ex- 
hausted with  exclaiming:  "Be  calm,  gentlemen,  be  calm!  A 
little   moderation,   if  you   please !" 

"All  these  men  are  mad,"  thought  Martial,  with  difficulty 
restraining  an  intense  desire  to  laugh ;  "they  are  insane 
enough  to  be  placed  in  an  asylum." 

It  so  happened  that  he  was  not  obliged  to  render  a  report 


334     THE  HONOR  OF  THE  NAME 

of  what  transpired,  for  soon  after  his  arrival  in  the  cabinet 
the  deliberations  were  fortunately  interrupted  by  a  summons 
to  dinner,  and  when  he  rejoined  Blanche,  she  had  quite  for- 
gotten to  question  him  about  the  doings  of  the  council.  In 
fact,  what  were  these  people's  hopes  and  plans  to  her?  These 
greedy  nobles  were  all  below  her  father  in  rank,  and  most  of 
them  were  much  less  rich  than  he.  Moreover,  a  matter  of 
personal  interest  had  engaged  all  her  attention.  She  had  been 
absorbed  in  thought,  since  Marie-Anne's  departure — in  thought 
of  Martial,  with  whose  mind  and  person  she  was  decidedly 
pleased.  He  possessed  all  the  qualifications  an  ambitious 
woman  could  desire  in  a  husband — and  she  had  decided  that 
she  would  marry  him.  She  would  most  likely  not  have  arrived 
at  this  conclusion  so  quickly,  had  it  not  been  for  the  feeling 
of  jealousy,  aroused  in  her  mind  by  the  belief  that  he  was 
coveted  by  another  woman,  for  the  heart  had  nothing  to  do 
with  her  new-born  desire,  which  was  one  of  those  counterfeit 
brain  passions  so  often  mistaken  for  real  love.  As  for  the 
outcome  of  her  fancy,  she  never  once  thought  that  she  might 
possibly  reap  defeat  in  lieu  of  victory:  for  over  and  over 
again  had  her  flatterers  told  her  that  the  man  she  chose  must 
esteem  himself  fortunate  above  all  others.  She  had  seen  her 
father  besieged  by  so  many  suitors  for  her  hand;  and,  besides, 
her  mirror  told  her  that  she  was  as  pretty — nay,  far  prettier 
than  Marie-Anne;  while  she  possessed  other  advantages  which 
her  rival  could  lay  no  claim  to;  birth,  wit,  and  a  genius  for 
coquetry ! 

The  result  of  Mademoiselle  de  Courtornieu's  meditations  was 
that  during  dinner  she  exercised  all  her  powers  of  fascination 
upon  the  young  marquis.  She  was  so  evidently  desirous  of 
pleasing  him  that  several  of  the  guests  remarked  it.  Some 
were  even  shocked  by  her  forwardness.  But  Blanche  de 
Courtornieu  could  do  as  she  chose,  as  she  herself  was  well 
aware.  Was  she  not  the  richest  heiress  for  miles  and  miles 
around?  No  slander  can  tarnish  the  brilliancy  of  such  a  fortune 
as  she  would  one  day  possess. 

Martial  yielded  unresistingly  to  the  charm  of  his  position. 
How  could  he  suspect  unworthy  motives  in  a  girl  whose  eyes 
had  such  an  expression  of  virgin  purity,  and  whose  laugh  be- 
spoke the  happy  gaiety  of  innocent  maidenhood.  Involuntarily 
he  compared  the  seemingly  light-hearted  Blanche  with  the  grave 
and  thoughtful  Marie-Anne,  and  his  imagination  turned  from 


THE    HONOR   OF   THE    NAME  335 

one  to  the  other,  inflamed  by  the  strangeness  of  the  contrast.  He 
occupied  a  seat  beside  Mademoiselle  de  Courtornieu  at  table, 
and  they  chatted  gaily,  amusing  themselves  at  the  expense  of 
the  other  guests,  who  were  again  conversing  upon  political 
matters,  and  whose  royalist  enthusiasm  waxed  warmer  and 
warmer  as  the  repast  proceeded.  Champagne  was  served  with 
the  dessert ;  and  the  company  drank  to  the  Allies  by  the  force 
of  whose  victorious  bayonets  the  king  had  managed  to  return 
to  Paris;  they  drank  to  the  English,  to  the  Prussians,  and  to 
the  Russians,  whose  horses  were  trampling  the  harvests  of 
France  under  foot. 

The  name  of  D'Escorval  heard  above  the  clink  of  the 
glasses,  suddenly  roused  Martial  from  his  dream  of  enchant- 
ment. An  old  nobleman  had  just  risen,  and  proposed  that 
active  measures  should  be  taken  to  rid  the  neighborhood  of 
the  Baron  d'Escorval.  "Such  a  man's  presence  dishonors  our 
province,"  said  he,  "he  is  a  frantic  Jacobin,  and  Fouche  has 
him  on  the  list  of  suspected  persons,  a  plain  proof  that  he  is 
a  dangerous  character.  Even  now  he  is  under  the  surveillance 
of  the   police." 

Had  M.  d'Escorval  heard  these  remarks,  and  had  he  seen 
the  savage  glances  which  the  listeners  exchanged,  he  would 
certainly  have  felt  anxious  for  his  safety.  Still,  if  the  old  noble- 
man's proposal  met  with  approving  looks,  the  various  guests 
plainly  hesitated  about  giving  it  their  formal  sanction.  Martial's 
easy  gaiety  of  a  moment  before  had  now  quite  vanished,  and 
he  was  as  pale  as  death.  A  terrible  struggle  was  going  on 
in  his  mind — a  conflict  between  honor  and  desire.  A  few 
hours  previously  he  had  longed  for  a  means  to  get  rid  of 
Maurice,  and  now  the  opportunity  presented  itself.  It  was 
impossible  to  imagine  a  better  one.  If  the  old  nobleman's 
proposals  were  adopted,  the  Baron  d'Escorval  and  his  family 
would  be  forced  to  leave  France  forever ! 

Martial  noted  the  hesitation  of  the  company,  and  felt  that 
a  word  from  him  would  probably  decide  the  matter.  What 
should  he  do — should  he  second  the  suggestion  or  oppose  it? 
He  did  not  reflect  for  long.  The  voice  of  honor  imperatively 
commanded  him  to  do  his  duty.  Rising  from  his  seat  he  de- 
clared that  the  suggestion  was  most  impolitic.  "M.  d'Escorval," 
he  said,  "is  one  of  those  men  whose  spirit  of  honesty  and  justice 
has  made  him  rightly  popular.  He  fully  deserves  the  general 
esteem  in  which  he  is  held  in  the  district.    And  by  attacking 


336     THE  HONOR  OF  THE  NAME 

him  you  would  make  many  malcontents  among  those  whose 
support  it  is  our  duty  to  obtain  in  the  interests  of  the  monarchy." 

The  young  marquis's  cold  and  haughty  manner,  his  few  but 
incisive  words  decided  the  question.  "We  had  better  leave 
the  baron  alone.  It  would  be  a  great  mistake  to  attack  him," 
such  were  the  comments  exchanged  on  every  side. 

When  Martial  sat  down  again  Blanche  de  Courtornieu  leant 
toward  him.  "You  have  acted  rightly,"  she  murmured.  "I 
see  you  know  how  to  defend  your  friends." 

"M.  d'Escorval  is  not  my  friend,"  replied  Martial,  in  a  voice 
which  revealed  the  struggle  through  which  he  had  passed.  "The 
injustice  of  the  proposal  incensed  me,  that  is  all." 

Mademoiselle  de  Courtornieu  was  not  to  be  deceived  by  an 
explanation  like  this.  Still,  feigning  to  accept  it,  she  quietly 
added:  "Then  your  conduct  is  all  the  more  admirable,  M. 
le  Marquis." 

Such  was  not  the  opinion  of  the  Due  de  Sairmeuse,  how- 
ever. On  returning  to  the  chateau  some  hours  later,  he  re- 
proached his  son  for  his  intervention.  "Why  the  deuce  did  you 
meddle  with  the  matter?"  he  inquired.  "I  should  not  have 
liked  to  take  upon  myself  the  odium  of  the  proposition,  but 
since  it  had  been  made — " 

"I  was  anxious  to  prevent  such  an  act  of  useless  folly !" 

"Useless  folly !  Zounds !  marquis,  you  carry  matters  with 
a  high  hand.  Do  you  think  that  cursed  baron  adores  you? 
What  would  you  say  if  you  heard  that  he  was  conspiring 
against  us?" 

"I  should  answer  with  a  shrug  of  the  shoulders." 

"You  would !  Very  well  then,  just  do  me  the  favor  to 
question  Chupin." 

The  Due  de  Sairmeuse  had  only  been  a  fortnight  in  France; 
he  had  scarcely  shaken  the  dust  of  exile  from  his  feet,  and 
already  his  imagination  saw  enemies  on  every  side.  He  had 
slept  but  two  nights  in  the  chateau  of  his  forefathers,  and  yet 
he  accepted  the  venomous  reports  which  Chupin  poured  into 
his  ears  as  unhesitatingly  as  if  they  had  been  gospel  truth. 
The  suspicions  which  he  tried  to  instil  into  Martial's  mind 
were,  however,  cruelly  unjust. 

At  the  very  moment  when  the  duke  accused  M.  d'Escorval 
of  conspiring  against  the  house  of  Sairmeuse,  the  baron  was 
weeping  at  the  bedside  of  his  son,  whose  life  he  feared  for. 
Maurice  was  indeed  dangerously  ill.     Mental  agony  had  over- 


THE   HONOR   OF   THE    NAME  337 

come  him  and  with  his  nervous  organism  the  circumstance 
was  not  surprising.  After  leaving  the  grove  near  La  Reche 
in  obedience  with  M.  Lacheneur's  orders,  he  had  mechanically 
returned  home,  a  hundred  conflicting  thoughts  battling  in 
his  mind.  What  did  it  all  mean?  The  marquis's  insults, 
Lacheneur's  feigned  anger,  Marie-Anne's  obstinacy — all  the 
incidents  in  which  he  had  just  taken  part  combined  to  crush 
him;  and  so  singular  was  his  demeanor  that  the  peasants  who 
met  him  on  the  way  felt  convinced  that  some  great  calamity 
had  befallen  the  D'Escorval  family.  When  he  reached  home 
his  mother  experienced  a  terrible  shock  on  perceiving  the  wild, 
haggard  expression  of  his  features.  Still  he  had  enough 
strength  of  mind  left  to  try  and  reassure  her.  "It  is  all  over," 
he  exclaimed  in  a  tremulous  voice,  "but  don't  be  worried, 
mother ;  for  I  have  some  courage  left,  as  you  shall  see." 

He  did,  in  fact,  seat  himself  at  the  dinner-table  with  a 
resolute  air.  He  ate  even  more  than  usual ;  and  his  father 
noticed,  without  alluding  to  it,  that  he  drank  more  wine  than 
he  was  in  the  habit  of  doing.  He  was  very  pale,  his  eyes 
glittered,  his  manner  and  appearance  were  suggestive  of  the 
febrile  agitation  from  which  he  was  suffering,  and  he  spoke 
in  a  husky  tone,  talking  much  and  at  times  even  jesting. 

"Why  don't  he  cry,"  thought  Madame  d'Escorval ;  "then 
I  shouldn't  be  so  much  alarmed,  and  I  could  try  to  comfort 
him." 

This  was  Maurice's  last  effort.  Directly  dinner  was  over  he 
went  upstairs  to  his  room,  and  when  his  mother,  after  repeat- 
edly listening  at  the  door,  finally  decided  to  enter  and  ascertain 
what  he  was  about,  she  found  him  lying  upon  the  bed,  mutter- 
ing incoherently.  He  did  not  appear  to  recognize  or  even  to 
see  her;  and  when  she  spoke  to  him,  he  did  not  seem  to  hear. 
His  face  was  scarlet,  and  his  lips  were  parched.  She  took 
hold  of  his  hand  and  found  that  it  was  burning,  and  this 
although  his  body  trembled  and  his  teeth  chattered  as  if  with 
cold. 

No  words  could  describe  Madame  d'Escorval's  agony  on 
making  this  discovery.  For  a  moment  she  feared  she  was  about 
to  faint:  but,  summoning  all  her  strength,  she  sprang  to  the 
staircase,  and  cried:  "Help!  help!    My  son  is  dying!" 

With  a  bound,  M.  d'Escorval  reached  his  son's  room,  and, 
after  a  brief  inspection,  instructed  a  servant  to  saddle  a  horse 
and  gallop  to  Montaignac  for  a  doctor  without  delay.     It  is 


338     THE  HONOR  OF  THE  NAME 

true  that  there  was  a  medical  man  at  Sairmeuse,  but  he  was 
a  disgrace  to  his  profession.  After  serving  for  a  short  time 
as  an  army  surgeon  he  had  been  dismissed  for  absolute  incom- 
petency. The  peasants  shunned  him  as  they  would  have 
shunned  the  plague ;  and  in  cases  of  sickness  they  always 
sent  for  the  village  cure.  M.  d'Escorval  now  followed 
their  example,  in  this  respect  well  knowing  that  the  phy- 
sician from  Montaignac  could  not  possibly  arrive  long  before 
morning. 

The  Abbe  Midon  had  never  frequented  a  medical  school,  but 
since  he  had  been  ordained  to  Sairmeuse  the  poor  had  so  often 
asked  for  his  advice  that  he  had  applied  himself  to  the  study  of 
medicine,  and,  aided  by  experience,  had  acquired  a  knowledge 
of  the  healing  art  well  worthy  of  a  faculty  diploma.  No 
matter  at  what  hour  of  the  day  or  night  his  parishioners 
chanced  to  beg  his  help,  he  was  always  ready — and  the  same 
answer  invariably  greeted  their  appeals:  "Let  us  go  at  once." 
Thus,  when  the  people  of  the  neighborhood  met  him  on  the  road 
with  his  little  medicine  bag  slung  over  his  shoulder,  they  doffed 
their  hats  respectfully  and  stood  aside  to  let  him  pass.  Those 
who  did  not  respect  the  priest  honored  the  man. 

When  the  abbe  learnt  that  M.  d'Escorval  needed  his  advice 
he  set  out  at  once.  The  baron  was  his  friend,  and  he  was 
anxious  to  do  everything  in  his  power  to  save  young  Maurice, 
whom  the  frightened  messenger  described  as  almost  dead.  The 
priest  was  just  in  sight  of  Escorval  when  the  baroness  rushed 
out  to  meet  him,  and  her  manner  was  so  suggestive  of  despair 
that  the  abbe  feared  she  was  about  to  announce  some  irrep- 
arable misfortune.  But,  no — she  took  his  hand,  and,  without 
uttering  a  word,  led  him  to  her  son's  room.  Maurice's  condi- 
tion was  indeed  critical,  but  it  was  not  hopeless,  as  the  priest  at 
once  perceived.  "We  will  get  him  out  of  this,"  he  said  with 
a  smile  that  reawakened  hope. 

And  then,  with  the  coolness  of  an  old  practitioner,  he  bled 
his  patient  freely,  and  ordered  applications  of  ice  to  his 
head.  In  a  moment  all  the  household  was  busy  executing 
the  cure's  various  orders.  He  took  advantage  of  the  op- 
portunity thus  offered  to  draw  the  baron  aside  and  inquire 
what   had    happened. 

"A  disappointment  in  love,"  replied  M.  d'Escorval,  with  a 
despairing  gesture.  "Yesterday  afternoon  M.  Lacheneur  re- 
fused to  let  his  daughter  marry  Maurice,  who,  however,  was 


THE   HONOR   OF   THE    NAME  339 

to  have  seen  Marie-Anne  to-day.  What  passed  between  them 
I  don't  know,  but  you  see  what  is  the  result." 

At  this  moment  the  baroness  reentered  the  room,  and  the 
abbe  was  unable  to  make  any  rejoinder.  Maurice  was  now 
more  excited  than  ever;  and  in  his  delirium  he  frequently  mut- 
tered the  names  of  Marie-Anne,  Martial  de  Sairmeuse.  and 
Chanlouineau.  The  hours  slowly  passed  without  bringing  any 
change  in  his  condition,  and  the  vigil,  shared  by  the  distressed 
parents  and  their  friend  the  priest,  was  an  anxious  one  indeed. 
Dawn  was  just  at  hand,  when  the  stillness  out  of  doors  was 
broken  by  the  sound  of  a  horse's  hoofs  approaching  at  a  swift 
gallop  along  the  neighboring  highway.  A  few  minutes  later 
and  the  doctor  from  Montaignac  entered  the  house. 

"There  is  no  motive  for  immediate  alarm,"  he  said,  after 
carefully  examining  Maurice  and  conferring  with  the  abbe. 
Nothing  more  could  be  done  at  present.  The  fever  must  take 
its  course,  but  I  will  return  to-morrow." 

He  did  return  every  day  during  the  ensuing  week,  and  not 
until  his  eighth  visit  did  he  proclaim  Maurice  to  be  out  of 
danger.  Then  it  was  that  the  Baron  d'Escorval  sought  infor- 
mation concerning  the  cause  of  this  dangerous  attack,  and  learnt 
from  his  son  what  had  transpired  in  the  pine  grove  near  La 
Reche. 

"Are  you  sure,"  asked  the  baron,  when  Maurice  had  finished 
his  narrative,  "are  you  sure  that  you  correctly  understood 
Marie-Anne's  reply?  Did  she  really  tell  you  that  even  if  her 
father  gave  his  consent  to  your  marriage  she  would  refuse 
hers?" 

"Those  were  her  very  words." 

"And  still  she  loves  you?" 

"I  am  sure  of  it." 

"You  were  not  mistaken  in  M.  Lacheneur's  tone  when  he 
said  to  you :  'Be  off,  you  young  wretch !  do  you  want  to  render 
all  my  precautions  useless?" 

"No." 

M.  d'Escorval  sat  for  a  moment  in  silence.  "This  passes  com- 
prehension," he  murmured  at  last.  And  then  so  low  that  his 
son  could  not  hear  him,  he  added:  "I  will  see  Lacheneur 
to-morrow :  this  mystery  must  be  explained." 


340 


THE  HONOR  OF  THE  NAME 


'T'HE  cottage  where  M.  Lacheneur  had  taken  refuge  stood 
*  on  a  hill  overlooking  the  river.  It  was  a  small  and 
humble  dwelling,  though  scarcely  so  miserable  in  its  aspect 
and  appointments  as  most  of  the  peasant  abodes  round  about. 
It  comprised  a  single  story  divided  into  three  rooms  and 
roofed  with  thatch.  In  front  was  a  tiny  garden,  where  a  vine 
straggling  over  the  walls  of  the  house,  a  few  fruit  trees,  and 
some  withered  vegetables  just  managed  to  exist.  Small  as  was 
this  garden  patch,  and  limited  as  was  its  production,  still  Lache- 
neur's  aunt,  to  whom  the  dwelling  had  formerly  belonged,  had 
only  succeeded  in  conquering  the  natural  sterility  of  the  soil 
after  long  years  of  patient  perseverance.  Day  after  day,  during 
a  lengthy  period,  she  had  regularly  spread  in  front  of  the  cot- 
tage three  or  four  basketfuls  of  arable  soil  brought  from  a 
couple  of  miles  distant ;  and  though  she  had  been  dead  for  more 
than  a  twelvemonth,  one  could  still  detect  a  narrow  pathway 
across  the  waste,  worn  by  her  patient  feet  in  the  performance 
of  this  daily  task. 

This  was  the  path  which  M.  d'Escorval,  faithful  to  his  reso- 
lution, took  the  following  day,  in  the  hope  of  obtaining  from 
Marie-Anne's  father  some  explanation  of  his  singular  conduct. 
The  baron  was  so  engrossed  in  his  own  thoughts  that  he  failed 
to  realize  the  excessive  heat  as  he  climbed  the  rough  hillside  in 
the  full  glare  of  the  noonday  sun.  When  he  reached  the  sum- 
mit, however,  he  paused  to  take  breath ;  and  while  wiping  the 
perspiration  from  his  brow,  turned  to  look  back  on  the  valley 
whence  he  had  come.  It  was  the  first  time  he  had  visited 
the  spot,  and  he  was  surprised  at  the  extent  of  the  landscape 
offered  to  his  view.  From  this  point,  the  most  elevated  in  the 
surrounding  country,  one  can  survey  the  course  of  the  Oiselle 
for  many  miles ;  and  in  the  distance  a  glimpse  may  be  obtained 
of  the  ancient  citadel  of  Montaignac,  perched  on  an  almost  in- 
accessible rock.  A  man  in  the  baron's  mood  could,  however, 
take  but  little  interest  in  the  picturesqueness  of  the  scenery, 


THE   HONOR   OF  THE   NAME  341 

though,  when  he  turned  his  back  to  the  valley  and  prepared 
to  resume  his  walk,  he  was  certainly  struck  by  the  aspect  of 
Lacheneur's  new  abode.  His  imagination  pictured  the  suffer- 
ings of  this  unfortunate  man,  who,  only  two  days  before,  had 
relinquished  the  splendors  of  the  Chateau  du  Sairmeuse  to 
resume  the  peasant  life  of  his  early  youth 

"Come  in !"  cried  a  female  voice  when  M.  d'Escorval  rapped 
at  the  door  of  the  cottage.  He  lifted  the  latch,  and  entered 
a  small  room  with  whitewashed  walls,  having  no  other  ceiling 
than  the  thatched  roof,  and  no  other  flooring  than  the  bare 
ground.  A  table  with  a  wooden  bench  on  either  side  stood 
in  the  middle  of  this  humble  chamber,  in  one  corner  of  which 
was  an  old  bedstead.  On  a  stool  near  the  narrow  casement 
sat  Marie-Anne,  working  at  a  piece  of  embroidery,  and  clad  in 
a  peasant  girl's  usual  garb. 

At  the  sight  of  M.  d'Escorval,  she  rose  to  her  feet,  and  for 
a  moment  they  remained  standing  in  front  of  one  another,  she 
apparently  calm,  he  visibly  agitated.  Lacheneur's  daughter  was 
paler  than  usual,  she  seemed  even  thinner,  but  there  was  a 
strange,  touching  charm  about  her  person ;  the  consciousness 
of  duty  nobly  fulfilled,  of  resignation  calling  for  accomplish- 
ment, lending,  as  it  were,  a  new  radiance  to  her  beauty. 

Remembering  his  son,  M.  d'Escorval  was  surprised  at  Marie- 
Anne's  tranquillity. 

"You  don't  inquire  after  Maurice,"  he  said,  with  a  touch  of 
reproachfulness  in  his  voice. 

"I  had  news  of  him  this  morning,  as  I  have  had  every  day," 
quietly  replied  Marie-Anne.  "I  know  that  he  is  getting  better, 
and  that  he  was  able  to  take  some  food  yesterday." 

"You  have  not  forgotten  him,  then?" 

She  trembled;  a  faint  blush  suffused  her  cheeks  and  fore- 
head, but  it  was  in  a  calm  voice  that  she  replied :  "Maurice 
knows  that  it  would  be  impossible  for  me  to  forget  him,  even 
if  I  wished  to  do  so." 

"And  yet  you  told  him  that  you  approved  your  father's 
decision !" 

"Yes,  I  told  him  so ;  and  I  shall  have  the  courage  to  repeat  it." 

"But  you  have  made  Maurice  most  wretched  and  unhappy, 
my  dear  child ;  he  almost  died  of  grief." 

She  raised  her  head  proudly,  looked  M.  d'Escorval  fully  in 
the  face  and  answered:  "Do  you  think,  then,  that  I  haven't 
suffered  myself?" 


342     THE  HONOR  OF  THE  NAME 

M.  d'Escorval  was  nbashed  for  a  moment :  but  speedily  recov- 
ering himself,  he  took  hold  of  Marie-Anne's  hand  and,  press- 
ing it  affectionately,  exclaimed:  "So  Maurice  loves  you,  and 
you  love  him;  you  are  both  suffering:  he  has  nearly  died  of 
grief  and  still  you  reject  him !" 

"It  must  be  so,  sir." 

"You  say  this,  my  dear  child — you  say  this,  and  you  un- 
doubtedly believe  it.  But  I,  who  have  sought  to  discover  the 
necessity  of  this  immense  sacrifice,  have  quite  failed  to  find  any 
plausible  reason.  Explain  to  me  why  it  must  be  so,  Marie- 
Anne.  Have  you  no  confidence  in  me  ?  Am  I  not  an  old 
friend?  It  may  be  that  your  father  in  his  despair  has  adopted 
extreme  resolutions.  Let  me  know  them,  and  we  will  conquer 
them  together.  Lacheneur  knows  how  deeply  I  am  attached 
to  him.     I  will  speak  to  him :  he  will  listen  to  me." 

"I  can  tell  you  nothing,  sir." 

"What !  you  remain  inflexible  when  a  father  entreats  you  to 
assist  him,  when  he  says  to  you :  'Marie- Anne,  you  hold  my 
son's  happiness,  life,  and  reason  in  your  hands.  Can  you  be 
so  cruel — '  " 

"Ah !  it  is  you  who  are  cruel,  sir,"  answered  Marie-Anne 
with  tears  glittering  in  her  eyes ;  "it  is  you  who  are  without 
pity.  Can  not  you  see  what  I  suffer?  No,  I  have  nothing  to 
tell  you ;  there  is  nothing  you  can  say  to  my  father.  Why  try 
to  unnerve  me  when  I  require  all  my  courage  to  struggle  against 
my  despair?  Maurice  must  forget  me;  he  must  never  see  me 
again.  This  is  fate ;  and  he  must  not  fight  against  it.  It  would 
be  folly.  Beseech  him  to  leave  the  country,  and  if  he  refuses, 
you,  who  are  his  father,  must  command  him  to  do  so.  And  you, 
too,  in  heaven's  name  fly  from  us.  We  shall  bring  misfortune 
upon  you.  Never  return  here ;  our  house  is  accursed.  The  fate 
that  overshadows  us  may  ruin  you  as  well." 

She  spoke  almost  wildly,  and  her  voice  was  so  loud  that  it 
reached  an  adjoining  room,  the  door  of  which  suddenly  opened, 
M.  Lacheneur  appearing  upon  the  threshold. 

At  the  sight  of  M.  d'Escorval  the  whilom  lord  of  Sairmeuse 
could  not  restrain  an  oath ;  but  there  was  more  sorrow  and 
anxiety  than  anger  in  his  manner  as  he  said,  "What,  you 
here,  baron  ?" 

The  consternation  into  which  Marie-Anne's  words  had  thrown 
M.  d'Escorval  was  so  intense  that  he  could  only  just  manage 
to  stammer  a  reply.     "You  have  abandoned  us  entirely;  I  was 


THE   HONOR   OF  THE   NAME  343 

anxious  about  you.  Have  you  forgotten  your  old  friendship? 
I  come  to  you — " 

"Why  did  you  not  inform  me  of  the  honor  that  the  baron 
had  done  me,  Marie-Anne?"  said  Lacheneur  sternly. 

She  tried  to  speak,  but  could  not ;  and  it  was  the  baron  who 
replied:  "Why,  I  have  but  just  arrived,  my  dear  friend." 

M.  Lacheneur  looked  suspiciously,  first  at  his  daughter  and 
then  at  the  baron.  His  brow  was  overcast  as  he  was  evidently 
wondering  what  M.  d'Escorval  and  Marie-Anne  had  said  to 
each  other  while  they  were  alone.  Still,  however  great  his  dis- 
quietude may  have  been,  he  seemed  to  master  it ;  and  it  was  with 
his  old-time  affability  of  manner  that  he  invited  M.  d'Escorval 
to  follow  him  into  the  adjoining  room.  "It  is  my  reception- 
room  and  study  combined,"  he  said  smilingly. 

This  room,  although  much  larger  than  the  first,  was,  how- 
ever, quite  as  scantily  furnished,  but  piled  up  on  the  floor  and 
table  were  a  number  of  books  and  packages,  which  two  men 
were  busy  sorting  and  arranging.  One  of  these  men  was 
Chanlouineau,  whom  M.  d'Escorval  at  once  recognized,  though 
he  did  not  remember  having  ever  seen  the  other  one,  a  young 
fellow  of  twenty  or  thereabouts.  With  the  latter's  identity  he 
was,  however,  soon  made  acquainted. 

"This  is  my  son,.  Jean,"  said  Lacheneur.  "He  has  changed 
since  you  last  saw  him  ten  years  ago." 

It  was  true.  Fully  ten  years  had  elapsed  since  the  baron 
last  saw  Lacheneur's  son.  How  time  flies !  He  had  known 
Jean  as  a  boy,  and  he  now  found  him  a  man.  Young  Lache- 
neur was  just  in  his  twenty-first  year,  but  with  his  haggard 
features  and  precocious  beard  he  looked  somewhat  older.  He 
was  tall  and  well  built,  and  his  face  indicated  more  than  aver- 
age intelligence.  Still  he  did  not  convey  a  favorable  impres- 
sion. His  restless  eyes  betokened  a  prying  curiosity  of  mind, 
and  his  smile  betrayed  an  unusual  degree  of  shrewdness, 
amounting  almost  to  cunning.  He  made  a  deep  bow  when 
his  father  introduced  him ;  but  he  was  evidently  out  of  temper. 

"Having  no  longer  the  means  to  keep  Jean  in  Paris,"  resumed 
M.  Lacheneur,  "I  have  made  him  return  as  you  see.  My  ruin 
will,  perhaps,  prove  a  blessing  to  him.  The  air  of  great  cities 
is  not  good  for  a  peasant's  son.  Fools  that  we  are,  we  send 
our  children  to  Paris  that  they  may  learn  to  rise  above  their 
fathers.  But  they  do  nothing  of  the  kind.  They  think  only  of 
degrading  themselves." 


344     THE  HONOR  OF  THE  NAME 

"Father,"  interrupted  the  young  man;  '"ather,  wait  at  least 
until  we  are  alone !" 

"M.  d'Escorval  is  not  a  stranger,"  retorted  M.  Lacheneur, 
and  then  turning  again  to  the  baron,  he  continued:  "I  mu9t 
have  wearied  you  by  telling  you  again  and  again :  'I  am 
pleased  with  my  son.  He  has  a  commendable  ambition;  he  is 
working  faithfully  and  is  bound  to  succeed  !'  Ah  !  I  was  a 
poor  foolish  father !  The  friend  whom  I  commissioned  to  call 
on  Jean  and  tell  him  to  return  here  has  enlightened  me  as  to 
the  truth.  The  model  young  man  you  see  here  only  left  the 
gaming-house  to  run  to  some  public  ball.  He  was  in  love  with 
a  wretched  little  ballet  girl  at  some  low  theatre;  and  to  please 
this  creature  he  also  went  on  the  stage  with  his  face  painted 
red  and  white." 

"It's  not  a  crime  to  appear  on  the  stage,"  interrupted  Jean 
with  a  flushed  face. 

"No;  but  it  is  a  crime  to  deceive  one's  father  and  to  affect 
virtues  one  doesn't  possess!  Have  I  ever  refused  you  money? 
No;  and  yet  you  have  got  into  debt  on  all  sides.  You  owe  at 
least  twenty  thousand  francs !" 

Jean  hung  his  head;  he  was  evidently  angry,  but  he  feared 
his  father. 

"Twenty  thousand  francs !"  repeated  M.  -Lacheneur.  "I  had 
them  a  fortnight  ago;  now  I  haven't  a  sou.  I  can  only  hope 
to  obtain  this  sum  through  the  generosity  of  the  Due  or  the 
Marquis  de  Sairmeuse." 

The  baron  uttered  an  exclamation  of  surprise.  He  only  knew 
of  the  scene  at  the  parsonage  and  believed  that  there  would 
be  no  further  connection  between  Lacheneur  and  the  duke's 
family.  Lacheneur  perceived  M.  d'Escorval's  amazement,  and 
it  was  with  every  token  of  sincerity  and  good  faith  that  he 
resumed : 

"What  I  say  astonishes  you.  Ah!  I  understand  why.  My 
anger  at  first  led  me  to  indulge  in  all  sorts  of  absurd  threats. 
Rut  I  am  calm  now,  and  realize  my  injustice.  What  could  I 
expect  the  duke  to  do?  To  make  me  a  present  of  Sairmeuse? 
He  was  a  trifle  brusk,  I  confess,  but  that  is  his  way;  at  heart 
he  is  the  best  of  men." 

"Have  you  seen  him  again  ?" 

"No ;  but  I  have  seen  his  son.  I  have  even  been  with  him 
to  the  chateau  to  select  the  articles  which  I  desire  to  keep.  Oh ! 
he  refused  me  nothing.     Everything  was  placed  at  my  disposal 


THE   HONOR   OF   THE   NAME  346 

— everything.  I  selected  what  I  wanted,  furniture,  clothes, 
linen.  Everything  is  to  be  brought  here ;  and  I  shall  be  quite 
a  great  man." 

"Why  not  seek  another  house?    This — " 
"This  pleases  me.    Its  situation  suits  me  perfectly." 
In  fact,  after  all,  thought  M.  d'Escorval  why  should  not  the 
Sairmeuses  have  regretted  their  odious  conduct?     And  if  they 
had  done  so  might  not  Lacheneur,  in  spite  of  indignation,  agree 
to  accept  honorable  conditions  ? 

"To  say  that  the  marquis  has  been  kind  is  saying  too  little," 
continued  Lacheneur.  "He  has  shown  us  the  most  delicate  at- 
tentions. For  example,  having  noticed  how  much  Marie-Anne 
regrets  the  loss  of  her  flowers,  he  has  promised  to  send  her 
plants  to  stock  our  small  garden,  and  they  will  be  renewed 
every  month." 

Like  all  passionate  men,  M.  Lacheneur  overdid  his  part.  This 
last  remark  was  too  much ;  it  awakened  a  terrible  suspicion 
in  M.  d'Escorval's  mind.  "Good  heavens !"  he  thought,  "does 
this  wretched  man  meditate  some  crime?"  He  glanced  at 
Chanlouineau,  and  his  anxiety  increased,  for  on  hearing  Lache- 
neur speak  of  the  marquis  and  Marie-Anne,  the  stalwart  young 
farmer  had  turned  livid. 

"It  is  decided,"  resumed  Lacheneur  with  an  air  of  unbounded 
satisfaction,  "that  they  will  give  me  the  ten  thousand  francs 
bequeathed  to  me  by  Mademoiselle  Armande.  Moreover,  I  am 
to  fix  upon  such  a  sum  as  I  consider  a  just  recompense  for  my 
services.  And  that  is  not  all :  they  have  offered  me  the  position 
of  manager  at  Sairmeuse;  and  I  was  to  be  allowed  to  occupy 
the  gamekeeper's  cottage,  where  I  lived  so  long.  But  on  reflec- 
tion I  refused  this  offer.  After  having  enjoyed  a  fortune  which 
did  not  belong  to  me  during  so  many  years,  I  am  now  anxious 
to  amass  a  fortune  of  my  own." 

"Would  it  be  indiscreet  in  me  to  inquire  what  vou  intend 
to  do?" 

"Not  the  least  in  the  world.    I  am  going  to  turn  pedler." 
M.    d'Escorval    could   not   believe   his   ears.     "Pedler?"    he 
repeated. 

"Yes,  M.  le  Baron.     Look,  there  is  my  pack  in  that  corner." 
"But  that's  absurd,"  exclaimed  M.  d'Escorval.     "People  can 
scarcely  earn  their  daily  bread  in  this  way!" 

"You  are  wrong,  sir.  I  have  considered  the  subject  care- 
fully; the  profits  are  thirty  per  cent.     And  besides,  there  will 


346     THE  HONOR  OF  THE  NAME 

be  three  of  us  to  sell  the  goods,  for  I  shall  confide  one  pack 
to  my  son,  and  another  to  Chanlouineau." 

"What !     Chanlouineau  ?" 

"He  has  become  my  partner  in  the  enterprise." 

"And  his  farm — who  will  take  care  of  that?" 

"He  will  employ  day  laborers."  And  then,  as  if  wishing  to 
make  M.  d'Escorval  understand  that  his  visit  had  lasted  quite 
long  enough,  Lacheneur  began  arranging  such  of  the  little 
packages  as  were  intended  for  his  own  pack. 

But  the  baron  was  not  to  be  got  rid  of  so  easily,  especially 
now  that  his  suspicions  had  almost  ripened  into  certainty.  "I 
must  speak  with  you  alone,"  he  said  in  a  curt  tone. 

M.  Lacheneur  turned  round.  "I  am  very  busy,"  he  replied 
with  evident  reluctance  of  manner. 

"I  only  ask  for  five  minutes.  But  if  you  haven't  the  time  to 
spare  to-day,  I  can  return  to-morrow — the  day  after  to-morrow 
— or  any  day  when  I  can  see  you  in  private." 

Lacheneur  saw  plainly  that  it  would  be  impossible  to  escape 
this  interview,  so  with  a  gesture  of  a  man  who  resigns  himself 
to  a  necessity,  he  bade  his  son  and  Chanlouineau  withdraw. 

They  left  the  room,  and  as  soon  as  the  door  had  closed  behind 
them,  Lacheneur  exclaimed :  "I  know  very  well,  M.  le  Baron, 
the  arguments  you  intend  to  advance;  and  the  reason  of  your 
coming.  You  come  to  ask  me  again  for  Marie-Anne.  I  know 
that  my  refusal  has  nearly  killed  Maurice.  Believe  me,  I  have 
suffered  cruelly  at  the  thought;  but  my  refusal  is  none  the  less 
irrevocable.  There  is  no  power  in  the  world  capable  of  chang- 
ing my  resolution.  Don't  ask  my  motives ;  I  can  not  reveal 
them ;  but  rest  assured  that  they  are  sufficiently  weighty." 

"Are  we  not  your  friends?"  asked  M.  d'Escorval. 

"You — !"  exclaimed  Lacheneur  with  affectionate  cordiality — 
"ah  !  you  know  it  well ! — you  are  the  best,  the  only  friends  I 
have  here  below.  I  should  be  the  greatest  wretch  living  if  I 
did  not  retain  the  recollection  of  your  kindness  until  my  eyes 
close  in  death.  Yes,  you  are  my  friends,  yes,  I  am  devoted  to 
you — and  it  is  for  that  very  reason  that  I  answer  your  pro- 
posals with  no,  no,  never !" 

There  was  no  longer  any  room  for  doubt.  M.  d'Escorval 
seized  Lacheneur's  hands,  and  almost  crushing  them  in  his 
grasp,  "Unfortunate  man !"  he  exclaimed,  "what  do  you  intend 
to  do?    Of  what  terrible  vengeance  are  you  dreaming?" 

"I  swear  to  you — " 


THE   HONOR   OF   THE    NAME  847 

"Oh  !  do  not  swear.  You  can  not  deceive  a  man  of  my  age 
and  of  my  experience.  I  divine  your  intentions — you  hate  the 
Sairmeuse  family  more  mortally  than  ever." 

"Yes,  you ;  and  if  you  pretend  to  forget  the  way  they  treated 
you,  it  is  only  that  they  may  forget  it.  These  people  have 
offended  you  too  cruelly  not  to  fear  you ;  you  understand  this, 
and  you  are  doing  all  in  your  power  to  reassure  them.  You 
accept  their  advances — you  kneel  before  them — why  ?  Because 
they  will  be  more  completely  in  your  power  when  you  have 
lulled  their  suspicions  to  rest ;  and  then  you  can  strike  them 
more  surely — " 

He  paused;  the  door  of  the  front  room  opened,  and  Marie- 
Anne  appeared  upon  the  threshold.  "Father."  said  she,  "here 
is  the  Marquis  de  Sairmeuse." 

The  mention  of  this  name  at  such  a  juncture  was  so 
ominously  significant  that  M.  d'Escorval  could  not  restrain  a 
gesture  of  surprise  and  fear.  "He  dares  to  come  here !"  he 
thought.  "What,  is  he  not  afraid  the  very  walls  will  fall  and 
crush  him?" 

M.  Lacheneur  cast  a  withering  glance  at  his  daughter.  He 
suspected  her  of  a  ruse  which  might  force  him  to  reveal  his 
secret ;  and  for  a  second  his  features  were  distorted  by  a  fit 
of  passionate  rage.  By  an  effort,  however,  he  succeeded  in 
regaining  his  composure.  He  sprang  to  the  door,  pushed  Marie- 
Anne  aside,  and,  leaning  out,  exclaimed :  "Deign  to  excuse  me, 
M.  le  Marquis,  if  I  take  the  liberty  of  asking  you  to  wait  a 
moment;  I  am  just  finishing  some  business,  and  I  will  be  with 
you  in  a  few  minutes." 

Neither  agitation  nor  anger  could  be  detected  in  his  voice ; 
but  rather,  a  respectful  deference  and  a  feeling  of  profound 
gratitude.  Having  spoken  in  this  fashion,  he  closed  the  door 
again  and  turned  to  M.  d'Escorval.  The  baron,  still  standing 
with  folded  arms,  had  witnessed  this  scene  with  the  air  of  a 
man  who  distrusts  the  evidence  of  his  own  senses ;  and  yet  he 
understood  the  meaning  of  the  incident  only  too  well.  "So 
this  young  man  comes  here?"  he  said  to  Lacheneur. 

"Almost  every  dav — not  at  this  hour  usually,  but  a  trifle 
later." 

"And  you  receive  him?    you  welcome  him?" 

"Certainly.  How  can  I  be  insensible  to  the  honor  he  confers 
upon  me?     Moreover,  we  have  subjects  of  mutual  interest  to 


348      THE  HONOR  OF  THE  NAME 

discuss.  We  are  now  occupied  in  legalizing  the  restitution  of 
Sairmeuse.  I  can  also  give  him  much  useful  information,  and 
many  hints  regarding  the  management  of  the  property." 

"And  do  you  expect  to  make  me,  your  old  friend,  believe  that 
a  man  of  your  superior  intelligence  is  deceived  by  the  excuses 
the  marquis  makes  for  these  frequent  visits  ?  Look  me  in  the 
eye,  and  then  tell  me,  if  you  dare,  that  you  believe  these  visits 
are  addressed  to  you  !" 

Lacheneur's  glance  did  not  waver.  "To  whom  else  could 
they  be  addressed?"  he  inquired. 

This  obstinate  serenity  disappointed  the  baron's  expectations. 
He  could  not  have  received  a  heavier  blow.  "Take  care,  Lache- 
neur,"  he  said  sternly.  "Think  of  the  situation  in  which  you 
place  your  daughter,  between  Chanlouineau,  who  wishes  to 
make  her  his  wife,  and  M.  de  Sairmeuse,  who  hopes  to  make 
her—" 

"Who  hopes  to  make  her  his  mistress — is  that  what  you  mean  ? 
Oh,  say  the  word.  But  what  does  that  matter?  I  am  sure  of 
Marie-Anne." 

M.  d'Escorval  shuddered.  "In  other  words,"  said  he,  in 
bitter  indignation,  "you  make  your  daughter's  honor  and  repu- 
tation your  stake  in  the  game  you  are  playing." 

This  was  too  much.  Lacheneur  could  restrain  his  furious 
passion  no  longer.  "Well,  yes !"  he  exclaimed,  with  a  fright- 
ful oath ;  "yes,  you  have  spoken  the  truth.  Marie-Anne  must 
be,  and  will  be,  the  instrument  of  my  plans.  A  man  in  my 
situation  is  free  from  the  considerations  by  which  others  are 
guided.  Fortune,  friends,  life,  honor — I  have  been  forced  to 
sacrifice  everything.  Perish  my  daughter's  virtue — perish  my 
daughter  herself — what  do  they  signify  if  I  can  but  succeed?" 

Never  had  M.  d'Escorval  seen  Lacheneur  so  excited.  His 
eyes  flashed,  and  as  he  spoke,  he  shook  his  clenched  fist  wildly  in 
the  air,  as  though  he  were  threatening  some  miserable  enemy. 
"So  you  admit  it."  exclaimed  M.  d'Escorval ;  "you  admit  that 
you  propose  revenging  yourself  on  the  Sairmeuse  family,  and 
that  Chanlouineau  is  to  be  your  accomplice?" 

"I  admit  nothing,"  Lacheneur  replied.  "Let  me  reassure 
you."  Then  raising  his  hand  as  if  to  take  an  oath,  he  added 
in  a  solemn  voice :  "Before  God,  who  hears  my  word,  by  all 
that  I  hold  sacred  in  this  workl,  by  the  memory  of  the  wife  I 
loved  and  whom  I  mourn  to-day,  I  swear  to  you,  that  I  am 
plotting  nothing  against  the  Sairmeuse  family;  that  I  have  no 


THE   HONOR   OF   THE    NAME  349 

thought  of  touching  a  hair  of  their  heads.  I  use  them  only 
because  they  are  absolutely  indispensable  to  me.  They  will  aid 
me  without  injuring  themselves." 

For  a  moment  the  baron  remained  silent.  He  was  evidently 
trying  to  reconcile  Lacheneur's  conflicting  utterances.  "How 
can  one  believe  this  assurance  after  your  previous  avowal  ?"  he 
inquired. 

"Oh,  you  may  refuse  to  believe  me  if  you  choose,"  rejoined 
Lacheneur,  who  had  now  regained  all  his  self-possession.  "But 
whether  you  believe  me  or  not,  I  must  decline  to  speak  any 
further  on  the  subject.  I  have  said  too  much  already.  I  know 
that  your  visit  and  your  questions  have  been  solely  prompted 
by  your  friendship,  and  I  can  not  help  feeling  both  proud  and 
grateful.  Still  I  can  tell  you  no  more.  The  events  of  the  last 
few  days  demand  that  we  should  separate.  Our  paths  in  life 
lie  far  apart,  and  I  can  only  say  to  you  what  I  said  yesterday 
to  the  Abbe  Midon.  If  you  are  my  friend  never  come  here 
again  under  any  pretext  whatever.  Even  if  you  hear  I  am 
dying,  do  not  come,  and  should  you  meet  me,  turn  aside,  shun 
me  as  you  would  some  deadly  pestilence." 

Lacheneur  paused,  as  if  expecting  some  further  observation 
from  the  baron,  but  the  latter  remained  silent,  reflecting  that  the 
words  he  had  just  heard  were  substantially  a  repetition  of  what 
Marie- Anne  had  previously  told  him. 

"There  is  still  a  wiser  course  you  might  pursue,"  resumed 
the  ex-lord  of  Sairmeuse,  after  a  brief  interval.  "Here  in  the 
district  there  is  but  little  chance  of  your  son's  sorrow  soon 
subsiding.  Turn  which  way  he  will — alas,  I  know  myself  that 
even  the  very  trees  and  flowers  will  remind  him  of  a  happier 
time.  So  leave  this  neighborhood,  take  him  with  you,  and  go 
far  away." 

.  "Ah  !  how  can  I  do  that  when  Fouche  has  virtually  impris- 
oned me  here !" 

"All  the  more  reason  why  you  should  listen  to  my  advice. 
You  were  one  of  the  emperor's  friends,  hence  you  are  regarded 
with  suspicion.  You  are  surrounded  by  spies,  and  your  enemies 
are  watching  for  an  opportunity  to  ruin  you.  They  would  seize 
on  the  slightest  pretext  to  throw  you  into  prison — a  letter,  a 
word,  an  act  capable  of  misconstruction.  The  frontier  is  not 
far  off;  so  I  repeat,  go  and  wait  in  a  foreign  land  for  happier 
times." 

"That   I   will   never   do,"   said   M.   d'Escorval   proudly,    his 


350     THE  HONOR  OF  THE  NAME 

words  and  accent  showing  plainly  enough  how  futile  further 
discussion  would  be. 

"Ah  !  you  are  like  the  Abbe  Midon,"  sadly  rejoined  Lache- 
neur;  "you  won't  believe  me.  Who  knows  how  much  your 
coming  here  this  morning  may  cost  you?  It  is  said  that  no 
one  can  escape  his  destiny.  But  if  some  day  the  executioner 
lays  his  hand  on  your  shoulder,  remember  that  I  warned  you, 
and  don't  curse  me  for  what  may  happen." 

Lacheneur  paused  once  more,  and  seeing  that  even  this  sinister 
prophecy  produced  no  impression  on  the  baron,  he  pressed  his 
hand  as  if  to  bid  him  an  eternal  farewell,  and  opened  the  door 
to  admit  the  Marquis  de  Sairmeuse.  Martial  was,  perhaps, 
annoyed  at  meeting  M.  d'Escorval;  but  he  nevertheless  bowed 
with  studied  politeness,  and  began  a  lively  conversation  with 
M.  Lacheneur,  telling  him  that  the  articles  he  had  selected  at 
the  chateau  were  at  that  moment  on  their  way. 

M.  d'Escorval  could  do  no  more.  It  was  quite  impossible 
for  him  to  speak  with  Marie-Anne,  over  whom  Chanlouineau 
and  Jean  were  both  jealously  mounting  guard.  Accordingly, 
he  reluctantly  took  his  leave,  and  oppressed  by  cruel  forebod- 
ings, slowly  descended  the  hill  which  he  had  climbed  an  hour 
before  so  full  of  hope. 

What  should  he  say  to  Maurice?  He  was  revolving  this 
query  in  his  mind  and  had  just  reached  the  little  pine  grove 
skirting  the  waste,  when  the  sound  of  hurried  footsteps  behind 
induced  him  to  look  back.  Perceiving  to  his  great  surprise 
that  the  young  Marquis  de  Sairmeuse  was  approaching  and 
motioning  him  to  stop,  the  baron  paused,  wondering  what  Mar- 
tial could  possibly  want  of  him. 

The  latter's  features  wore  a  most  ingenuous  air,  as  he  hastily 
raised  his  hat  and  exclaimed :  "I  hope,  sir,  that  you  will  excuse 
me  for  having  followed  you  when  you  hear  what  I  have  to  say. 
I  do  not  belong  to  your  party  and  our  doctrines  and  preferences 
are  very  different.  Still  I  have  none  of  your  enemies'  passion 
and  malice.  For  this  reason  I  tell  you  that  if  I  were  in  your 
place  I  would  take  a  journey  abroad.  The  frontier  is  but  a 
few  miles  off;  a  good  horse,  a  short  gallop,  and  you  have 
crossed  it.     A  word  to  the  wise  is — salvation !" 

Having  thus  spoken  and  without  waiting  for  any  reply,  Mar- 
tial abruptly  turned  and  retraced  his  steps. 

"One  might  suppose  there  was  a  conspiracy  to  drive  me 
away !"  murmured  M.  d'Escorval  in  his  amazement.     "But  I 


THE   HONOR   OF   THE    NAME  351 

have  good  reason  to  distrust  this  young  man's  disinterested- 
ness. The  young  marquis  was  already  far  off.  Had  he  been 
less  preoccupied,  he  would  have  perceived  two  figures  in  the 
grove — Mademoiselle  Blanche  de  Courtornieu,  followed  by  the 
inevitable  Aunt  Medea,  had  come  to  play  the  spy. 


'  I  'HE  Marquis  de  Courtornieu  idolized  his  daughter.  This 
*  was  alike  an  incontestable  and  an  uncontested  fact.  When 
people  spoke  to  him  concerning  the  young  lady  they  invariably 
exclaimed :  "You  who  adore  your  daughter — "  And  in  a  like 
manner  whenever  the  marquis  spoke  of  her  himself,  he  always 
contrived  to  say:  "I  who  adore  Blanche."  -In  point  of  fact, 
however,  he  would  have  given  a  good  deal,  even  a  third  of  his 
fortune,  to  get  rid  of  this  smiling,  seemingly  artless  girl,  who, 
despite  her  apparent  simplicity,  had  proved  more  than  a  match 
for  him  with  all  his  diplomatic  experience.  Her  fancies  were 
legion,  and  however  capricious  they  chanced  to  be  it  was  use- 
less to  resist  them.  At  one  time  he  had  hoped  to  ward  his 
daughter  off  by  inviting  Aunt  Medea  to  come  and  live  at  the 
chateau,  but  the  weak-minded  spinster  had  proved  a  most  fragile 
barrier,  and  soon  Blanche  had  returned  to  the  charge  more 
audacious  and  capricious  than  ever.  Sometimes  the  marquis 
revolted,  but  nine  times  out  of  ten  he  paid  dearly  for  his 
attempts  at  rebellion.  When  Blanche  turned  her  cold,  steel- 
like eyes  upon  him  with  a  certain  peculiar  expression,  his 
courage  evaporated.  Her  weapon  was  irony ;  and  knowing  his 
weak  points  she  dealt  her  blows  with  wonderful  precision. 

Such  being  the  position  of  affairs,  it  is  easy  to  understand 
how  devoutly  M.  de  Courtornieu  prayed  and  hoped  that  some 
eligible  young  aristocrat  would  ask  for  his  daughter's  hand, 
and  thus  free  him  from  bondage.  He  had  announced  on  every 
side  that  he  intended  to  give  her  a  dowry  of  a  million  francs, 
a  declaration  which  had  brought  a  host  of  eager  suitors  to 
Courtornieu.  But,  unfortunately,  though  many  of  these  wooers 
would  have  suited  the  marquis  well  enough,  not  one  had  been 

5 — Vol.  II — Gab. 


362     THE  HONOR  OF  THE  NAME 

so  fortunate  as  to  please  the  capricious  Blanche.  Her  father 
presented  a  candidate;  she  received  him  graciously,  lavished 
all  her  charms  upon  him;  but  as  soon  as  his  back  was  turned, 
she  disappointed  all  her  father's  hopes  by  rejecting  him.  "He 
is  too  short,  or  too  tall.  His  rank  is  not  equal  to  ours.  He 
is  a  fool — his  nose  is  so  ugly."  Such  were  the  reasons  she 
would  give  for  her  refusal;  and  from  these  summary  decisions 
there  was  no  appeal.  Arguments  and  persuasions  were  alike 
useless.  The  condemned  man  had  only  to  take  himself  off  and 
be  forgotten. 

Still,  as  this  inspection  of  would-be  husbands  amused  the 
capricious  Blanche,  she  encouraged  her  father  in  his  efforts  to 
find  a  suitor.  Despite  all  his  perseverance^  however,  to  please 
her,  the  poor  marquis  was  beginning  to  despair,  when  fate 
dropped  the  Due  de  Sairmeuse  and  his  son  at  his  very  door. 
At  sight  of  Martial  he  had  a  presentiment  that  the  rara  avis 
he  was  seeking  was  found  at  last ;  and  believing  it  best  to  strike 
the  iron  while  it  was  hot,  he  broached  the  subject  to  the  duke 
on  the  morrow  of  their  first  meeting.  M.  de  Courtornieu's  over- 
tures were  favorably  received,  and  the  matter  was  soon  decided. 
Indeed,  having  the  desire  to  transform  Sairmeuse  into  a  prin- 
cipality, the  duke  could  not  fail  to  be  delighted  with  an  alli- 
ance with  one  of  the  oldest  and  wealthiest  families  in  the  neigh- 
borhood. "Martial,  my  son,"  he  said,  "possesses  in  his  own 
right  an  income  of  at  least  six  hundred  thousand  francs." 

"I  shall  give  my  daughter  a  dowry  of  at  least — yes,  at  least 
fifteen  hundred  thousand,"  replied  M.  de  Courtornieu. 

"His  majesty  is  favorably  disposed  toward  me,"  resumed 
his  grace.  "I  can  obtain  any  important  diplomatic  position 
for  Martial." 

"In  case  of  trouble,"  was  the  retort,  "I  have  many  friends 
among  the  opposition." 

The  treaty  was  thus  concluded;  but  M.  de  Courtornieu  took 
good  care  not  to  speak  of  it  to  his  daughter.  If  he  told  her 
how  much  he  desired  the  match,  she  would  be  sure  to  oppose 
it.  Non-intervention  accordingly  seemed  advisable.  The  cor- 
rectness of  his  policy  was  soon  fully  demonstrated.  One  morn- 
ing Blanche  entered  her  father's  study  and  peremptorily  declared : 
"Your  capricious  daughter  has  decided,  papa,  that  she  would  like 
to  become  the  Marquise  de  Sairmeuse." 

It  cost  M.  de  Courtornieu  quite  an  effort  to  conceal  his  de- 
light; but  he  feared  that  if  Blanche  discovered  his  satisfaction 


THE   HONOR    OF   THE    NAME  353 

the  game  would  be  lost.  Accordingly,  he  presented  several 
objections,  which  were  quickly  disposed  of;  and,  at  last,  he 
ventured  to  opine :  "Then  the  marriage  is  half  decided,  as  one 
of  the  parties  consents.    It  only  remains  to  ascertain  if — " 

"The  other  will  consent,"  retorted  the  vain  heiress;  who,  it 
should  be  remarked,  had  for  several  days  previously  been 
assiduously  engaged  in  the  agreeable  task  of  fascinating  Mar- 
tial and  bringing  him  to  her  feet.  With  a  skilful  affectation 
of  simplicity  and  frankness,  she  had  allowed  the  young  marquis 
to  perceive  that  she  enjoyed  his  society,  and  without  being  ab- 
solutely forward  she  had  made  him  evident  advances.  Now, 
however,  the  time  had  come  to  beat  a  retreat — a  maneuvre 
so  successfully  practised  by  coquettes,  and  which  usually  suf- 
fices to  enslave  even  a  hesitating  suitor.  Hitherto,  Blanche 
had  been  gay,  spirituelle,  and  coquettish ;  now  she  gradually 
grew  quiet  and  reserved.  The  giddy  schoolgirl  had  given 
place  to  a  shrinking  maiden ;  and  it  was  with  rare  perfection 
that  she  played  her  part  in  the  divine  comedy  of  "first  love." 
Martial  could  not  fail  to  be  fascinated  by  the  modest  timidity 
and  chaste  fears  of  a  virgin  heart  now  awaking  under  his  in- 
fluence to  a  consciousness  of  the  tender  passion.  Whenever 
he  made  his  appearance  Blanche  blushed  and  remained  silent. 
Directly  he  spoke  she  grew  confused ;  and  he  could  only  occa- 
sionally catch  a  glimpse  of  her  beautiful  eyes  behind  the  shel- 
ter of  their  long  lashes.  Who  could  have  taught  her  this 
refinement  of  coquetry?  Strange  as  it  may  seem,  she  had  ac- 
quired her  acquaintance  with  all  the  artifices  of  love  during 
her  convent  education. 

One  thing  she  had  not  learned,  however,  that  clever  as  one 
may  be,  one  is  ofttimes  duped  by  one's  own  imagination.  Great 
actresses  so  enter  into  the  spirit  of  their  part  that  they  fre- 
quently end  by  shedding  real  tears.  This  knowledge  came  to 
Blanche  one  evening  when  a  bantering  remark  from  the  Due 
de  Sairmeuse  apprised  her  of  the  fact  that  Martial  was  in  the 
habit  of  going  to  Lacheneur's  house  every  day.  She  had  pre- 
viously been  annoyed  at  the  young  marquis's  admiration  of 
Marie-Anne,  but  now  she  experienced  a  feeling  of  real  jeal- 
ousy ;  and  her  sufferings  were  so  intolerable  that,  fearing  she 
might  reveal  them,  she  hurriedly  left  the  drawing-room  and 
hastened  to  her  own  room. 

"Can  it  be  that  he  does  not  love  me  ?"  she  murmured.  She 
shivered  at  the  thought ;  and  for  the  first  time  in  her  life  this 


354     THE  HONOR  OF  THE  NAME 

haughty  heiress  distrusted  her  own  power.  She  reflected  that 
Martial's  position  was  so  exalted  that  he  could  afford  to  despise 
rank;  that  he  was  so  rich  that  wealth  had  no  attractions  for 
him ;  and  that  she  herself  might  not  be  so  pretty  and  so  charm- 
ing as  her  flatterers  had  led  her  to  suppose.  Still  Martial's 
conduct  during  the  past  week — and  heaven  knows  with  what 
fidelity  her  memory  recalled  each  incident ! — was  well  calculated 
to  reassure  her.  He  had  not,  it  is  true,  formally  declared  him- 
self; but  it  was  evident  that  he  was  paying  his  addresses  to 
her.  His  manner  was  that  of  the  most  respectful,  but  the  most 
infatuated,  of  lovers. 

Her  reflections  were  interrupted  by  the  entrance  of  her  maid 
bringing  a  large  bouquet  of  roses  which  Martial  had  just  sent. 
She  took  the  flowers,  and,  while  arranging  them  in  a  vase, 
bedewed  them  with  the  first  sincere  tears  she  had  shed  since 
she  was  a  child. 

She  was  so  pale  and  sad,  so  unlike  herself  when  she  appeared 
the  next  morning  at  breakfast,  that  Aunt  Medea  felt  alarmed. 
But  Blanche  had  prepared  an  excuse,  which  she  presented  in 
such  sweet  tones  that  the  old  lady  was  as  much  amazed  as 
if  she  had  witnessed  a  miracle.  M.  de  Courtornieu  was  no  less 
astonished,  and  wondered  what  new  freak  it  was  that  his 
daughter's  doleful  face  betokened.  He  was  still  more  alarmed 
when  immediately  after  breakfast  Blanche  asked  to  speak  with 
him. 

She  followed  him  into  his  study,  and  as  soon  as  they  were 
alone,  before  he  had  even  had  time  to  sit  down,  she  entreated 
him  to  tell  her  what  had  passed  between  the  Due  de  Sairmeuse 
and  himself;  she  wished  to  know  if  Martial  had  been  informed 
of  the  intended  alliance,  and  what  he  had  replied.  Her  voice 
was  meek,  her  eyes  tearful ;  and  her  manner  indicated  the  most 
intense  anxiety. 

The  marquis  was  delighted.  "My  wilful  daughter  has  been 
playing  with  fire,"  he  thought,  stroking  his  chin  caressingly ; 
"and  upon  my  word  she  has  scorched  herself."  Then  with  a 
smile  on  his  face  he  added  aloud:  "Yesterday,  my  child,  the 
Due  de  Sairmeuse  formally  asked  for  your  hand  on  his  son's 
behalf;  and  your  consent  is  all  that  is  lacking.  So  rest  easy, 
my  beautiful  lovelorn  damsel — you  will  be  a  duchess." 

She  hid  her  face  in  her  hands  to  conceal  her  blushes.  "You 
know  my  decision,  father,"  she  faltered  in  an  almost  inaudible 
voice ;  "we  must  make  haste." 


THE   HONOR   OF   THE    NAME  355 

He  started  back,  thinking  he  had  not  heard  her  words  aright. 
"Make  haste !"  he  repeated. 

"Yes,  father.     I  have  fears." 

"What  fears,  in  heaven's  name?" 

"I  will  tell  you  when  everything  is  settled,"  she  replied,  at 
the  same  time  making  her  escape  from  the  room. 

She  did  not  doubt  the  reports  which  had  reached  her  con- 
cerning Martial's  frequent  visits  to  Marie-Anne,  still  she  wished 
to  ascertain  the  truth  for  herself.  Accordingly,  on  leaving  her 
father,  she  told  Aunt  Medea  to  dress  herself,  and  without  vouch- 
safing a  single  word  of  explanation,  took  her  with  her  to  the 
Reche  and  stationed  herself  in  the  pine  grove,  so  as  to  command 
a  view  of  M.  Lacheneur's  cottage. 

It  chanced  to  be  the  very  day  when  M.  d'Escorval  called  on 
Marie-Anne's  father,  in  hopes  of  obtaining  some  definite  ex- 
planation of  his  conduct.  Blanche  saw  the  baron  climb  the 
slope,  and  shortly  afterward  Martial  followed  the  same  route. 
She  had  been  rightly  informed ;  there  was  no  room  for  further 
doubt,  and  her  first  impulse  was  to  return  home.  But  on  re- 
flection she  resolved  to  wait  and  ascertain  how  long  the  mar- 
quis remained  with  this  girl  she  hated.  M.  d'Escorval's  visit 
was  a  brief  one,  and  scarcely  had  he  left  the  cottage  than  she 
saw  Martial  hasten  out  after  him,  and  speak  to  him.  She 
breathed  again. 

The  marquis  had  only  made  a  brief  call,  perhaps  on  some 
matter  of  business,  and  no  doubt,  like  M.  d'Escorval.  he  was 
now  going  home  again.  Not  at  all,  however;  after  a  moment's 
conversation  with  the  baron,  Martial  returned  to  the  cottage. 

"What  are  we  doing  here?"  asked  Aunt  Medea. 

"Let  me  alone  !  hold  your  tongue !"  angrily  replied  Blanche, 
whose  attention  had  just  been  attracted  by  a  rumble  of  wheels, 
a  tramp  of  horse's  hoofs,  a  loud  cracking  of  whips,  and  a  brisk 
exchange  of  oaths,  such  as  wagoners  in  a  difficulty  usually 
resort  to. 

All  this  racket  heralded  the  approach  of  the  vehicles  con- 
veying M.  Lacheneur's  furniture  and  clothes.  The  noise  must 
have  reached  the  cottage  on  the  slope,  for  Martial  speedily 
appeared  on  the  threshold,  followed  by  Lacheneur,  Jean,  Chan- 
louineau,  and  Marie-Anne.  Every  one  was  soon  busy  unloading 
the  wagons,  and,  judging  from  the  young  marquis's  gestures 
and  manner,  it  seemed  as  if  he  were  directing  the  operation. 
He  was  certainly  bestirring  himself  immensely.      Hurrying  to 


866     THE  HONOR  OF  THE  NAME 

and  fro,  talking  to  everybody,  and  at  times  not  even  disdaining 
to  lend  a  hand. 

"He,  a  nobleman  makes  himself  at  home  in  that  wretched 
hovel !"  quoth  Blanche  to  herself.  "How  horrible !  Ah  !  I  see 
only  too  well  that  this  dangerous  creature  can  do  what  she 
likes  with  him." 

All  this,  however,  was  nothing  compared  with  what  was  to 
come.  A  third  cart  drawn  by  a  single  horse,  and  laden  with 
shrubs  and  pots  of  flowers,  soon  halted  in  front  of  the  cottage. 
At  this  sight  Blanche  was  positively  enraged.  "Flowers !"  she 
exclaimed,  in  a  voice  hoarse  with  passion.  "He  sends  her 
flowers,  as  he  does  me — only  he  sends  me  a  bouquet,  while  for 
her  he  pillages  the  gardens  of  Sairmeuse." 

"What  are  you  saying  about  flowers?"  inquired  the  impov- 
erished relative. 

Blanche  curtly  rejoined  that  she  had  not  made  the  slightest 
allusion  to  flowers.  She  was  suffocating;  and  yet  she  obsti- 
nately refused  to  leave  the  grove  and  go  home  as  Aunt  Medea 
repeatedly  suggested.  No;  she  must  see  the  finish,  and  although 
a  couple  of  hours  were  spent  in  unloading  the  furniture,  still 
she  lingered,  with  her  eyes  fixed  on  the  cottage  and  its  sur- 
roundings. Some  time  after  the  empty  wagons  had  gone  off, 
Martial  reappeared  on  the  threshold ;  Marie-Anne  was  with  him, 
and  they  remained  talking,  in  full  view  of  the  grove  where 
Blanche  and  her  chaperone  were  concealed.  For  a  long  while 
it  seemed  as  if  the  young  marquis  could  not  promptly  make  up 
his  mind  to  leave,  and,  when  he  did  so,  it  was  with  evident 
reluctance  that  he  slowly  walked  away.  Marie-Anne  still 
standing  on  the  doorstep  waved  her  hand  after  him  with  a 
friendly  gesture  of  farewell. 

The  young  marquis  was  scarcely  out  of  sight  when  Blanche 
turned  to  her  aunt  and  hurriedly  exclaimed :  "I  must  speak 
to  that  creature ;  come  quick !"  Had  Marie-Anne  been  within 
speaking  distance  at  that  moment,  she  would  certainly  have 
learned  the  cause  of  her  former  friend's  anger  and  hatred. 
But  fate  willed  it  otherwise.  Three  hundred  yards  of  rough 
ground  intervened  between  the  two;  and  in  crossing  this  space 
Blanche  had  time  enough  to  reflect. 

She  soon  bitterly  regretted  having  shown  herself  at  all.  But 
Marie-Anne,  who  was  still  standing  on  the  threshold  of  the 
cottage,  had  seen  her  approaching,  and  it  was  consequently 
quite  impossible  to  retreat.     She  accordingly  utilized  the  few 


THE   HONOR   OF   THE   NAME  357 

moments  still  at  her  disposal  in  recovering  her  self-control  and 
composing  her  features ;  and  she  had  her  sweetest  smile  on  her 
lips  when  she  greeted  the  girl  whom  she  had  styled  "that  crea- 
ture" only  a  few  minutes  previously.  Still  she  was  embar- 
rassed, scarcely  knowing  what  excuse  to  give  for  her  visit, 
hence,  with  the  view  of  gaining  time,  she  pretended  to  be  quite 
out  of  breath.  "Ah  !  it  is  not  very  easy  to  reach  you,  dear 
Marie-Anne,"  she  said  at  last ;  "you  live  on  the  top  of  a  perfect 
mountain." 

Mademoiselle  Lacheneur  did  not  reply.  She  was  greatly  sur- 
prised, and  did  not  attempt  to  conceal  the  fact. 

"Aunt  Medea  pretended  to  know  the  road,"  continued  Blanche ; 
"but  she  led  me  astray.    Didn't  you,  aunt?" 

As  usual  the  impecunious  relative  assented,  and  her  niece 
resumed:  "But  at  last  we  are  here.  I  couldn't  resign  myself 
to  hearing  nothing  about  you,  my  dear,  especially  after  all  your 
misfortunes.  What  have  you  been  doing?  Did  my  recom- 
mendation procure  you  the  work  you  wanted?" 

Marie-Anne  was  deeply  touched  by  the  kindly  interest  which 
her  former  friend  displayed  in  her  welfare,  and  with  perfect 
frankness  she  confessed  that  all  her  efforts  had  been  fruitless. 
It  had  even  seemed  to  her  that  several  ladies  had  taken  pleas- 
ure in  treating  her  unkindly. 

Blanche  was  not  listening,  however.  Close  by  stood  the 
flowers  brought  from  Sairmeuse ;  and  their  perfume  rekindled 
her  anger.  "At  all  events,"  she  interrupted,  "you  have  some- 
thing here  which  will  almost  make  you  forget  the  gardens  of 
Sairmeuse.     Who  sent  you  those  beautiful  flowers?" 

Marie-Anne  turned  crimson.  For  a  moment  she  did  not 
speak,  but  at  last  she  stammered :  "They  are  a  mark  of  atten- 
tion from  the  Marquis  de  Sairmeuse." 

"So  she  confesses  it !"  thought  Mademoiselle  de  Courtornieu, 
amazed  at  what  she  was  pleased  to  consider  an  outrageous 
piece  of  impudence.  But  she  succeeded  in  concealing  her  rage 
beneath  a  loud  burst  of  laughter ;  and  it  was  in  a  tone  of  rail- 
lery that  she  rejoined :  "Take  care,  my  dear  friend,  I  am  going 
to  call  you  to  account.  You  are  accepting  flowers  from  my 
fiance.'' 

"What,  the  Marquis  de   Sairmeuse!" 

"Yes,  he  has  asked  for  my  hand ;  and  my  father  has  promised 
it  to  him.  It  is  a  secret  as  yet;  but  I  see  no  danger  in  confiding 
in  your  friendship." 


358     THE  HONOR  OF  THE  NAME 

Blanche  really  believed  that  this  information  would  crush 
her  rival ;  but  though  she  watched  her  closely,  she  failed  to 
detect  the  slightest  trace  of  emotion  in  her  face.  "What  dis- 
simulation !"  thought  the  heiress,  and  then  with  affected  gaiety, 
she  resumed  aloud:  "And  the  country  folks  will  see  two  wed- 
dings at  about  the  same  time,  since  you  are  going  to  be 
married  as  well,  my  dear." 

"I  married?" 

"Yes,  you — you  little  deceiver !  Everybody  knows  that  you 
are  engaged  to  a  young  man  in  the  neighborhood,  named — wait, 
I  know — Chanlouineau." 

Thus  the  report  which  annoyed  Marie-Anne  so  much  reached 
her  from  every  side.  "Everybody  is  for  once  mistaken,"  she 
replied  energetically.  "I  shall  never  be  that  young  man's 
wife." 

"But  why  ?  People  speak  well  of  him  personally,  and  he  is 
very  well  off." 

"Because,"  faltered  Marie-Anne;  "because — "  Maurice 
d'Escorval's  name  trembled  on  her  lips ;  but  unfortunately  she 
did  not  give  it  utterance.  She  was  as  it  were  abashed  by  a 
strange  expression  on  Blanche's  face.  How  often  one's  destiny 
depends  on  such  an  apparently  trivial  circumstance  as  this ! 

"What  an  impudent,  worthless  creature!"  thought  Blanche; 
and  then  in  cold,  sneering  tones  that  unmistakably  betrayed  her 
hatred,  she  said:  "You  are  wrong,  believe  me,  to  refuse  such 
an  offer.  This  young  fellow  Chanlouineau  will  at  all  events 
save  you  from  the  painful  necessity  of  toiling  with  your  own 
hands,  and  of  going  from  door  to  door  in  quest  of  work  which 
is  refused  you.  But  no  matter;  /" — she  laid  great  stress  upon 
this  word — "/  will  be  more  generous  than  your  other  old 
acquaintances.  I  have  a  great  deal  of  embroidery  to  be  done. 
I  shall  send  it  to  you  by  my  maid,  and  you  two  may  settle  the 
price  together.  It's  late  now,  and  we  must  go.  Good-by,  my 
dear.    Come,  Aunt  Medea." 

So  saying,  the  haughty  heiress  turned  away,  leaving  Marie- 
Anne  petrified  with  surprise,  sorrow,  and  indignation.  Although 
less  experienced  than  Blanche,  she  understood  well  enough  that 
this  strange  visit  concealed  some  mystery — but  what?  She 
stood  motionless,  gazing  after  her  departing  visitors,  when  she 
felt  a  hand  laid  gently  on  her  shoulder.  She  trembled,  and 
turning  quickly  found  herself  face  to  face  with  her  father. 

Lacheneur  was  intensely  pale   and  agitated,  and  a   sinister 


THE   HONOR   OF   THE    NAME  359 

light  glittered  in  his  eyes.  "I  was  there,"  said  he,  pointing  to 
the  door,  "and  I  heard  everything." 

"Father !" 

"What !  would  you  try  to  defend  her  after  she  came  here 
to  crush  you  with  her  insolent  good  fortune — after  she  over- 
whelmed you  with  her  ironical  pity  and  scorn !  I  tell  you  they 
are  all  like  this — these  girls,  whose  heads  have  been  turned  by 
flattery,  and  who  believe  that  the  blood  in  their  veins  is  different 
to  ours.    But  patience  !    The  day  of  reckoning  is  near  at  hand  !" 

He  paused.  Those  whom  he  threatened  would  have  trembled 
had  they  seen  him  at  that  moment,  so  plain  it  was  that  he 
harbored  in  his  mind  some  terrible  design  of  retributive  venge- 
ance. 

"And  you,  my  darling,  my  poor  Marie-Anne,"  he  continued, 
"you  did  not  understand  the  insults  she  heaped  upon  you.  You 
are  wondering  why  she  treated  you  with  such  disdain.  Ah, 
well !  I  will  tell  you :  she  imagines  that  the  Marquis  de  Sair- 
meuse  is  your  lover." 

Marie-Anne  turned  as  pale  as  her  father,  and  quivered  from 
head  to  foot.  "Can  it  be  possible?"  she  exclaimed.  "Great 
God!  what  shame!  what  humiliation!" 

"Why  should  it  astonish  you?"  said  Lacheneur,  coldly. 
"Haven't  you  expected  this  result  ever  since  the  day  when, 
to  ensure  the  success  of  my  plans,  you  consented  to  receive  the 
attentions  of  this  marquis,  whom  you  loathe  as  much  as  I 
despise?" 

"But  Maurice !  Maurice  will  despise  me !  I  can  bear  any- 
thing, yes,  everything  but  that." 

Lacheneur  made  no  reply.  Marie-Anne's  despair  was  heart- 
rending; he  felt  that  he  could  not  bear  to  witness  it,  that  it 
would  shake  his  resolution,  and  accordingly  he  reentered  the 
house. 

His  penetration  was  not  at  fault,  in  surmising  that  Blanche's 
visit  would  lead  to  something  new,  for  biding  the  time  when 
she  might  fully  revenge  herself  in  a  way  worthy  of  her  hatred, 
Mademoiselle  de  Courtornieu  availed  herself  of  a  favorite 
weapon  among  the  jealous — calumny — and  two  or  three  abomi- 
nable stories  which  she  concocted,  and  which  she  induced  Aunt 
Medea  to  circulate  in  the  neighborhood,  virtually  ruined  Marie- 
Anne's  reputation. 

These  scandalous  reports  even  came  to  Martial's  ears,  but 
Blanche  was  greatly  mistaken  if  she  had  imagined  that  they 


360 


THE  HONOR  OF  THE  NAME 


would  induce  him  to  cease  his  visits  to  L  acheneur's  cottage. 
He  went  there  more  frequently  than  ever  and  stayed  much 
longer  than  he  had  been  in  the  habit  of  doing  before.  Dissatis- 
fied with  the  progress  of  his  courtship,  and  fearful  that  he  was 
being  duped,  he  even  watched  the  house.  And  then  one  even- 
ing, when  the  young  marquis  was  quite  sure  that  Lacheneur, 
his  son,  and  Chanlouineau  were  absent,  it  so  happened  that  he 
perceived  a  man  leave  the  cottage,  descend  the  slope  and  hasten 
across  the  fields.  He  followed  in  pursuit,  but  the  fugitive 
escaped  him.  He  believed,  however,  that  he  had  recognized 
Maurice  d'Escorval. 


TT7HEN  Maurice  narrated  to  his  father  the  various  incidents 
" *  which  had  marked  his  interview  with  Marie-Anne  in  the 
pine  grove  near  La  Reche,  M.  d'Escorval  was  prudent  enough 
to  make  no  allusion  to  the  hopes  of  final  victory  which  he  him- 
self still  entertained.  "My  poor  Maurice,"  he  thought,  "is 
heart-broken,  but  resigned.  It  is  better  for  him  to  remain 
without  hope  than  to  be  exposed  to  the  danger  of  another 
possible  disappointment." 

But  passion  is  not  always  blind,  and  Maurice  divined  what 
the  baron  tried  to  conceal — and  clung  to  this  faint  hope  in  his 
father's  intervention  as  tenaciously  as  a  drowning  man  clings 
to  the  proverbial  straw.  If  he  refrained  from  speaking  on  the 
subject,  it  was  only  because  he  felt  convinced  that  his  parents 
would  not  tell  him  the  truth.  Still  he  watched  all  that  went 
on  in  the  house  with  that  subtlety  of  penetration  which  fever 
so  often  imparts,  and  nothing  that  his  father  said  or  did  escaped 
his  vigilant  eyes  and  ears.  He  heard  the  baron  put  on  his 
boots,  ask  for  his  hat,  and  select  a  cane  from  among  those 
placed  in  the  hall  stand ;  and  a  moment  later  he,  moreover, 
heard  the  garden  gate  grate  upon  its  hinges.  Plainly  enough 
M.  d'Escorval  was  going  out.  Weak  as  he  was,  Maurice  suc- 
ceeded in  dragging  himself  to  the  window  in  time  to  ascertain 
the   truth   of  his   surmise.     "If  my   father  is  going  out,"   he 


THE   HONOR   OF  THE   NAME  361 

thought,  "it  can  only  be  to  visit  M.  Lacheneur;  and  if  he 
is  going  to  La  Reche  he  has  evidently  not  relinquished  all 
hope." 

With  this  thought  in  his  mind  Maurice  sank  into  an  arm- 
chair close  at  hand,  intending  to  watch  for  his  father's  return ; 
by  doing  so,  he  might  know  his  fate  a  few  moments  sooner. 
Three  long  hours  elapsed  before  the  baron  returned,  and  by 
his  dejected  manner  Maurice  plainly  saw  that  all  hope  was  lost. 
Of  this  he  was  sure,  as  sure  as  the  criminal  who  reads  the  fatal 
verdict  in  the  judge's  solemn  face.  He  required  all  his  energy 
to  regain  his  couch,  and  for  a  moment  he  felt  that  he  should 
die.  Soon,  however,  he  grew  ashamed  of  this  weakness,  which 
he  judged  unworthy  of  him,  and  prompted  by  a  desire  to  know 
exactly  what  had  happened  he  rang  the  bell,  and  told  the  ser- 
vant who  answered  his  summons  that  he  wished  to  speak  with 
his  father.    M.  d'Escorval  promptly  made  his  appearance. 

"Well !"  exclaimed  Maurice,  as  his  father  crossed  the  thres- 
hold of  the  room. 

The  baron  felt  that  all  deni^  would  be  useless.  "Lacheneur 
is  deaf  to  my  remonstrances  and  entreaties,"  he  replied,  sadly. 
"There  is  no  hope,  my  poor  boy;  you  must  submit.  I  will  not 
tell  you  that  time  will  assuage  the  sorrow  that  now  seems  in- 
supportable— for  you  wouldn't  believe  me  if  I  did.  But  I  do 
say  to  you  be  a  man,  and  prove  your  courage.  I  will  say  even 
more:  fight  against  all  thought  of  Marie- Anne  as  a  traveler  on 
the  brink  of  a  precipice  fights  against  the  thought  of  vertigo." 

"Have  you  seen  Marie-Anne,  father?  Have  you  spoken  to 
her?" 

"1  found  her  even  more  inflexible  than  Lacheneur." 

"They  reject  me,  and  yet  no  doubt  they  receive  Chanloui- 
neau." 

"Chanlouineau  is  living  there." 

"Good  heavens!     And  Martial  de  Sairmeuse?" 

"He  is  their  familiar  guest.     I  saw  him  there." 

Evidently  enough  each  of  these  replies  fell  upon  Maurice 
like  a  thunderbolt.  But  M.  d'Escorval  had  armed  himself  with 
the  imperturbable  courage  of  a  surgeon,  who  only  grasps  his 
instrument  more  firmly  when  the  patient  groans  and  writhes 
beneath  his  touch.  He  felt  that  it  was  necessary  to  extinguish 
the  last  ray  of  hope  in  his  son's  heart. 

"It  is  evident  that  M.  Lacheneur  has  lost  his  reason !"  ex- 
claimed Maurice. 


362     THE  HONOR  OF  THE  NAME 

The  baron  shook  his  head  despondently.  "I  thought  so  my- 
self at  first,"  he  murmured. 

"But  what  does  he  say  in  justification  of  his  conduct?  He 
must  say  something." 

"Nothing:  he  refuses  any  explanation." 

"And  you,  father,  with  all  your  knowledge  of  human  nature, 
with  all  your  wide  experience,  have  not  been  able  to  fathom 
his  intentions?" 

"I  have  my  suspicions,"  M.  d'Escorval  replied;  "but  only 
suspicions.  It  is  possible  that  Lacheneur,  listening  to  the  voice 
of  hatred,  is  dreaming  of  some  terrible  revenge.  He  may, 
perhaps,  think  of  organizing  some  conspiracy  against  the 
emigres.  Such  a  supposition  would  explain  everything.  Chan- 
louineau  would  be  his  aider  and  abettor;  and  he  pretends  to 
be  reconciled  to  the  Marquis  de  Sairmeuse  in  order  to  obtain 
information  through  him — " 

The  blood  had  returned  to  Maurice's  pale  cheeks.  "Such  a 
conspiracy,"  said  he,  "would  not  explain  M.  Lacheneur's  obsti- 
nate rejection  of  my  suit." 

"Alas !  yes,  it  would,  my  poor  boy.  It  is  through  Marie- 
Anne  that  Lacheneur  exerts  such  great  influence  over  Chan- 
louineau  and  the  marquis.  If  she  became  your  wife  to-day, 
they  would  desert  him  to-morrow.  Then,  too,  it  is  precisely 
because  he  has  such  sincere  regard  for  us  that  he  is  deter- 
mined to  keep  us  out  of  a  hazardous,  even  perilous,  enterprise. 
However,  of  course,  this  is  merely  a  conjecture." 

"Still,  I  see  that  it  is  necessary  to  submit,"  faltered  Maurice. 
"I  must  resign  myself;  forget,  I  can  not." 

He  said  this  because  he  wished  to  reassure  his  father;  though, 
in  reality,  he  thought  exactly  the  reverse.  "If  Lacheneur  is 
organizing  a  conspiracy,"  he  murmured  to  himself,  "he  must 
need  assistance.  Why  should  I  not  offer  mine  ?  If  I  aid  him 
in  his  preparations,  if  I  share  his  hopes  and  dangers,  he  can 
not  refuse  me  his  daughter's  hand.  Whatever  he  may  wish  to 
undertake,  I  can  surely  be  of  greater  assistance  to  him  than 
Chanlouineau." 

From  that  moment  Maurice  dwelt  upon  this  thought;  and 
the  result  was  that  he  no  longer  pined  and  fretted,  but  did  all 
he  could  to  hasten  his  convalescence.  This  passed  so  rapidly 
that  the  Abbe  Midon,  who  had  taken  the  place  of  the  physician 
from  Montaignac,  was  positively  astonished.  Madame  d'Escor- 
val was  delighted  at  her  son's  wonderful  improvement  in  health 


THE    HONOR   OF   THE    NAME  363 

and  spirits,  and  declared  that  she  would  never  have  believed 
he  could  be  so  soon  and  so  easily  consoled.  The  baron  did  not 
try  to  diminish  his  wife's  satisfaction,  though  he  regarded  this 
almost  miraculous  recovery  with  considerable  distrust,  having, 
indeed,  a  vague  perception  of  the  truth.  Skilfully,  however, 
as  he  questioned  his  son  he  could  draw  nothing  from  him ;  for 
Maurice  had  decided  to  keep  whatever  determinations  he  had 
formed  a  secret  even  from  his  parents.  What  good  would  it 
do  to  trouble  them?  and,  besides,  he  feared  remonstrance  and 
opposition ;  which  he  was  anxious  to  avoid,  although  firmly 
resolved  to  carry  out  his  plans,  even  if  he  were  compelled  to 
leave  the  paternal  roof. 

One  day  in  the  second  week  of  September  the  abbe  declared 
that  Maurice  might  resume  his  ordinary  life,  and  that,  as  the 
weather  was  pleasant  it  would  be  well  for  him  to  spend  much 
of  his  time  in  the  open  air.  In  his  delight,  Maurice  embraced 
the  worthy  priest,  at  the  same  time  remarking  that  he  had  felt 
afraid  the  shooting  season  would  pass  by  without  his  bagging 
a  single  bird.  In  reality  he  cared  but  little  for  a  day  on  the 
cover ;  the  partiality  he  feigned  being  prompted  by  the  idea 
that  "shooting"  would  furnish  him  with  an  excuse  for  frequent 
and  protracted  absences  from  home. 

He  had  never  felt  happier  than  he  did  the  morning  when, 
with  his  gun  over  his  shoulder,  he  crossed  the  Oiselle  and 
started  for  M.  Lacheneur's  cottage  at  La  Reche.  He  had  just 
reached  the  little  pine  grove,  and  was  about  to  pause,  when  he 
perceived  Jean  Lacheneur  and  Chanlouineau  leave  the  house, 
each  laden  with  a  pedler's  pack.  This  circumstance  delighted 
him,  as  he  might  now  expect  to  find  M.  Lacheneur  and  Marie- 
Anne  alone  in  the  cottage. 

He  hastened  up  the  slope  and  lifted  the  door  latch  without 
pausing  to  rap.  Marie-Anne  and  her  father  were  kneeling  on 
the  hearth  in  front  of  a  blazing  fire. 

On  hearing  the  door  open,  they  turned ;  and  at  the  sight  of 
Maurice,  they  both  sprang  to  their  feet,  Lacheneur  with  a  com- 
posed look  on  his  face,  and  Marie-Anne  blushing  to  the  roots 
of  her  hair.  "What  brings  you  here?"  they  exclaimed  in  the 
same  breath. 

Under  other  circumstances,  Maurice  d'Escorval  would  have 
been  dismayed  by  such  an  unengaging  greeting,  but  now  he 
scarcely  noticed  it. 

"You  have  no  business  to  return  here  against  my  wishes,  and 


364     THE  HONOR  OF  THE  NAME 

after  what  I  said  to  you,  M.  d'Escorval,"  exclaimed  Lacheneur, 
rudely. 

Maurice  smiled,  he  was  perfectly  cool,  and  not  a  detail  of 
the  scene  before  him  had  escaped  his  notice.  If  he  had  felt 
any  doubts  before,  they  were  now  dispelled.  On  the  fire  he 
saw  a  large  caldron  of  molten  lead,  while  several  bullet-molds 
stood  on  the  hearth,  beside  the  andirons. 

"If,  sir,  I  venture  to  present  myself  at  your  house,"  said 
young  D'Escorval  in  a  grave,  impressive  voice,  "it  is  because  I 
know  everything.  I  have  discovered  your  revengeful  projects. 
You  are  looking  for  men  to  aid  you,  are  you  not?  Very  well! 
look  me  in  the  face,  in  the  eyes,  and  tell  me  if  I  am  not  one 
of  those  a  leader  is  glad  to  enroll  among  his  followers?" 

Lacheneur  seemed  terribly  agitated.  "I  don't  know  what 
you  mean,"  he  faltered,  forgetting  his  feigned  anger;  "I  have 
no  such  projects  as  you  suppose." 

"Would  you  assert  this  upon  oath?  If  so,  why  are  you  cast- 
ing those  bullets?  You  are  clumsy  conspirators.  You  should 
lock  your  door;  some  one  else  might  have  opened  it."  And 
adding  example  to  precept,  he  turned  and  pushed  the  bolt. 
"This  is  only  an  imprudence,"  he  continued:  "but  to  reject  a 
willing  volunteer  would  be  a  mistake  for  which  your  associates 
would  have  a  right  to  call  you  to  account.  Pray  understand 
that  I  have  no  desire  to  force  myself  into  your  confidence. 
Whatever  your  cause  may  be,  I  declare  it  mine ;  whatever  you 
wish,  I  wish;  I  adopt  your  plans;  your  enemies  are  my  ene- 
mies; command  me  and  I  will  obey  you.  I  only  ask  one  favor, 
that  of  fighting,  conquering,  or  dying  by  your  side." 

"Oh !  father,  refuse  him !"  exclaimed  Marie-Anne,  "refuse 
him !     It  would  be  a  crime  to  accept  his  offer." 

"A  crime!     And  why,  if  you  please?"  asked  Maurice. 

"Because  our  cause  is  not  your  cause ;  because  its  success  is 
doubtful ;  because  dangers  surround  us  on  every  side." 

Maurice  interrupted  her  with  a  cry  of  scorn.  "And  you  think 
to  dissuade  me,"  said  he,  "by  warning  me  of  the  dangers  which 
you,  a  girl,  can  yet  afford  to  brave.  You  can  not  think  me  a 
coward!  If  peril  threatens  you,  all  the  more  reason  to  accept 
my  aid.  Would  you  desert  me  if  I  were  menaced,  would  you 
hide  yourself,  saying:  'Let  him  perish,  so  that  I  be  saved!' 
Speak!  would  you  do  this?" 

Marie-Anne  averted  her  face  and  made  no  reply.  She  could 
■ot  force  herself  to  utter  an  untruth;  and,  on  the  other  hand, 


THE   HONOR   OF  THE   NAME  365 

she  was  unwilling  to  answer:  "I  would  act  as  you  are  acting." 
She  prudently  waited  for  her  father's  decision. 

"If  I  complied  with  your  request,  Maurice,"  said  M.  Lache- 
neur,  "in  less  than  three  days  you  would  curse  me,  and  ruin  us 
by  some  outburst  of  anger.  Loving  Marie-Anne  as  you  do,  you 
could  not  behold  her  equivocal  position  unmoved.  Remember, 
she  must  neither  discourage  Chanlouineau  nor  the  marquis.  I 
know  as  well  as  you  do  that  the  part  is  a  shameful  one ;  and 
that  it  must  result  in  the  loss  of  a  girl's  most  precious  posses- 
sion— her  reputation ;  still,  to  ensure  our  success,  it  must  be  so." 

Maurice  did  not  wince.  "So  be  it,"  he  said  calmly.  "Marie- 
Anne's  fate  will  be  that  of  all  women  who  have  devoted  them- 
selves to  the  political  cause  of  the  man  they  love,  be  he  father, 
brother,  or  lover.  She  will  be  slandered  and  insulted,  and  still 
what  does  it  matter !  Let  her  continue  her  task.  I  consent  to 
it,  for  I  shall  never  doubt  her,  and  I  shall  know  how  to  hold  my 
peace.  If  we  succeed,  she  shall  be  my  wife,  if  we  fail — "  The 
gesture  with  which  young  D'Escorval  concluded  his  sentence 
expressed  more  strongly  than  any  verbal  protestations  that 
come  what  might  he  was  ready  and  resigned. 

Lacheneur  seemed  deeply  moved.  "At  least  give  me  time  for 
reflection,"  said  he. 

"There  is  no  necessity,  sir,  for  further  reflection." 

"But  you  are  only  a  child,  Maurice ;  and  vour  father  is  my 
friend." 

"What  of  that?" 

"Rash  boy !  don't  you  understand  that  by  compromising  your- 
self you  also  compromise  the  Baron  d'Escorval?  You  think 
you  are  only  risking  your  own  head,  but  you  are  also  endanger- 
ing your  father's  life — " 

"Oh,  there  has  been  too  much  parleying  already !"  inter- 
rupted Maurice,  "there  have  been  too  many  remonstrances. 
Answer  me  in  a  word !  Only  understand  this :  if  you  refuse, 
I  shall  immediately  return  home  and  blow  out  my  brains." 

It  was  plain  from  the  young  man's  manner  that  this  was  no 
idle  threat.  The  strange  fire  gleaming  in  his  eyes,  and  the  im- 
pressive tone  of  his  voice,  convinced  both  his  listeners  that  he 
really  intended  to  effect  his  deadly  purpose;  and  Marie-Anne, 
with  a  heart  full  of  cruel  apprehensions,  clasped  her  hands  and 
turned  to  her  father  with  a  pleading  look. 

"You  are  one  of  us.  then,"  sternly  exclaimed  Lacheneur  after 
a  brief  pause;  "but  do  not  forget  that  your  threats  alone  in- 


366     THE  HONOR  OF  THE  NAME 

duced  me  to   consent;   and  whatever   may  happen  to  you  or 
yours,  remember  that  you  would  have  it  so.' 

These  gloomy  words,  ominous  as  they  were,  produced,  how- 
ever, no  impression  upon  Maurice,  who,  feverish  with  anxiety 
a  moment  before,  was  now  well-nigh  delirious  with  joy. 

"At  present,"  continued  Lacheneur,  "I  must  tell  you  my 
hopes,  and  acquaint  you  with  the  cause  for  which  I  am 
toiling—" 

"What  does  that  matter  to  me  ?"  replied  Maurice  gaily ;  and 
springing  toward  Marie-Anne  he  seized  her  hand  and  raised  it 
to  his  lips,  crying,  with  the  joyous  laugh  of  youth:  "Here  is 
my  cause — none  other !" 

Lacheneur  turned  aside.  Perhaps  he  remembered  that  a 
sacrifice  of  his  own  obstinate  pride  would  suffice  to  assure  his 
daughter's  and  her  lover's  happiness. 

Still  if  a  feeling  of  remorse  crept  into  his  mind,  he  swiftly 
banished  it,  and  with  increased  sternness  of  manner  exclaimed: 
"It  is  necessary,  however,  that  you  should  understand  our 
agreement." 

"Let  me  know  your  conditions,  sir,"  said  Maurice. 

"First  of  all,  your  visits  here — after  certain  rumors  that  I 
have  circulated — would  arouse  suspicion.  You  must  only  come 
here  at  night-time,  and  then  only  at  hours  agreed  upon  in 
advance — never  when  you  are  not  expected."  Lacheneur 
paused,  and  then  seeing  that  Maurice's  attitude  implied  unre- 
served consent,  he  added:  "You  must  also  find  some  way  to 
cross  the  river  without  employing  the  ferryman,  who  is  a  dan- 
gerous fellow." 

"We  have  an  old  skiff;  I  will  persuade  my  father  to  have 
it  repaired." 

"Very  well.  Will  you  also  promise  me  to  avoid  the  Marquis 
de  Sairmeuse?" 

"I  will." 

"Wait  a  moment — we  must  be  prepared  for  any  emergency. 
Perhaps  in  spite  of  our  precautions  you  may  meet  him  here. 
M.  de  Sairmeuse  is  arrogance  itself;  and  he  hates  you.  You 
detest  him,  and  you  are  very  hasty.  Swear  to  me  that  if  he 
provokes  you,  you  will  ignore  his  insults." 

"But  I  should  be  considered  a  coward." 

"Probably;  but  will  you  swear?" 

Maurice  was  hesitating  when  an  imploring  look  from  Marie- 
Anne  decided  him.    "I  swear  it !"  he  said  gravely. 


THE    HONOR   OF   THE    NAME  367 

"As  far  as  Chanlouineau  is  concerned,  it  would  be  better  not 
to  let  him  know  of  our  agreement ;  but  I  will  see  to  that  point 
myself."  Lacheneur  paused  once  more  and  reflected  for  a 
moment  whether  he  had  left  anything  forgotten.  "All  that  re- 
mains, Maurice,"  he  soon  resumed,  "is  to  give  you  a  last  and 
very  important  piece  of  advice.     Do  you  know  my  son?" 

"Certainly ;  we  were  formerly  the  best  of  friends  when  we 
met  during  the  holidays." 

"Very  well.  When  you  know  my  secret — for  I  shall  confide 
it  to  you  without  reserve — beware  of  Jean." 

"What,  sir?" 

"Beware  of  Jean.  I  repeat  it."  And  Lacheneur's  face 
flushed  as  he  added :  "Ah !  it  is  a  painful  avowal  for  a  father ; 
but  I  have  no  confidence  in  my  own  son.  He  knows  no  more 
of  my  plans  than  I  told  him  on  the  day  of  his  arrival.  I 
deceive  him,  because  I  fear  he  might  betray  us.  Perhaps  it 
would  be  wise  to  send  him  away;  but  in  that  case,  what  would 
people  say?  Most  assuredly  they  would  say  that  I  wanted  to 
save  my  own  blood,  while  I  was  ready  to  risk  the  lives  of  others. 
Still  I  may  be  mistaken;  I  may  misjudge  him."  He  sighed, 
and  again  added  :  "Beware  !" 

It  will  be  understood  from  the  foregoing  that  it  was  really 
Maurice  d'Escorval  whom  the  Marquis  de  Sairmeuse  perceived 
leaving  Lacheneur's  cottage  on  the  night  he  played  the  spy. 
Martial  was  not  positively  certain  of  the  fugitive's  identity, 
but  the  very  idea  made  his  heart  swell  with  anger.  "What  part 
am  I  playing  here,  then?"  he  exclaimed  indignantly. 

Passion  had  hitherto  so  completely  blinded  him  that  even  if 
no  pains  had  been  taken  to  deceive  him,  he  would  probably 
have  remained  in  blissful  ignorance  of  the  true  condition  of 
affairs.  He  fully  believed  in  the  sincerity  of  Lacheneur's  for- 
mal courtesy  and  politeness  and  of  Jean's  studied  respect, 
while  Chanlouineau's  almost  servile  obsequiousness  did  not  sur- 
prise him  in  the  least.  And  since  Marie-Anne  welcomed  him 
cordially  he  had  concluded  that  his  suit  was  favorably  pro- 
gressing. Having  himself  forgotten  the  incidents  which  marked 
the  return  of  his  family  to  Sairmeuse,  he  concluded  that  every 
one  else  had  ceased  to  remember  them.  Moreover,  he  was  of 
opinion  that  he  had  acted  with  great  generosity,  and  that  he 
was  fully  entitled  to  the  gratitude  of  the  Lacheneurs ;  for 
Marie-Anne's  father  had  received  the  legacy  bequeathed  him 
by  Mademoiselle  Armande,  with  an  indemnity  for  his  past  ser- 


Sfis  THE   HONOR   OF   THE   NAME 

vices;  and  in  addition  he  had  selected  whatever  furniture  h& 
pleased  among  the  appointments  of  the  cha  eau.  In  goods  and 
coin  he  had  been  presented  with  quite  sixty  thousand  francs; 
and  the  hard-fisted  old  duke,  enraged  at  such  prodigality, 
although  it  did  not  cost  him  a  penny,  had  discontentedly 
growled : 

"He  must  be  hard  to  please  indeed  if  he  is  not  satisfied  with 
what  we've  done  for  him." 

Such  being  the  position  of  affairs,  and  having  for  so  long 
supposed  that  he  was  the  only  visitor  to  the  cottage  on  La 
Reche,  Martial  was  perfectly  incensed  when  he  discovered  that 
such  was  not  the  case.  Was  he,  after  all,  merely  a  shameless 
girl's  foolish  dupe?  So  great  was  his  anger  that  for  more 
than  a  week  he  did  not  go  to  Lacheneur's  house.  His  father 
concluded  that  his  ill-humor  was  caused  by  some  misunder- 
standing with  Marie-Anne;  and  he  took  advantage  of  this 
opportunity  to  obtain  his  son's  consent  to  a  marriage  with 
Blanche  de  Courtornieu.  Goaded  to  the  last  extremity,  tor- 
tured by  doubt  and  fear,  the  young  marquis  eventually  agreed 
to  his  father's  proposals;  and,  naturally  enough,  the  duke  did 
not  allow  such  a  good  resolution  to  grow  cold.  In  less  than 
forty-eight  hours  the  engagement  was  made  public;  the  mar- 
riage contract  was  drawn  up,  and  it  was  announced  that  the 
wedding  would  take  place  early  in  the  spring.  A  grand  ban- 
quet was  given  at  Sairmeuse  in  honor  of  the  betrothal — a 
banquet  all  the  more  brilliant  since  there  were  other  victories 
to  be  celebrated,  for  the  Due  de  Sairmeuse  had  just  received, 
with  his  brevet  of  lieutenant-general,  a  commission  placing  him 
in  command  of  the  military  district  of  Montaignac;  while  the 
Marquis  de  Courtornieu  had  also  been  appointed  provost-mar- 
shal of  the  same  region. 

Thus  it  was  that  Blanche  triumphed,  for,  after  this  public 
betrothal,  might  she  not  consider  that  Martial  was  bound  to 
her?  For  a  fortnight,  indeed,  he  scarcely  left  her  side,  finding 
in  her  society  a  charm  which  almost  made  him  forget  his  love 
for  Marie-Anne.  But,  unfortunately,  the  haughty  heiress  could 
not  resist  the  temptation  to  make  a  slighting  allusion  to  the 
lowliness  of  the  marquis's  former  tastes;  finding,  moreover, 
an  opportunity  to  inform  him  that  she  furnished  Marie-Anne 
with  work  to  aid  her  in  earning  a  living.  Martial  forced  him- 
self to  smile;  but  the  disparaging  remarks  made  by  his  betrothed 
concerning  Mark-Anne  aroused  his  sympathy  and  indignation; 


THE   HONOR   OF   THE    NAME  369 

and  the  result  was  that  the  very  next  day  he  went  to  Lache- 
neur's  house. 

In  the  warmth  of  the  greeting  which  there  awaited  him 
all  his  anger  vanished,  and  all  his  suspicions  were  dispelled. 
He  perceived  that  Marie- Anne's  eyes  beamed  with  joy  on 
seeing  him  again,  and  could  not  help  thinking  he  should  win 
her  yet. 

All  the  household  were  really  delighted  at  his  return ;  as  the 
son  of  the  commander  of  the  military  forces  at  Montaignac, 
and  the  prospective  son-in-law  of  the  provost-marshal,  Martial 
was  bound  to  prove  a  most  valuable  instrument.  "Through 
him  we  shall  have  an  eye  and  an  ear  in  the  enemy's  camp,"  said 
Lacheneur.     "The  Marquis  de  Sairmeuse  will  be  our  spy." 

And  such  he  soon  became,  for  he  speedily  resumed  his  daily 
visits  to  the  cottage.  It  was  now  December,  and  the  roads 
were  scarcely  passable;  but  neither  rain,  snow,  nor  mud  could 
keep  Martial  away.  He  generally  made  his  appearance  at  ten 
o'clock  in  the  morning,  seated  himself  on  a  stool  in  the  shadow 
of  a  tall  fireplace,  and  then  he  and  Marie-Anne  began  to  talk 
by  the  hour.  She  always  seemed  greatly  interested  in  what 
was  going  on  at  Montaignac,  and  he  told  her  everything  he 
knew,  whether  it  were  of  a  military,  political,  or  social 
character. 

At  times  they  remained  alone.  Lacheneur,  Chanlouineau, 
and  Jean  were  tramping  about  the  country  with  their  pedler's 
packs.  Business  was  indeed  prospering  so  well  that  Lacheneur 
had  even  purchased  a  horse  in  order  to  extend  the  circuit  of 
his  rounds.  But,  although  the  usual  occupants  of  the  cottage 
might  be  away,  it  so  happened  that  Martial's  conversation  was 
generally  interrupted  by  visitors.  It  was  indeed  really  sur- 
prising to  see  how  many  peasants  called  at  the  cottage  to 
speak  with  M.  Lacheneur.  They  called  at  all  hours  and  in 
rapid  succession,  sometimes  alone,  and  at  others  in  little  batches 
of  two  or  three.  And  to  each  of  these  peasants  Marie-Anne 
had  something  to  say  in  private.  Then  she  would  offer  them 
refreshments;  and  at  times  one  might  have  imagined  one's  self 
in  an  ordinary  village  wine-shop.  But  what  can  daunt  a  lover's 
courage?  Martial  endured  the  peasants  and  their  carouses  with- 
out a  murmur.  He  laughed  and  jested  with  them,  shook  them 
by  the  hand,  and  at  times  he  even  drained  a  glass  in  their 
company. 

He  gave  many  other  proofs  of  moral  courage.     He  offered 


370     THE  HONOR  OF  THE  NAME 

to  assist  M.  Lacheneur  in  making  up  his  accounts ;  and  once — 
it  happened  about  the  middle  of  February — seeing  Chanlouineau 
worrying  over  the  composition  of  a  letter,  he  actually  volun- 
teered to  act  as  his  amanuensis.  "The  letter  is  not  for  me,  but 
for  an  uncle  of  mine  who  is  about  to  marry  off  his  daughter," 
said  the  stalwart  young  farmer. 

Martial  took  a  seat  at  the  table,  and  at  Chanlouineau's  dic- 
tation, but  not  without  many  erasures,  indited  the  following 
epistle : 

"My  dear  Friend — We  are  at  last  agreed,  and  the  marriage 
is  decided  on.     We  are  now  busy  preparing  for  the  wedding, 

which  will  take  place  on  .     We  invite  you  to  give  us  the 

pleasure  of  your  company.  We  count  upon  you,  and  be  assured 
that  the  more  friends  you  bring  with  you  the  better  we  shall 
be  pleased." 

Had  Martial  seen  the  smile  upon  Chanlouineau's  lips  when 
he  requested  him  to  leave  the  date  for  the  wedding  a  blank,  he 
would  certainly  have  suspected  that  he  had  been  caught  in  a 
snare.    But  he  did  not  see  it,  and,  besides,  he  was  in  love. 

"Ah !  marquis,"  remarked  his  father  one  day,  "Chupin  tells 
me  you  are  always  at  Lacheneur's.  When  will  you  recover 
from  your  foolish  fancy  for  that  little  girl?" 

Martial  did  not  reply.  He  felt  that  he  was  at  that  "little 
girl's"  mercy.  Each  glance  she  gave  him  made  his  heart  throb 
wildly.  He  lingered  by  her  side  a  willing  captive ;  and  if  she 
had  asked  him  to  make  her  his  wife  he  would  certainly  not 
have  refused. 

But  Marie-Anne  had  no  such  ambition.  All  her  thoughts 
and  wishes  were  for  her  father's  success. 

Maurice  and  Marie-Anne  had  become  M.  Lacheneur's  most 
intrepid  auxiliaries.  They  were  looking  forward  to  such  a 
magnificent  reward.  Feverish,  indeed,  was  the  activity  which 
Maurice  displayed !  All  day  long  he  hurried  from  hamlet  to 
hamlet,  and  in  the  evening,  as  soon  as  dinner  was  over,  he 
made  his  escape  from  the  drawing-room,  sprang  into  his  boat, 
and  hastened  to  La  Reche. 

M.  d'Escorval  could  not  fail  to  notice  his  son's  long  and  fre- 
quent absences.  He  watched  him,  and  soon  discovered  that 
some  secret  understanding  existed  between  Maurice  and  Lache- 
neur.    Recollecting  his  previous  suspicion  that  Lacheneur  was 


THE   HONOR   OF   THE    NAME  371 

harboring  some  seditious  design,  he  became  greatly  alarmed 
for  his  son's  safety,  and  decided  to  go  to  La  Reche  and  try 
once  more  to  learn  the  truth.  Previous  repulses  had  dimin- 
ished his  confidence  in  his  own  persuasive  powers,  and  being 
anxious  for  an  auxiliary's  assistance  he  asked  the  Abbe  Midon 
to  accompany  him. 

It  was  the  4th  of  March,  and  half-past  four  in  the  evening, 
when  M.  d'Escorval  and  the  cure  started  from  Sairmeuse  bound 
for  the  cottage  at  La  Reche.  They  were  both  anxious  as  to 
the  result  of  the  step  they  were  taking,  and  scarcely  exchanged 
a  dozen  words  as  they  walked  toward  the  banks  of  the  Oiselle. 
They  had  crossed  the  river  and  traversed  the  familiar  pine 
grove,  when  on  reaching  the  outskirts  of  the  waste  they  wit- 
nessed a  strange  sight  well  calculated  to  increase  their  anxiety 
and  alarm. 

Night  was  swiftly  approaching,  but  yet  it  was  still  sufficiently 
light  to  distinguish  objects  at  a  short  distance,  and  on  the  sum- 
mit of  the  slope  they  could  perceive  in  front  of  Lacheneur's 
cottage  a  group  of  twenty  persons,  who,  judging  by  their  fre- 
quent gesticulations,  were  engaged  in  animated  conversation. 
Lacheneur  himself  was  there,  and  his  manner  plainly  indicated 
that  he  was  in  a  state  of  great  excitement.  Suddenly  he  waved 
his  hand,  the  others  clustered  round  him,  and  he  began  to 
speak.  What  was  he  saying?  The  baron  and  the  priest  were 
still  too  far  off  to  distinguish  his  words,  but  when  he  ceased 
they  were  startled  by  a  loud  acclamation,  which  literally  rent 
the  air. 

Suddenly  the  former  lord  of  Sairmeuse  struck  a  match,  and 
setting  fire  to  a  bundle  of  straw  lying  before  him  he  tossed 
it  on  to  the  roof  of  the  cottage,  shouting  as  he  did  so,  "Yes, 
the  die  is  cast !  and  this  will  prove  to  you  that  I  shall  not 
draw  back !" 

Five  minutes  later  the  house  was  in  flames  and  in  the  dis- 
tance the  baron  and  his  companion  could  perceive  a  ruddy 
glare  illuminating  the  windows  of  the  citadel  at  Montaignac, 
while  on  every  hillside  round  about  glowed  the  light  of  other 
incendiary  fires.  The  whole  district  was  answering  Lache- 
neur's signal. 


372 


THE  HONOR  OF  THE  NAME 


AH !  ambition  is  a  fine  thing !  The  Due  de  Sairmeuse  and 
the  Marquis  de  Courtornieu  were  considerably  past  middle 
age;  they  had  weathered  many  storms  and  vicissitudes;  they 
possessed  millions  in  hard  cash,  and  owned  the  finest  estates 
in  the  province.  Under  these  circumstances  it  might  have  been 
supposed  that  their  only  desire  was  to  end  their  days  in  peace 
and  quietness.  It  would  have  been  easy  for  them  to  lead  a 
happy  and  useful  life  by  seeking  to  promote  the  welfare  of 
the  district,  and  they  might  have  gone  down  to  their  graves 
amid  a  chorus  of  benedictions  and  regrets. 

But  no.  They  longed  to  have  a  hand  in  managing  the  state 
vessel ;  they  were  not  content  with  remaining  simple  passengers. 
The  duke,  appointed  to  the  command  of  the  military  forces, 
and  the  marquis,  invested  with  high  judicial  functions  at  Mon- 
taignac,  were  both  obliged  to  leave  their  beautiful  chateaux  and 
install  themselves  in  somewhat  dingy  quarters  in  the  town. 
And  yet  they  did  not  murmur  at  the  change,  for  their  vanity 
was  satisfied.  Louis  XVIII  was  on  the  throne;  their  preju- 
dices were  triumphant;  and  they  felt  supremely  happy.  It  is 
true  that  sedition  was  already  rife  on  every  side,  but  had  they 
not  hundreds  and  thousands  of  allies  at  hand  to  assist  them 
in  suppressing  it  ?  And  when  thoughtful  politicians  spoke  of 
"discontent,"  the  duke  and  his  associates  looked  at  him  with 
the  thorough  contempt  of  the  skeptic  who  does  not  believe  in 
ghosts. 

On  the  4th  of  March,  1816,  the  duke  was  just  sitting  down 
to  dinner  at  his  house  in  Montaignac  when  he  heard  a  loud 
noise  in  the  hall.  He  rose  to  go  and  see  what  was  the  matter 
when  the  door  was  suddenly  flung  open  and  a  man  entered  the 
room  panting  and  breathless.  This  man  was  Chupin,  once  a 
poacher,  but  now  enjoying  the  position  of  head  gamekeeper  on 
the  Sairmeuse  estates.  It  was  evident,  from  his  manner  and 
appearance,  that  something  very  extraordinary  had   happened. 

"What  is  the  matter?"  inquired  the  duke. 


THE   HONOR   OF   THE    NAME  373 

"They  are  coming!"  cried  Chupin;  "they  are  already  on 
the  way !" 

"Who  are  coming?  who?" 

Chupin  made  no  verbal  reply,  but  handed  the  duke  a  copy 
of  the  letter  written  by  Martial  under  Chanlouineau's  dicta- 
tion. "My  dear  friend,"  so  M.  de  Sairmeuse  read,  "we  are  at 
last  agreed,  and  the  marriage  is  decided  on.  We  are  now  busy 
preparing  for  the  wedding,  which  will  take  place  on  the  4th 
of  March."  The  date  was  no  longer  blank :  but  still  the  duke 
had  naturally  failed  to  understand  the  purport  of  the  missive. 
"Well,  what  of  it  ?"  he  asked. 

Chupin  tore  his  hair.  "They  are  on  the  way,"  he  repeated. 
"The  peasants — all  the  peasants  of  the  district.  They  intend  to 
take  possession  of  Montaignac,  dethrone  Louis  XVIII,  bring 
back  the  emperor,  or,  at  least,  the  emperor's  son,  and  crown 
him  as  Napoleon  II.  Ah,  the  wretches !  they  have  deceived 
me.  I  suspected  this  outbreak,  but  I  did  not  think  it  was  so 
near  at  hand." 

This  unexpected  intelligence  well-nigh  stupefied  the  duke. 
"How  many  are  there?"  he  asked. 

"Ah  !  how  do  I  know,  your  grace  ?  Two  thousand,  perhaps — 
perhaps  ten  thousand." 

"All  the  townspeople  are  with  us." 

"No,  your  grace,  no.  The  rebels  have  accomplices  here. 
All  the  retired  officers  of  the  imperial  army  are  waiting  to 
assist  them." 

"Who  are  the  leaders  of  the  movement?" 

"Lacheneur,  the  Abbe  Midon,  Chanlouineau,  the  Baron 
d'Escorval — " 

"Enough  !"  cried  the  duke. 

Now  that  the  danger  was  certain,  his  coolness  returned,  and 
his  herculean  form,  a  trifle  bowed  by  the  weight  of  years,  rose 
to  its  full  height.  He  gave  the  bell-rope  a  violent  pull;  and 
directly  his  valet  entered  he  bade  him  bring  his  uniform  and 
pistols  at  once.  The  servant  was  about  to  obey,  when  the 
duke  added :  "Wait !  Let  some  one  take  a  horse,  and  go  and 
tell  my  son  to  come  here  without  a  moment's  delay.  Take 
one  of  the  swiftest  horses.  The  messenger  ought  to  go  to 
Sairmeuse  and  back  in  two  hours."  On  hearing  these  words. 
Chupin  pulled  at  the  duke's  coat-tail   to  attract  his  attention. 

"Well,  what  is  it  now  ?"  asked  M.  de  Sairmeuse  impatiently. 

The  old  poacher  raised  his  finger  to  his  lips,  as  if  recom- 


374     THE  HONOR  OF  THE  NAME 

mending  silence,  and  as  soon  as  the  valet  had  left  the  room, 
he  exclaimed : 

"It  is  useless  to  send  for  the  marquis !" 

"And  why,  you  fool?" 

"Because,  because — excuse  me — I — " 

"Zounds !  will  you  speak,  or  not  ?" 

Chupin  regretted  that  he  had  gone  so  far.  "Because  the 
marquis — " 

"Well?" 

"He  is  engaged  in  it." 

The  duke  overturned  the  dinner-table  with  a  terrible  blow 
of  his  clenched  fist.  "You  lie,  you  wretch !"  he  thundered  with 
terrible  oaths. 

His  anger  was  so  threatening  that  the  old  poacher  sprang 
to  the  door  and  turned  the  knob,  ready  for  flight.  "May  I  lose 
my  head  if  I  do  not  speak  the  truth,"  he  insisted.  "Ah !  Lache- 
neur's  daughter  is  a  regular  sorceress.  All  the  gallants  of  the 
neighborhood  are  in  the  ranks  ;  Chanlouineau,  young  D'Escorval, 
your  son — " 

M.  de  Sairmeuse  was  pouring  forth  a  torrent  of  curses  upon 
Marie-Anne  when  his  valet  reentered  the  room.  He  suddenly 
checked  himself,  put  on  his  uniform,  and  ordering  Chupin  to 
follow  him,  he  hastened  from  the  house.  He  was  still  hoping 
that  Chupin  had  exaggerated  the  danger,  but  when  he  reached 
the  Place  d'Armes,  commanding  an  extensive  view  of  the  sur- 
rounding country,  whatever  allusions  he  may  have  retained 
immediately  vanished.  Signal  lights  gleamed  on  every  side,  and 
Montaignac  seemed  surrounded  by  a  circle  of  flame. 

"There  are  the  signals,"  murmured  Chupin.  "The  rebels 
will  be  here  before  two  o'clock  in  the  morning." 

The  duke  made  no  reply,  but  hastened  toward  M.  de  Cour- 
tornieu's  house.  He  was  striding  onward,  when,  on  turning 
a  corner,  he  espied  two  men  talking  in  a  doorway ;  they  also 
had  perceived  him,  and  at  sight  of  his  glittering  epaulettes  they 
both  took  flight.  The  duke  instinctively  started  in  pursuit,  over- 
took one  of  the  men,  and,  seizing  him  by  the  collar,  sternly 
asked  :  "Who  are  you  ?    What  is  your  name  ?" 

The  man  was  silent,  and  his  captor  shook  him  so  roughly 
that  two  pistols  concealed  under  his  overcoat  fell  to  the  ground. 
"Ah,  brigand !"  exclaimed  M.  de  Sairmeuse,  "so  you  are  one 
of  the  conspirators  against  the  king!" 

Then,  without  another  word,  he  dragged  the  man  to  the  cita- 


THE   HONOR   OF   THE    NAME  375 

del,  gave  him  in  charge  of  the  astonished  soldiers,  and  again 
hastened  after  M.  de  Courtornieu.  He  expected  to  find  the 
marquis  terrified ;  but  on  the  contrary  he  seemed  perfectly 
delighted. 

"At  last,"  he  said,  "there  comes  an  opportunity  for  us  to 
display  our  devotion  and  our  zeal — and  without  danger !  We 
have  good  walls,  strong  gates,  and  three  thousand  soldiers  at 
our  command.  These  peasants  are  fools !  But  be  grateful  for 
their  folly,  my  dear  duke,  and  run  and  order  out  the  Montaignac 
chasseurs — "  He  suddenly  paused,  and  then  with  a  gesture  of 
annoyance  he  resumed :  "The  deuce !  I  am  expecting  Blanche 
this  evening.  She  was  to  leave  Courtornieu  after  dinner. 
Heaven  grant  she  may  meet  with  no  misfortune  on  the 
way !" 

The  Due  de  Sairmeuse  and  the  Marquis  de  Courtornieu 
had  more  time  before  them  than  they  supposed.  The  rebels 
were  advancing,  but  not  so  rapidly  as  Chupin  had  stated,  for 
Lacheneur's  plans  had  been  disarranged  by  two  unforeseen 
circumstances. 

When  standing  beside  his  burning  cottage,  he  had  counted 
the  signal  fires  that  blazed  out  in  answer  to  his  own,  and  found 
their  number  corresponded  with  his  expectations;  he  joyfully 
exclaimed :  "See,  all  our  friends  keep  their  word !  They  are 
ready;  and  are  now  on  their  way  to  the  meeting-place.  Let 
us  start  at  once,  for  we  must  be  there  first !" 

His  horse  was  brought  him,  and  one  foot  was  already  in 
the  stirrup  when  two  men  sprang  from  the  neighboring  grove 
and  darted  toward  him.  One  of  them  seized  the  horse  by  the 
bridle. 

"The  Abbe  Midon !"  exclaimed  Lacheneur  in  amazement ; 
"M.  d'Escorval!"  And  foreseeing,  perhaps,  what  was  to  come, 
he  added  in  a  tone  of  concentrated  fury :  "What  do  you  two 
want  with  me?" 

"We  wish  to  prevent  the  accomplishment  of  an  act  of 
madness !"  exclaimed  M.  d'Escorval.  "Hatred  has  crazed  you, 
Lacheneur !" 

"You  know  nothing  of  my  projects  !" 

"Do  you  think  that  I  don't  suspect  them?  You  hope  to  cap- 
ture Montaignac — " 

"What  does  that  matter  to  you?"  interrupted  Lacheneur, 
angrily. 

But  M.  d'Escorval   would  not  be   silenced.     He  seized  his 

6 — Vol.  II — Gab. 


376  THE   HONOR   OF   THE    NAME 

former  friend  by  the  arm,  and  in  a  voice  loud  enough  to  be 
heard  distinctly  by  every  one  present,  he  continued :  "You  fool- 
ish fellow  !  You  have  forgotten  that  Montaignac  is  a  fortified 
city,  surrounded  by  deep  moats  and  high  walls!  You  have  for- 
gotten that  behind  these  fortifications  there  is  a  garrison  com- 
manded by  a  man  whose  energy  and  bravery  are  beyond  all 
question — the  Due  de  Sairmeuse." 

Lacheneur  struggled  to  free  himself  from  the  baron's  grasp. 
'Everything  has  been  arranged,"  he  replied,  "and  they  are 
expecting  us  at  Montaignac.  You  would  be  as  sure  of  this  as 
I  am  myself  if  you  had  only  seen  the  lights  gleaming  in  the 
windows  of  the  citadel.  And  look,  you  can  see  them  yet.  These 
lights  tell  me  that  two  or  three  hundred  of  Napoleon's  old 
officers  will  come  and  open  the  gates  of  the  town  as  soon  as 
we  make  our  appearance." 

"And  after  that!  If  you  take  Montaignac,  what  will  you 
do  then?  Do  you  imagine  the  English  will  give  you  back 
vour  emperor?  Isn't  Napoleon  II  an  Austrian  prisoner?  Have 
you  forgotten  that  the  allied  sovereigns  have  left  a  hundred  and 
fifty  thousand  soldiers  within  a  day's  march  of  Paris?" 

Sullen  murmurs  were  heard  among  Lacheneur's  followers. 

"But  all  this  is  nothing,"  continued  the  baron.  "The  chief 
danger  lies  in  the  fact  that  there  are  generally  as  many  traitors 
as  dupes  in  an  undertaking  of  this  sort." 

"Whom  do  you  call  dupes?" 

"All  those  who  mistake  their  illusions  for  realities,  as  you 
have  done ;  all  those  who  wishing  something  to  happen  are  con- 
vinced that  it  will  happen — simply  because  they  wish  it  so. 
And  besides,  do  you  really  suppose  that  neither  the  Due  de 
Sairmeuse  nor  the  Marquis  de  Courtornieu  has  been  warned 
of  your  attempt?" 

Lacheneur  shrugged  his  shoulders.  "Who  could  have  warned 
them?"  he  asked  complacently.  But  his  tranquillity  was  feigned. 
as  the  glance  he  cast  on  Jean  only  too  plainly  proved.  Frigid 
indeed  was  the  tone  in  which  he  added:  "It  is  probable  that 
the  duke  and  the  marquis  are  at  this  moment  in  the  power 
of  our  friends." 

The  cure  now  attempted  to  second  the  baron's  efforts.  "You 
will  not  go,  Lacheneur,"  he  said.  "You  can  not  remain  deaf 
to  the  voice  of  reason.  You  are  an  honest  man;  think  of  the 
frightful  responsibility  you  assume !  Upon  these  frail  hopes 
you  are  imperilling  hundreds  of  brave  lives!     I  tell  you  that 


THE   HONOR   OF   THE    NAME  877 

you  will  not  succeed;  and  will  be  betrayed;  I  am  sure  you  will 
be  betrayed  I" 

An  expression  of  horrible  agony  contracted  Lacheneur's  fea- 
tures. It  was  evident  to  every  one  that  he  was  deeply  moved ; 
and,  perhaps,  matters  might  have  taken  a  very  different  course 
had  it  not  been  for  Chanlouineau's  intervention.  "We  are  wast- 
ing too  much  time  in  foolish  prattle,"  he  exclaimed,  stepping 
forward  and  brandishing  his  gun. 

Lacheneur  started  as  if  he  had  been  struck  by  a  whip.  He 
rudely  freed  himself  from  his  friend's  grasp,  and  leaped  into 
the  saddle.     "Forward  !"  he  ordered. 

But  the  baron  and  the  priest  did  not  yet  despair ;  they  sprang 
to  the  horse's  head.  "Lacheneur,"  cried  the  priest,  "beware ! 
The  blood  you  are  about  to  spill  will  fall  on  your  own  head, 
and  on  the  heads  of  your  children !" 

Arrested  by  these  prophetic  words,  the  little  band  paused, 
and  at  the  same  moment  a  figure  clad  in  the  costume  of  a 
peasant  issued  from  the  ranks. 

"Marie-Anne !"  exclaimed  the  abbe  and  the  baron  in  the 
same  breath. 

"Yes,  it  is  I,"  replied  the  young  girl,  doffing  the  large  hat 
which  had  partially  concealed  her  face;  "I  wish  to  share  the 
dangers  of  those  who  are  dear  to  me — share  in  their  victory 
or  their  defeat.  Your  advice  comes  too  late,  gentlemen.  Do 
you  see  those  lights  on  the  horizon  ?  They  tell  us  that  the 
people  of  the  province  are  repairing  to  the  cross-roads  at  the 
Croix  d'Arcy,  our  general  meeting-place.  Before  two  o'clock 
fifteen  hundred  men  will  be  gathered  there  awaiting  my  father's 
commands.  Would  you  have  him  leave  these  men,  whom  he 
has  called  from  their  peaceful  firesides,  without  a  leader?  No. 
it  is  impossible !" 

She  evidently  shared  her  lover's  and  her  father's  madness, 
even  if  she  did  not  share  all  their  hopes.  "No,  there  must 
be  no  more  hesitation,  no  more  parleying,"  she  continued. 
"Prudence  now  would  be  the  height  of  folly.  There  is 
no  more  danger  in  a  retreat  than  in  an  advance.  Do  not 
try  to  detain  my  father,  gentlemen ;  each  moment  of  delay 
may,  perhaps,  cost  a  man's  life.  And  now,  my  friends, 
forward !" 

A  loud  cheer  answered  her,  and  the  little  band  descended 
the  hill. 

But  M.  d'Escorval  could  not  allow  his  own  son,  whom  he  now 


378  THE    HONOR   OF   THE    NAME 

perceived  in  the  ranks,  to  depart  in  this  fashion:  "Maurice!" 

he  cried. 

The  young  fellow  hesitated,  but  finally  stepped  forward. 
"You   will   not    follow   these   madmen,   Maurice?"    said  the 
baron. 

"I  must  follow  them,  father." 
"I  forbid  it." 

"Alas!  father,  I  can't  obey  you.  I  have  promised— I 
have  sworn.  I  am  second  in  command."  If  his  voice  had  a 
mournful  ring,  plainly  enough  he  was  at  all  events  de- 
termined. 

"My  son  !"  exclaimed  M.  d'Escorval ;  "unfortunate  boy  !  Don't 
you  know  that  you  are  marching  to  certain  death?" 

"Then  all  the  more  reason,  father,  why  I  shouldn't  break 
my  word." 

"And  your  mother,  Maurice,  your  mother  whom  you  forget !" 

A  tear   glistened  in  the  young  fellow's  eye.     "I  am  sure," 

he  replied,  "that  my  mother  would  rather  weep  for  her  dead 

son   than   keep   him   near   her   dishonored,   and   branded   as   a 

coward  and  a  traitor.     Farewell !  father." 

M.  d'Escorval  appreciated  the  nobility  of  mind  which 
Maurice's  conduct  implied.  He  opened  his  arms,  and 
pressed  his  son  convulsively  to  his  heart,  feeling  that  it 
might  be  for  the  last  time  in  life.  "Farewell!"  he  faltered, 
"farewell!" 

A  minute  later  Maurice  had  rejoined  his  comrades,  now  on  the 
plain  below,  leaving  the  baron  standing  motionless  and  over- 
whelmed with  sorrow. 

Suddenly  M.  d'Escorval  started  from  his  reverie.     "A  single 
hope  remains,  abbe !"  he  cried. 
"Alas !"  murmured  the  priest. 

"Oh — I  am  not  mistaken.  Marie-Anne  just  told  us  the  place 
of  rendezvous.  By  running  to  Escorval  and  harnessing  the 
cabriolet,  we  might  be  able  to  reach  the  Croix  d'Arcy  before 
this  party  arrives  there.  Your  voice,  which  touched  Lacheneur, 
will  touch  the  hearts  of  his  accomplices.  We  will  persuade 
these  poor,  misguided  men  to  return  home.  Come,  abbe:  come 
quickly !" 

They  tarried  no  longer,  but  swiftly  descended  toward  the 
ferry. 


THE   HONOR   OF   THE    NAME 


379 


npHE  clock  in  the  church  tower  of  Sairmeuse  was  just  striking 
*•  eight  when  Lacheneur  and  his  little  band  of  followers  left 
La  Reche.  An  hour  later,  Blanche  de  Courtornieu,  after  dining 
alone  with  Aunt  Medea  at  the  chateau,  ordered  the  carriage  to 
take  her  to  Montaignac.  Since  her  father's  duties  had  com- 
pelled him  to  reside  in  the  town  they  only  met  on  Sundays, 
when  it  either  happened  that  Blanche  went  to  Montaignac,  or 
the  marquis  paid  a  visit  to  his  estate. 

Now  this  was  Thursday  evening,  and  the  servants  were  con- 
sequently somewhat  surprised  when  they  heard  that  their  young 
mistress  was  going  to  ''the  town." 

Her  journey  was  prompted,  however,  by  somewhat  singular 
circumstances. 

Six  days  had  elapsed  since  Martial's  last  visit  to  Courtornieu, 
six  days  of  suspense  and  anguish  for  the  jealous  Blanche.  What 
Aunt  Medea  had  to  endure  during  this  interval,  only  poor  de- 
pendents in  rich  families  can  understand.  For  the  first  three 
days  Blanche  succeeded  in  preserving  a  semblance  of  self- 
control  ;  but  on  the  fourth  she  could  endure  the  suspense  no 
longer,  and  in  spite  of  the  breach  of  etiquette  the  step  involved, 
she  despatched  a  messenger  to  Sairmeuse  to  inquire  if  Martial 
were  ill,  or  if  he  had  been  summoned  away? 

The  messenger  learned  that  the  young  marquis  was  in  very 
good  health,  and  that  he  spent  the  entire  day,  from  early  morn 
to  dewy  eve,  shooting  in  the  neighboring  preserves ;  going  to 
bed  every  evening  as  soon  as  dinner  was  over. 

What  a  horrible  insult  this  conduct  implied  for  Blanche ! 
However,  it  did  not  so  much  distress  her  as  she  felt  certain 
that  directly  Martial  heard  of  her  inquiries  he  would  hasten  to 
her  with  a  full  apology.  Her  hope  was  vain ;  he  did  not  come ; 
nor  even  condescend  to  give  a  sign  of  life. 

"Ah  !  no  doubt  he  is  with  that  wretch."  said  Blanche  to  Aunt 
Medea.  "He  is  on  his  knees  before  that  miserable  Marie-Anne 
— his  mistress."     For  she  had  finished  by  believing — as  is  not 


380     THE  HONOR  OF  THE  NAME 

unfrequently  the  case — the  very  calumnies  which  she  herself 
had  invented. 

Scarcely  knowing  how  to  act,  she  at  last  decided  to  make 
her  father  her  confidant;  and  accordingly  wrote  him  a  note 
to  the  effect  that  she  was  coming  to  Montaignac  for  his  advice. 
In  reality,  she  wished  her  father  to  compel  Lacheneur  to  leave 
the  country.  This  would  be  an  easy  matter  for  the  marquis, 
since  he  was  armed  with  discretionary  judicial  authority  at  an 
epoch  when  lukewarm  devotion  furnished  an  ample  excuse  for 
sending  a  man  into  exile. 

Fully  decided  upon  executing  this  plan,  Mademoiselle  Cour- 
tornieu  grew  calmer  on  leaving  the  chateau;  and  her  hopes 
overflowed  in  incoherent  phrases,  which  poor  Aunt  Medea  lis- 
tened to  with  all  her  accustomed  resignation.  "At  last,"  ex- 
claimed the  revengeful  Blanche,  "I  shall  be  rid  of  this  shame- 
less creature.  We  will  see  if  he  has  the  audacity  to  follow  her. 
Ah,  no;  he  can  not  dare  to  do  that!" 

She  was  talking  in  this  strain,  or  reflecting  how  she  should 
lay  the  matter  before  her  father,  while  the  carriage  which  she 
and  Aunt  Medea  occupied  rolled  over  the  highway  and  through 
the  village  of  Sairmeuse. 

There  were  lights  in  every  house,  the  wine-shops  seemed  full 
of  tipplers,  and  groups  of  people  could  be  seen  in  every  direc- 
tion. 

All  this  animation  was  no  doubt  most  unusual,  but  what 
did  it  matter  to  Mademoiselle  de  Courtornieu !  It  was  not  until 
they  were  a  mile  or  so  from  Sairmeuse  that  she  was  startled 
from  her  reverie. 

"Listen,  Aunt  Medea,"  she  suddenly  exclaimed.  "What  is 
that  noise?" 

The  poor  dependent  listened  as  she  was  bid,  and  both  occu- 
pants of  the  carriage  could  distinguish  a  confused  babel  of 
shouts  and  singing,  which  grew  nearer  and  more  distinct  as  the 
vehicle  rolled  onward. 

"Let  us  find  out  the  meaning  of  all  this  hubbub,"  said  Blanche. 
And  lowering  one  of  the  carriage  windows,  she  asked  the  coach- 
man if  he  knew  what  the  disturbance  was  about. 

"I  can  see  a  great  crowd  of  peasants  on  the  hill,"  he  replied ; 
"they  have  torches  and — " 

"Blessed  Jesus!"  interrupted  Aunt  Medea  in  alarm. 

"It  must  be  a  wedding,"  added  the  coachman,  whipping  up 
his  horses. 


THE   HONOR   OF   THE    NAME  381 

It  was  not  a  wedding,  however,  but  Lacheneur's  little  band, 
which  had  now  swollen  to  five  hundred  men. 

The  Bonapartist  ringleader  should  have  been  at  the  Croix 
d'Arcy  two  hours  earlier.  But  he  had  shared  the  fate  of  most 
popular  chieftains.  He  had  given  an  impetus  to  the  move- 
ment, and  now  it  was  beyond  his  control.  The  Baron  d'Escor- 
val  had  made  him  lose  twenty  minutes  at  La  Reche,  and  he 
was  delayed  four  times  as  long  in  Sairmeuse.  When  he  reached 
that  village,  a  little  behind  time,  he  found  the  peasants  scat- 
tered through  the  wine-shops,  drinking  to  the  success  of  the 
enterprise;  and  it  proved  a  long  and  difficult  talk  to  wrest  them 
from  their  merry-making.  To  crown  everything,  when  the 
insurgents  were  finally  induced  to  resume  their  line  of 
march,  they  could  not  possibly  be  persuaded  to  extinguish  the 
torches  they  had  lighted.  Prayers  and  threats  were  alike 
unavailing.  They  declared  that  they  wished  to  see  their  way, 
and  their  leader  had  to  submit  to  this  foolish  fancy.  Poor  de- 
luded beings !  They  had  not  the  slightest  conception  of  the 
difficulties  and  the  perils  of  the  enterprise  they  had  undertaken. 
They  had  set  out  to  capture  a  fortified  town,  defended  by  a 
numerous  garrison,  just  as  if  they  had  been  bound  on  a  pleasure 
jaunt.  Gay,  thoughtless,  and  animated  with  childlike  confidence, 
they  marched  along,  arm  in  arm,  singing  some  patriotic  refrain. 
Lacheneur,  who  was  on  horseback  in  the  centre  of  the  band, 
suffered  the  most  intolerable  anguish.  Would  not  this  delay 
ruin  everything?  What  would  the  others,  who  were  waiting 
at  the  Croix  d'Arcy,  think  of  him  !  What  were  they  doing  at  this 
very  moment?  Maurice,  Chanlouineau,  Jean,  Marie- Anne,  and 
some  twenty  old  soldiers  of  the  Empire  who  accompanied  the 
party,  understood  and  shared  Lacheneur's  despair.  They  knew 
the  terrible  danger  they  were  incurring,  and.  like  their  captain, 
they  constantly  repeated  :  "Faster  !     Let  us  march  faster  !" 

Vain  was  the  exhortation !  The  peasantry  openly  declared 
that  they  preferred  walking  slowly.  Soon,  indeed,  they  did  not 
walk  at  all,  but  came  to  an  abrupt  halt.  Still  it  was  not  hesi- 
tation that  induced  them  to  pause.  The  fact  was  that  some  of 
the  band,  chancing  to  look  back,  had  perceived  the  lamps  of 
Mademoiselle  de  Courtornieu's  carriage  gleaming  in  the  dark- 
ness. The  vehicle  came  rapidly  onward,  and  soon  overtook 
them.  The  peasants  at  once  recognized  the  coachman's  livery, 
and  greeted  the  carriage  with  derisive  shouts. 

M.  de  Courtornieu's  avarice  had  made  him  even  more  enemies 


382      THE  HONOR  OF  THE  NAME 

than  the  Due  de  Sairmeuse's  pride,  and  all  the  peasants  who 
thought  they  had  more  or  less  to  complain  of  his  extortions 
were  delighted  at  this  opportunity  to  frighten  him;  for  as  this 
was  his  carriage,  no  doubt  he  was  inside.  Hence,  their  disap- 
pointment was  great  indeed  when,  on  opening  the  carriage  door, 
they  perceived  that  the  vehicle  only  contained  Blanche  and  her 
elderly  aunt.  The  latter  shrieked  with  terror,  but  her  niece, 
who  was  certainly  a  brave  girl,  haughtily  asked:  "Who  are 
you  ?  and  what  do  you  want  ?" 

"You  shall  know  to-morrow,"  replied  Chanlouineau.  "Until 
then,  you  are  our  prisoners." 

"I  see  that  you  do  not  know  who  I  am,  boy." 

"Excuse  me.  I  do  know  who  you  are,  and,  for  this  very 
reason,  I  must  request  you  to  alight  from  your  carriage.  She 
must  leave  the  carriage,  must  she  not,  M.  d'Escorval?" 

"I  won't  leave  my  carriage,"  retorted  the  infuriated  heiress. 
"Tear  me  from  it  if  you  dare !" 

They  would  certainly  have  dared  to  do  so  had  it  not  been  for 
Marie-Anne,  who  checked  several  peasants  as  they  were  spring- 
ing toward  the  vehicle.  "Let  Mademoiselle  de  Courtornieu  pass 
without  hindrance,"  said  she. 

But  this  permission  might  produce  such  serious  consequences 
that  Chanlouineau  found  courage  to  resist.  "That  can  not 
be,  Marie-Anne,"  said  he.  "She  will  warn  her  father.  We 
must  keep  her  as  a  hostage ;  her  life  may  save  the  lives  of  our 
friends." 

Blanche  had  not  hitherto  recognized  her  former  friend,  any 
more  than  she  had  suspected  the  intentions  of  the  crowd.  But 
Marie-Anne's  name,  coupled  with  that  of  D'Escorval,  enlight- 
ened her  at  once.  She  understood  everything,  and  trembled 
with  rage  at  the  thought  that  she  was  at  her  rival's  mercy. 
She  immediately  resolved  to  place  herself  under  no  obligation 
to  Marie-Anne  Lacheneur. 

"Very  well,"  said  she,  "we  will  alight." 

But  Marie-Anne  checked  her.  "No,"  said  she,  "no !  This  is 
not  proper  company  for  a  young  girl." 

"For  an  honest  young  girl,  you  should  say,"  replied  Blanche, 
with  a  sneer. 

Chanlouineau  was  standing  only  a  few  feet  off  with  his  gun 
in  his  hand.  If  a  man  had  spoken  in  this  manner  he  would 
certainly  have  killed  him  on  the  spot. 

"Mademoiselle  will  turn  back,"  calmly  rejoined  Marie-Anne, 


THE   HONOR   OF   THE   NAME  383 

disdaining  to  notice  the  insult  which  her  former  friend's  words 
implied.  "As  she  can  reach  Montaignac  by  the  other  road,  two 
men  will  accompany  her  as  far  as  Courtornieu." 

The  order  was  obeyed.  The  carriage  turned  and  rolled  away, 
though  not  before  Blanche  had  found  time  to  cry:  "Beware, 
Marie- Anne  !  I  will  make  you  pay  dearly  for  your  insulting 
patronage  !" 

The  hours  were  flying  by.  This  incident  had  occupied  ten 
minutes  more — ten  centuries — and  the  last  trace  of  order  had 
vanished.  Lacheneur  could  have  wept  with  rage.  Suddenly 
calling  Maurice  and  Chanlouineau  to  his  side,  he  said:  "I 
place  you  in  command,  do  everything  you  can  to  hurry  these 
idiots  onward.  I  will  ride  as  fast  as  possible  to  the  Croix 
d'Arcy." 

He  started,  but  he  was  only  a  short  distance  in  advance  of 
his  followers  when  he  perceived  two  men  running  toward  him 
at  full  speed.  One  was  clad  in  the  attire  of  the  middle  classes; 
the  other  wore  the  old  uniform  of  captain  in  the  emperor's 
guard. 

"What  has  happened?"  cried  Lacheneur  in  alarm. 

"Everything  is  discovered !" 

"Good  heavens !" 

"Major  Carini  has  been  arrested." 

"By  whom?     How?" 

"Ah !  there  was  a  fatality  about  it !  Just  as  we  were  perfect- 
ing our  arrangements  to  seize  the  Due  de  Sairmeuse,  he  him- 
self surprised  us.  We  fled,  but  the  cursed  noble  pursued  us, 
overtook  Carini,  caught  him  by  the  collar,  and  dragged  him  to 
the  citadel." 

Lacheneur  was  overwhelmed ;  the  abbe's  gloomy  prophecy 
again  resounded  in  his  ears. 

"So  I  warned  my  friends,  and  hastened  to  warn  you,"  con- 
tinued the  officer.    "The  affair  is  an  utter  failure  P' 

He  was  only  too  correct ;  and  Lacheneur  knew  it  even  better 
than  he  did.  But,  blinded  by  hatred  and  anger,  he  would  not 
acknowledge  that  the  disaster  was  irreparable.  He  affected  a 
calmness  which  he  was  far  from  feeling.  "You  are  easily  dis- 
couraged, gentlemen."  he  said,  bitterly.  "There  is,  at  least,  one 
more  chance." 

"The  deuce !  Then  you  have  resources  of  which  we  are 
ignorant  ?" 

"Perhaps — that  depends.     You  have  just  passed   the   Croix 


384     THE  HONOR  OF  THE  NAME 

d'Arcy;  did  you  tell  any  of  those  people  what  you  have  just 
told  me?" 

•Not  a  word." 

"How  many  men  are  assembled  there?" 

"At  least  two  thousand." 

"And  what  is  their  mood?" 

"They  are  all  eagerness  to  begin  the  fight.  They  are  cursing 
your  slowness,  and  told  me  to  entreat  you  to  make  haste." 

"In  that  case  our  cause  is  not  lost,"  said  Lacheneur,  with  a 
determined  gesture.  "Wait  here  until  the  peasants  come  up, 
and  impress  upon  them  that  you  were  sent  to  tell  them  to  make 
haste.  Bring  them  on  as  quickly  as  possible,  and  have  confi- 
dence in  me;  I  will  be  responsible  for  the  success  of  the 
enterprise." 

So  speaking,  he  put  spurs  to  his  horse  and  galloped  away. 
In  point  of  fact,  he  had  deceived  the  men  he  had  just  spoken 
with.  He  had  no  other  resources,  nor  even  the  slightest  hope 
that  the  enterprise  might  now  prove  successful.  He  had  told 
an  abominable  falsehood.  But  if  this  edifice,  which  he  had 
raised  with  such  infinite  care  and  labor,  was  to  totter  and  fall, 
he  wished  to  be  buried  beneath  its  ruins.  They  would  be  de- 
feated; he  felt  sure  of  it,  but  what  did  that  matter?  In  the 
conflict  he  would  seek  death  and  find  it. 

Bitter  discontent  pervaded  the  crowd  at  the  Croix  dArcy,  the 
murmurs  of  dissatisfaction  having  changed  to  curses  after  the 
messengers  despatched  to  warn  Lacheneur  of  the  disaster  at 
Montaignac  had  passed  by.  These  peasants,  nearly  two  thou- 
sand in  number,  were  indignant  not  to  find  their  leader  waiting 
for  them  at  the  rendezvous.  "Where  is  he?"  they  asked  each 
other.  "Who  knows,  perhaps  he  has  turned  tail  at  the  last 
moment?  Perhaps  he  is  concealing  himself  while  we  are  here 
risking  our  lives  and  our  children's  bread." 

Soon  the  epithets  of  mischief-maker  and  traitor  flew  from 
lip  to  lip,  increasing  the  anger  that  swelled  in  every  heart. 
Some  were  of  opinion  that  it  would  be  best  to  disperse;  while 
others  wished  to  march  against  Montaignac  without  waiting 
any  longer  for  Lacheneur.  The  point  was  being  deliberated 
when  a  vehicle  appeared  in  sight.  It  was  the  Baron  d'Escor- 
val's  cabriolet.  He  and  the  abbe  were  in  advance  of  Lacheneur, 
and  trusted  that  they  had  arrived  in  time  to  prevent  any  further 
prosecution  of  the  enterprise.  But  although  only  a  few  min- 
utes   previously   several   of   the    insurgents    had    wavered,   the 


THE   HONOR   OF   THE    NAME  385 

peacemakers  found  all  their  entreaties  and  warnings  useless. 
Instead  of  arresting  the  movement,  their  intervention  only 
precipitated  it. 

"We  have  gone  too  far  to  draw  back,"  exclaimed  one  of  the 
neighboring  farmers,  who  was  the  recognized  leader  in  Lache- 
neur's  absence.  "If  death  is  before  us,  it  is  also  behind  us.  To 
attack  and  conquer — that  is  our  only  hope  of  salvation.  For- 
ward, then,  at  once.  That  is  the  only  way  of  disconcerting  our 
enemies.    He  who  hesitates  is  a  coward !     So  forward !" 

"Yes,  forward !"  reechoed  the  excited  crowd.  They  unfurled 
the  tricolor,  the  banner  banished  by  the  Bourbon  kings,  which 
reminded  them  of  so  much  glory  and  such  great  misfor- 
tunes ;  the  drums  beat,  and  with  loud  shouts  of,  "Long  live 
Napoleon  the  Second  !"  the  whole  column  took  up  its  line  of 
march. 

Pale,  in  disordered  garb,  and  with  voices  husky  with  emotion 
and  fatigue,  M.  d'Escorval  and  the  abbe  followed  in  the  wake  of 
the  rebels,  imploring  them  to  listen  to  reason.  These  two 
alone  perceived  the  precipice  toward  which  these  misguided  men 
were  rushing,  and  they  prayed  to  providence  for  an  inspiration 
that  might  enable  them  to  arrest  this  foolish  enterprise  while 
there  was  yet  time.  In  fifty  minutes  the  distance  separating 
the  Croix  d'Arcy  from  Montaignac  is  covered.  Soon  the  insur- 
gents perceive  the  gate  of  the  citadel,  which  was  to  have  been 
opened  for  them  by  their  friends  within  the  town.  It  is  eleven 
o'clock,  and  this  gate  is  opened.  Does  not  this  circumstance 
prove  that  their  friends  are  masters  of  the  town,  and  that  they 
are  awaiting  them  in  force  ?  Hence,  the  column  boldly  advances, 
so  certain  of  success  that  those  who  carry  guns  do  not  even 
take  the  trouble  to  load  them. 

M.  d'Escorval  and  the  abbe  alone  foresee  the  catastrophe. 
They  entreat  the  leader  of  the  expedition  not  to  neglect  the 
commonest  precautions ;  they  implore  him  to  send  two  men  on 
in  advance  to  reconnoitre ;  they  themselves  offer  to  go,  on 
condition  that  the  peasants  will  await  their  return  before  pro- 
ceeding farther. 

But  their  prayers  are  unheeded.  The  peasants  pass  the  outer 
line  of  fortifications  in  safety,  and  the  head  of  the  advancing 
column  reaches  the  drawbridge.  The  enthusiasm  now  amounts 
to  delirium;  and  who  will  be  the  first  to  enter  is  the  only 
thought. 

Ala-- '   at  that  very  moment  they  hear  a  pistol  fired.     It  is 


386 


THE  HONOR  OF  THE  NAME 


a  signal,  for  instantly,  and  on  every  side,  resounds  a  terrible 
fusillade.  Three  or  four  peasants  fall,  mortally  wounded.  The 
remainder  pause,  terror-stricken  and  thinking  only  of  escape. 
Still  the  leader  encourages  his  men,  there  are  a  few  of  Napo- 
leon's old  soldiers  in  the  ranks;  and  a  struggle  begins,  all  the 
more  frightful  owing  to  the  darkness ! 

But  it  is  not  the  cry  of  "Forward !"  that  suddenly  rends  the 
air.  The  voice  of  a  coward  raises  the  cry  of  panic:  "We  are 
betrayed  !     Let  him  save  himself  who  can !" 

Then  comes  the  end  of  all  order.  A  wild  fear  seizes  the 
throng;  and  these  men  fly  madly,  despairingly,  scatterea  as 
withered  leaves  are  scattered  by  the  force  of  the  tempest. 


AT  first  Chupin's  extraordinary  revelations  and  the  thought 
**■  that  Martial,  the  heir  of  his  name  and  dukedom,  should  so 
degrade  himself  as  to  enter  into  a  conspiracy  with  vulgar  peas- 
ants, had  well-nigh  overcome  the  Due  de  Sairmeuse.  However, 
M.  de  Courtornieu's  composure  soon  restored  his  sang-froid. 
He  hastened  to  the  barracks,  and  in  less  than  half  an  hour  five 
hundred  linesmen  and  three  hundred  Montaignac  chasseurs 
were  under  arms.  With  those  forces  at  his  disposal  it  would 
have  been  easy  enough  to  suppress  the  movement  without  the 
slightest  bloodshed.  It  was  only  necessary  to  close  the  gates 
of  the  city,  for  it  was  not  with  clubs  and  fowling-pieces  that 
these  infatuated  peasants  could  force  an  entrance  into  a  for- 
tified town. 

Such  moderation  did  not,  however,  suit  a  man  of  the  duke's 
violent  nature.  Struggle  and  excitement  were  his  elements,  and 
ambition  fanned  his  zeal.  He  ordered  the  gates  of  the  citadel 
to  be  left  open,  and  concealed  numerous  soldiers  behind  the 
parapets  of  the  outer  fortifications.  He  then  stationed  himself 
where  he  could  command  a  view  of  the  insurgents'  approach, 
and  deliberately  choose  his  moment  for  giving  the  signal  to 
fire.  Still  a  strange  thing  happened.  Out  of  four  hundred 
shots  fired  into  a  dense  mass  of  fifteen  hundred  men,  only  three 


THE   HONOR   OF   THE    NAME  387 

hit  their  mark.    More  humane  than  their  commander,  nearly  all 
the  soldiers  had  fired  into  the  air. 

However,  the  duke  had  no  time  to  investigate  this  strange 
occurrence  now.  He  leaped  into  the  saddle,  and  placing  him- 
self at  the  head  of  several  hundred  men,  both  cavalry  and  in- 
fantry, he  started  in  pursuit  of  the  fugitives.  The  peasants 
were,  perhaps,  some  twenty  minutes  in  advance.  These  simple- 
minded  fellows  might  easily  have  made  their  escape.  They  had 
only  to  disperse  in  twenty  different  directions ;  but  unfortu- 
nately, this  thought  never  once  occurred  to  the  majority  of 
them.  A  few  ran  across  the  fields  and  then  gained  their  homes 
in  safety;  while  the  others  fled  panic-stricken,  like  a  flock  of 
frightened  sheep  before  the  pursuing  soldiers.  Fear  lent  them 
wings,  for  at  each  moment  they  could  hear  the  shots  fired  at 
the  laggards. 

There  was  one  man,  however,  who  was  still  steadily  galloping 
in  the  direction  of  Montaignac ;  and  this  was  Lacheneur.  He 
had  just  reached  the  Croix  dArcy  when  the  firing  began.  He 
listened  and  waited.  No  discharge  of  musketry  answered  the 
first  fusillade.  What  could  be  happening?  Plainly  there  was 
no  combat.  Had  the  peasantry  been  butchered  then?  Lache- 
neur had  a  perception  of  the  truth,  and  regretted  that  the  bul- 
lets just  discharged  had  not  pierced  his  own  heart.  He  put 
spurs  to  his  horse  and  galloped  past  the  cross-roads  toward 
Montaignac.  At  last  he  perceived  the  fugitives  approaching  in 
the  distance.  He  dashed  forward  to  meet  them,  and  mingling 
curses  and  insults  together  he  vainly  tried  to  stay  their  flight. 
"You  cowards !"  he  vociferated,  "you  traitors !  you  fly  and  you 
are  ten  against  one!  Where  are  you  going?  To  your  own 
homes  ?  Fools !  you  will  only  find  the  gendarmes  there,  wait- 
ing your  coming  to  conduct  you  to  the  scaffold.  Is  it  not  better 
to  die  with  your  weapons  in  your  hands  ?  Come — right  about. 
Follow  me !  We  may  still  conquer.  Reenforcements  are  at 
hand ;  two  thousand  men  are  following  me  I" 

He  promised  them  two  thousand  men ;  had  he  promised  them 
ten  thousand,  twenty  thousand — an  army  and  cannon — it  would 
have  made  no  difference.  Not  until  they  reached  the  wide  open 
space  of  the  cross-roads,  where  they  had  talked  so  confidently 
scarcely  an  hour  before,  did  the  more  intelligent  of  the  throng 
regain  their  senses,  while  the  others  fled  in  every  direction. 

About  a  hundred  of  the  bravest  and  most  determined  of  the 
conspirators  gathered  round  Lacheneur.     In  the  midst  of  the 


388     THE  HONOR  OF  THE  NAME 

little  crowd  was  the  Abbe  Midon  with  a  gloomy  and  despondent 
countenance.  He  had  been  separated  from  the  baron,  of  whose 
fate  he  was  ignorant.  Had  M.  d'Escorval  been  killed  or  taken 
prisoner?  or  was  it  possible  that  he  had  made  his  escape?  The 
worthy  priest  dared  not  return  home.  He  waited,  hoping  that 
his  companion  might  rejoin  him,  and  deemed  himself  fortunate 
in  finding  the  baron's  cabriolet  still  standing  at  a  corner  of  tht 
open  space,  formed  by  the  four  cross-roads'.  He  was  still  wait- 
ing when  the  remnant  of  the  column  confided  to  Maurice  and 
Chanlouineau  came  up.  Of  the  five  hundred  men  that  com- 
posed this  troop  on  its  departure  from  Sairmeuse,  only  fifteen 
remained,  including  the  two  retired  officers,  who  had  escaped 
from  Montaignac,  and  brought  Lacheneur  intelligence  that  the 
conspiracy  was  discovered.  Marie-Anne  was  in  the  centre  of 
this  little  party. 

Her  father  and  his  friends  were  trying  to  decide  what  course 
should  be  pursued.  Should  each  man  go  his  own  way  ?  or 
should  they  unite,  and  by  an  obstinate  resistance,  give  their 
comrades  time  to  reach  their  homes? 

Chanlouineau's  voice  put  an  end  to  the  hesitation.  "I  have 
come  to  fight,"  he  exclaimed,  "and  I  shall  sell  my  life  dearly." 

"We  will  make  a  stand  then !"  cried  the  others. 

But  Chanlouineau  did  not  immediately  follow  them  to  the 
spot  they  considered  best  adapted  for  a  prolonged  defense ;  he 
called  Maurice  and  drew  him  a  little  aside.  "You  must  leave 
us  at  once,  M.  d'Escorval,"  he  said,  in  a  rough  voice. 

"I — I  came  here,  Chanlouineau,  as  you  did,  to  do  my  duty." 

"Your  duty,  sir,  is  to  serve  Marie-Anne.  Go  at  once,  and 
take  her  with  you." 

"I  shall  remain,"  said  Maurice  firmly. 

He  was  going  to  join  his  comrades  when  Chanlouineau 
stopped  him.  "You  have  no  right  to  sacrifice  your  life  here," 
he  said  quickly.  "It  belongs  to  the  woman  who  has  given  her- 
self to  you." 

"Wretch  !  how  dare  you — " 

Chanlouineau  sadly  shook  his  head.  "What  is  the  use  of 
denying  it?"  said  he.  "It  was  so  great  a  temptation  that  only 
an  angel  could  have  resisted  it.  It  was  not  your  fault,  nor  was 
it  hers.  Lacheneur  was  a  bad  father.  There  was  a  day  when 
I  wanted  either  to  kill  myself  or  to  kill  you,  I  didn't  know 
which.  Ah  !  you  certainly  were  near  death  that  day.  You  were 
scarcely  five  paces  from  the  muzzle  of  my  gun.     It  was  God 


THE    HONOR    OF   THE    NAME  389 

who  stayed  my  hand  by  reminding  me  what  her  despair  would 
be.  But  now  that  I  have  to  die,  and  Lacheneur  as  well,  some 
one  must  take  care  of  Marie-Anne.  Swear  that  you  will  marry 
her.  You  may  be  involved  in  some  difficulty  on  account  of  this 
affair;  but  I  have  the  means  of  saving  you." 

He  was  suddenly  interrupted  by  a  fu-illade.  The  Due  de 
Sairmeuse's  soldiers  were  approaching.  "Good  heavens!"  ex- 
claimed Chanlouineau,  "and  Marie-Anne." 

They  rushed  in  pursuit  of  her,  and  Maurice  was  the  first  to 
find  her,  standing  in  the  centre  of  the  open  space  clinging  to 
the  neck  of  her  father's  horse.  He  took  her  in  his  arms,  trying 
to  drag  her  away.    "Come  !"  said  he,  "come  !" 

But  she  refused.    "Leave  me,  leave  me !"  she  entreated. 

"But  all  is  lost !" 

"Yes,  I  know  that  all  is  lost — even  honor.  Leave  me  here. 
I  must  remain;  I  must  die,  and  thus  hide  my  shame.  It  must, 
it  shall  be  so !" 

Just  then  Chanlouineau  reached  them.  Had  he  divined  the 
secret  of  her  resistance?  Perhaps  so,  but  at  all  events  without 
uttering  a  word,  he  lifted  her  in  his  strong  arms  as  if  she  had 
been  a  child,  and  carried  her  to  the  cabriolet,  beside  which  the 
Abbe  Midon  was  standing.  "Get  in,"  he  said,  addressing  the 
priest,  "and  quick — take  Mademoiselle  Lacheneur.  Now, 
Maurice,  it's  your  turn !" 

But  the  duke's  soldiers  were  already  masters  of  the  field. 
They  had  perceived  this  little  group  and  hastened  forward. 
Brave  Chanlouineau  certainly  was.  He  seized  his  gun,  and 
brandishing  it  like  a  club  managed  to  hold  the  enemy  at  bay, 
while  Maurice  sprang  into  the  carriage,  caught  the  reins,  and 
started  the  horse  off  at  a  gallop.  All  the  cowardice  and  all  the 
heroism  displayed  on  that  terrible  night  will  never  be  really 
known.  Two  minutes  after  the  departure  of  the  vehicle,  Chan- 
louineau was  still  battling  with  the  foe.  He  had  at  least  a 
dozen  men  to  deal  with.  Twenty  shots  had  been  fired,  and  yet 
he  was  unwounded,  and  his  enemies  almost  believed  him  to  be 
invulnerable. 

"Surrender!"  cried  the  soldiers,  amazed  by  his  bravery; 
"surrender !" 

"Never !  never !"  he  shrieked  in  reply,  at  the  same  time 
warding  his  assailants  off  with  well-nigh  superhuman  strength 
and  agility.  The  struggle  might  have  lasted  some  time  longer, 
had  not  one  of  the  soldiers  managed  to  crawl  behind  him,  with- 


390     THE  HONOR  OF  THE  NAME 

out  being  perceived.  This  linesman  seized  Chanlouineau  by  the 
legs,  and  although  the  latter  struggled  furiously,  he  was  taken 
at  such  a  disadvantage  that  further  resistance  was  impossible. 
He  fell  to  the  ground  with  a  loud  cry  of  "Help  !  friends,  help !"' 

But  no  one  responded  to  this  appeal.  At  the  other  end  of  the 
open  space  those  upon  whom  he  called  had  virtually  yielded, 
after  a  desperate  struggle.  The  main  body  of  the  duke's  in- 
fantry was  near  at  hand.  The  rebels  could  hear  the  drums 
beating  the  charge  and  see  the  bayonets  gleaming  in  the 
moonlight. 

Lacheneur,  who  had  remained  on  horseback  amid  his  parti- 
zans,  utterly  ignoring  the  bullets  that  whistled  round  him,  felt 
that  his  few  remaining  friends  were  about  to  be  exterminated. 
At  that  supreme  moment  a  vision  of  the  past  flitted  before  his 
mind's  eye,  with  the  rapidity  of  a  flash  of  lightning.  He  read 
and  judged  his  own  heart.  Hatred  had  led  him  to  crime.  He 
loathed  himself  for  the  humiliation  which  he  had  imposed  upon 
his  daughter,  and  cursed  himself  for  the  falsehoods  with  which 
he  had  deceived  these  brave  men,  for  whose  death  he  would  be 
accountable  to  God.  Enough  blood  had  flowed;  he  must  save 
those  who  remained.  "Cease  firing,  my  friends,"  he  com- 
manded ;  "retreat !" 

They  obeyed — he  could  see  them  scatter  in  every  direction. 
He  too  could  fly,  for  was  he  not  mounted  on  a  swift  steed 
which  would  bear  him  beyond  the  reach  of  the  enemy?  But 
he  had  sworn  that  he  would  not  survive  defeat.  Maddened 
with  remorse,  despair,  sorrow,  and  impotent  rage,  he  saw  no 
refuge  except  in  death.  He  had  only  to  wait  for  it,  for  it  was 
fast  approaching;  and  yet  he  preferred  to  rush  to  meet  it. 
Gathering  up  the  reins,  and  applying  the  spurs  he  charged  upon 
the  enemy. 

The  shock  was  rude,  the  ranks  opened,  and  there  was  a  mo- 
ment's confusion.  Then  Lacheneur's  horse,  wounded  by  a  dozen 
bayonet  thrusts,  reared  on  its  hind-legs,  beat  the  air  with  its 
fore  hoofs,  and,  falling  backward,  pinned  its  rider  underneath. 
And  the  soldiers  marched  onward,  not  suspecting  that  the  rider 
was  struggling  to  free  himself. 

It  was  half-past  one  in  the  morning — the  open  space  where 
the  cross-roads  met  was  virtually  deserted.  Nothing  could  be 
heard  save  the  moans  of  a  few  wounded  men  calling  on  their 
comrades  for  succor.  Before  thinking  of  attending  to  the 
wounded,  M.  de  Sairmeuse  had  to  occupy  himself  with  his  own 


THE    HONOR   OF   THE    NAME  391 

personal  interests  and  glory.  Now  that  the  insurrection  had, 
so  to  say,  been  suppressed,  it  was  necessary  to  exaggerate  its 
magnitude  as  much  as  possible,  in  order  that  his  grace's  reward 
might  be  in  proportion  with  the  services  he  would  be  supposed 
to  have  rendered.  Some  fifteen  or  twenty  rebels  had  been  cap- 
tured; but  these  were  not  sufficient  to  give  the  victory  all  the 
eclat  which  the  duke  desired.  He  must  find  more  culprits  to 
drag  before  the  provost-marshal  or  before  a  military  commis- 
sion. He,  therefore,  divided  his  troops  into  several  detach- 
ments, and  sent  them  in  every  direction  with  orders  to  explore 
the  villages,  search  the  houses,  and  arrest  all  suspected  per- 
sons. Having  given  this  order  and  recommended  implacable 
severity,  he  turned  his  horse  and  started  at  a  brisk  trot  for 
Montaignac. 

Like  his  friend,  M.  de  Courtornieu,  he  would  have  blessed 
these  honest,  artless  conspirators,  had  not  a  growing  fear  im- 
paired his  satisfaction.  Was  his  son,  the  Marquis  de  Sairmeuse, 
really  implicated  in  this  conspiracy  or  not?  The  duke  could 
scarcely  believe  in  Martial's  connivance,  and  yet  the  recollec- 
tion of  Chupin's  assertions  troubled  him.  On  the  other  hand, 
what  could  have  become  of  Martial  ?  Had  he  been  met  by  the 
servant  sent  to  warn  him?  Was  he  returning?  And,  in  that 
case,  by  which  road?  Had  he  fallen  into  the  hands  of  the 
peasants?  So  many  questions  which  could  not  with  certainty 
be  answered. 

His  grace's  relief  was  intense  when,  on  reaching  his  resi- 
dence in  Montaignac,  after  a  conference  with  M.  de  Courtor- 
nieu, he  learned  that  Martial  had  returned  home  about  a  quarter 
of  an  hour  before.  The  servant  who  brought  him  this  news 
added  that  the  marquis  had  gone  to  his  own  room  directly  he 
dismounted  from  his  horse. 

"All  right,"  replied  the  duke.  "I  will  go  to  him  there."  At 
the  same  time,  however,  despite  his  outward  placidity  of  man- 
ner, he  was  secretly  murmuring:  "What  abominable  imperti- 
nence !  What !  I  am  on  horseback  at  the  head  of  my  troops,  my 
life  imperiled,  and  my  son  goes  quietly  to  bed  without  even 
assuring  himself  of  my  safety !" 

He  reached  Martial's  room,  and  finding  the  door  closed  and 
locked  on  the  inside,  rapped  angrily  against  the  panel. 

"Who  is  there?"  inquired  the  young  marquis. 

"It  is  I,"  replied  the  duke;  "open  the  door." 

Martial  at  once  complied,  and  M.  de  Sairmeuse  entered;  but 


392     THE  HONOR  OF  THE  NAME 

the  sight  that  met  his  gaze  made  him  tremble.  On  the  table 
stood  a  basin  full  of  blood,  and  Martial,  with  bare  chest,  was 
bathing  a  large  wound  near  the  right  temple. 

"You  have  been  fighting!"  exclaimed  the  duke,  in  an  agi- 
tated voice. 

"Yes." 

"Ah  ! — then  you  were,  indeed — " 

"I  was  where? — what?" 

"Why,  at  the  rendezvous  of  those  miserable  peasants  who, 
in  their  folly,  dared  to  dream  of  overthrowing  the  best  of 
princes !" 

"I  think  you  must  be  jesting,  sir,"  replied  Martial,  in  a  tone 
of  deep  surprise,  which  somewhat  reassured  his  father,  though 
it  failed  to  dissipate  his  suspicions  entirely. 

"Then  these  vile  rascals  attacked  you?"  inquired  M.  de  Sair- 
meuse. 

"Not  at  all.     I  have  been  simply  obliged  to  fight  a  duel." 

"With  whom?  Name  the  scoundrel  who  has  dared  to  insult 
you. 

A  faint  flush  tinged  Martial's  cheek;  but  it  was  with  his 
usual  careless  manner  that  he  replied :  "Upon  my  word,  no ;  I 
shall  not  give  his  name.  You  would  trouble  him,  perhaps;  and 
I  really  owe  the  fellow  a  debt  of  gratitude.  It  happened  upon 
the  highway;  he  might  have  murdered  me  without  ceremony 
had  he  only  chosen,  but  he  offered  me  open  combat.  Besides, 
he  was  wounded  far  more  severely  than  I." 

All  M.  de  Sairmeuse's  doubts  had  now  returned.  "And  why, 
instead  of  summoning  a  physician,  are  you  attempting  to  dress 
this  wound  yourself?" 

"Because  it  is  a  mere  trifle,  and  because  I  wish  to  keep  it  a 
secret." 

The  duke  shook  his  head.  "All  this  is  scarcely  plausible," 
he  remarked;  "especially  after  the  statements  made  to  me  con- 
cerning your  complicity  in  the  revolt." 

"Ah !"  said  the  young  marquis,  "so  your  head  spy  has  been 
at  work  again.  However,  I  am  certainly  surprised  that  you  can 
hesitate  for  a  moment  between  your  son's  word  and  the  stories 
told  you  by  such  a  wretch." 

"Don't  speak  ill  of  Chupin,  marquis;  he  is  a  very  useful  man. 
Had  it  not  been  for  him,  we  should  have  been  taken  unawares. 
It  was  through  him  that  I  learned  of  this  vast  conspiracy  organ- 
ized by  Lacheneur — " 


THE   HONOR   OF   THE    NAME 


393 


"What !  is  it  Lacheneur— " 

"Who  is  at  the  head  of  the  movement  ? — yes,  marquis.  Ah  I 
your  usual  discernment  has  failed  you  in  this  instance.  What, 
you  were  a  constant  visitor  at  his  house,  and  yet  you  suspected 
nothing?  And  you  contemplate  a  diplomatic  career!  But  this 
is  not  everything.  Now  you  know  what  became  of  the  money 
you  so  lavishly  bestowed  on  these  people.  They  used  it  to  pur- 
chase guns,  powder,  and  ammunition." 

The  duke  was  satisfied  that  his  earlier  suspicions  concern- 
ing his  son's  complicity  were  without  foundation ;  still  he  could 
not  resist  the  temptation  to  taunt  Martial  anent  his  intimacy 
with  the  ex-steward  of  Sairmeuse.  But,  despite  the  bitterness 
of  the  situation,  it  proved  a  fruitless  effort.  Martial  knew  very 
well  that  he  had  been  duped,  but  he  did  not  think  of  resent- 
ment. 

"If  Lacheneur  has  been  captured,"  he  murmured  to  him- 
self, "if  he  were  condemned  to  death,  and  if  I  could  only  save 
him,  then  Marie-Anne  would  have  nothing  to  refuse  me." 


TX7HEN  the  Baron  d'Escorval  divined  the  reason  of  his 
son's  frequent  absences  from  home,  he  studiously  avoided 
speaking  on  the  matter  to  his  wife;  and,  indeed,  he  did  not 
even  warn  her  of  his  purpose  when  he  went  to  ask  the  Abbe 
Midon  to  go  with  him  to  Lacheneur's.  This  was  the  first  time 
that  he  had  ever  had  a  secret  from  the  faithful  partner  of  his 
life;  and  his  silence  fully  explains  the  intensity  of  Madame 
d'Escorval's  astonishment  when  at  dinner  time  Maurice  was 
sometimes  late ;  but  the  baron,  like  all  great  workers,  was  punc- 
tuality itself.  Hence  his  non-arrival  could  only  be  due  to  some 
extraordinary  occurrence.  Madame  d'Escorvai's  surprise  devel- 
oped into  uneasiness  when  she  ascertained  that  her  husband  had 
started  off  in  the  Abbe  Midon's  company,  that  they  had  har- 
nessed a  horse  to  the  cabriolet  themselves,  driving  through  the 
stable-yard  into  a  lane  leading  to  the  public  road,  in  lieu  of 
passing  through  the  courtyard  in  front  of  the  house,  as  was  the 


394     THE  HONOR  OF  THE  NAME 

usual  practise.  This  strange  precaution  must  necessarily  con- 
ceal some  mystery. 

Madame  d'Escorval  waited,  oppressed  by  vague  forebodings. 
The  servants  shared  her  anxiety ;  for  the  baron's  affability  and 
kindness  had  greatly  endeared  him  to  all  his  dependents.  Long 
hours  passed  by,  but  eventually,  at  about  ten  o'clock  in  the 
evening,  a  peasant  returning  from  Sairmeuse  passed  by  the  cha- 
teau, and  seeing  the  servants  clustering  in  front  of  the  garden 
gate  he  stopped  short,  and  with  the  loquacity  of  a  man  who  has 
just  been  sacrificing  at  the  altar  of  Bacchus,  proceeded  to  relate 
the  most  incredible  stories.  He  declared  that  all  the  peasantry 
for  ten  leagues  around  were  under  arms,  and  that  the  Baron 
d'Escorval  was  the  leader  of  a  revolt  organized  for  the  restora- 
tion of  the  Empire.  He  did  not  doubt  the  final  success  of  the 
movement,  boldly  stating  that  Napoleon  II,  Marie-Louise,  and 
all  the  marshals  were  concealed  in  Montaignac.  Alas !  it  must 
be  confessed  that  Lacheneur  had  not  hesitated  to  utter  the 
grossest  falsehoods  in  his  anxiety  to  gain  followers  to  his  cause. 
Madame  d'Escorval,  before  whom  this  peasant  was  conducted, 
could  not  be  deceived  by  these  ridiculous  stories,  but  she  could 
and  did  believe  that  the  baron  was  the  prime  mover  in  the  in- 
surrection. And  this  belief,  which  would  have  carried  conster- 
nation to  many  women's  hearts,  absolutely  reassured  her.  She 
had  entire,  unlimited  faith  in  her  husband.  She  believed  him 
superior  to  all  other  men — infallible,  in  short.  Hence,  if  he  had 
organized  a  movement,  that  movement  was  right.  If  he  had 
attempted  it,  it  was  because  he  expected  to  succeed;  and  if  he 
looked  for  success,  to  her  mind  it  was  certain. 

Impatient,  however,  to  know  the  result,  she  despatched  the 
gardener  to  Sairmeuse  with  orders  to  obtain  information  with- 
out awakening  suspicion,  if  possible,  and  to  hasten  back  as  soon 
as  he  could  learn  anything  of  a  positive  nature.  He  returned 
shortly  after  midnight,  pale,  frightened,  and  in  tears.  The  dis- 
aster had  already  become  known,  and  had  been  described  to 
him  with  any  amount  of  exaggeration.  He  had  been  told  that 
hundreds  of  men  had  been  killed,  and  that  a  whole  army  was 
scouring  the  country,  massacring  the  defenseless  peasants  and 
their  families. 

While  he  was  telling  his  story,  Madame  d'Escorval  felt  as  if 
she  were  going  mad.  She  saw — yes,  positively,  saw  her  son  and 
her  husband,  dead — or  still  worse,  mortally  wounded,  stretched 
on   the   public  highway — lying  with   their   arms   crossed   upon 


THE   HONOR   OF   THE    NAME  395 

their  breasts,  livid,  bloody,  their  eyes  staring  wildly — begging 
for  water — a  drop  of  water  to  assuage"  their  burning  thirst.  "I 
will  find  them  !"  she  exclaimed,  in  frenzied  accents.  "I  will  go 
to  the  battlefield  and  seek  for  them  among  the  dead,  until  I  find 
them.  Light  some  torches,  my  friends,  and  come  with  me,  for 
you  will  aid  me,  will  you  not?  You  loved  them;  they  were  so 
good !  You  would  not  leave  their  dead  bodies  unburied !  Oh ! 
the  wretches  !  the  wretches  who  have  killed  them !" 

The  servants  were  hastening  to  obey  when  the  furious  gallop 
of  a  horse  and  the  rapid  roll  of  carriage-wheels  were  heard. 
"Here  they  come !"  exclaimed  the  gardener,  "here  they  come !" 

Madame  d'Escorval,  followed  by  the  servants,  rushed  to  the 
gate  just  in  time  to  see  a  cabriolet  enter  the  courtyard,  and  the 
panting  horse,  flecked  with  foam,  miss  his  footing,  and  fall. 
The  Abbe  Midon  and  Maurice  had  already  sprung  to  the  ground 
and  were  removing  an  apparently  lifeless  body  from  the  vehicle. 
Even  Marie-Anne's  great  energy  had  not  been  able  to  resist  so 
many  successive  shocks.  The  last  trial  had  overwhelmed  her. 
Once  in  a  carriage,  all  immediate  danger  having  disappeared, 
the  excitement  which  had  sustained  her  fled.  She  became  un- 
conscious, and  all  efforts  had  hitherto  failed  to  restore  her. 
Madame  d'Escorval,  however,  did  not  recognize  Mademoiselle 
Lacheneur  in  her  masculine  attire.  She  only  saw  that  the  body 
Maurice  and  the  priest  were  carrying  was  not  her  husband, 
and,  turning  to  her  son,  exclaimed  in  a  stifled  voice :  "And  your 
father — your  father,  where  is  he?" 

Until  that  moment,  Maurice  and  the  cure  had  comforted 
themselves  with  the  hope  that  M.  d'Escorval  would  reach  home 
before  them.  They  were  now  cruelly  undeceived.  Maurice  tot- 
tered, and  almost  dropped  his  precious  burden.  The  abbe  per- 
ceived his  anguish,  and  made  a  sign  to  two  servants,  who  gently 
lifted  Marie-Anne,  and  bore  her  to  the  house.  Then  turning 
to  Madame  d'Escorval  the  cure  exclaimed  at  hazard:  "The 
baron  will  soon  be  here,  madame,  he  fled  first — " 

"The  Baron  d'Escorval  could  not  have  fled,"  she  interrupted. 
"A  general  does  not  desert  when  he  is  face  to  face  with  the 
enemy.  If  a  panic  seizes  his  soldiers,  he  rushes  to  the  front, 
and  either  leads  them  back  to  combat,  or  sacrifices  his  own 
life." 

"Mother!"  faltered  Maurice;  "mother!" 

"Oh !  do  not  try  to  deceive  me.  My  husband  was  the  organ- 
izer of  this  conspiracy.     If  his  confederates  have  been  beaten 


396     THE  HONOR  OF  THE  NAME 

and    dispersed    they    must    have    proved    themselves    cowards. 
Heaven  have  mercy  upon  me,  my  husband  is  dead !" 

In  spite  of  the  abbe's  quickness  of  perception,  he  could  not 
understand  these  assertions  on  the  part  of  the  baroness;  and 
feared  that  sorrow  and  terror  had  tampered  with  her  mind. 
"Ah  !  madame,"  he  exclaimed,  "the  baron  had  nothing  to  do 
with  this  movement:  far  from  it — "  He  paused;  they  were 
standing  in  the  courtyard,  in  the  full  glare  of  the  torches  lighted 
by  the  servants  a  moment  previously.  Any  one  passing  along 
the  public  road  could  hear  and  see  everything;  and  in  the  pres- 
ent situation  such  imprudence  might  have  fatal  results.  "Come, 
Madame,"  accordingly  resumed  the  priest,  leading  the  baroness 
toward  the  house ;  "and  you,  Maurice,  come  as  well !" 

Madame  d'Escorval  and  her  son  passively  obeyed  the  sum- 
mons. The  former  seemed  crushed  by  unspeakable  anguish,  but 
on  entering  the  drawing-room  she  instinctively  glanced  at  the 
seemingly  lifeless  form  extended  on  the  sofa.  This  time  she 
recognized  Marie-Anne.  "What,  Mademoiselle  Lacheneur !" 
she  faltered,  "here  in  this  costume?  dead?" 

One  might  indeed  believe  that  the  poor  girl  was  dead,  to  see 
her  lying  there  rigid,  cold,  and  as  white  as  if  the  last  drop  of 
blood  had  been  drained  from  her  veins.  Her  beautiful  face 
had  the  motionless  pallor  of  marble;  her  half-open,  colorless 
lips  disclosed  her  teeth,  clenched  convulsively,  and  a  large  dark 
blue  circle  surrounded  her  closed  eyelids.  Her  long  black  hair, 
which  she  had  rolled  up  closely,  so  as  to  slip  it  under  her  peas- 
ant's hat,  was  now  unwound,  and  fell  confusedly  over  the  sofa 
and  her  shoulders. 

"There  is  no  danger,"  declared  the  abbe,  after  he  had  ex- 
amined her.  "She  has  only  fainted,  and  it  will  not  be  long  be- 
fore she  regains  consciousness."  And  then,  rapidly  but  clearly, 
he  gave  the  necessary  directions  to  the  servants,  who  were  as 
astonished  as  their  mistress. 

"What  a  night!"  murmured  Madame  d'Escorval,  as,  staring 
on  the  scene  with  dilated  eyes,  she  mechanically  wiped  her 
forehead,  covered  with  cold  perspiration. 

"I  must  remind  you,  madame,"  said  the  priest  sympathizingly, 
but  firmly,  "that  reason  and  duty  alike  forbid  your  yielding  to 
despair!  Wife,  where  is  your  energy?  Christian,  what  has 
become  of  your  confidence  in  a  just  and  protecting  Providence !" 

"Oh,  I  have  courage  left,"  faltered  the  wretched  woman.  "I 
am  brave  !" 


THE    HONOR   OF   THE    NAME  397 

The  abbe  led  her  to  a  large  armchair  and  compelled  her  to 
sit  down.  Then  in  a  gentler  tone,  he  resumed :  "Besides,  why 
should  you  despair,  madame?  Your  son  is  with  you  in  safety. 
Your  husband  has  not  compromised  himself ;  he  has  done  noth- 
ing more  than  I  have  done  myself."  And  briefly,  but  with  rare 
precision,  the  priest  explained  the  part  which  he  and  the  baron 
had  played  during  this  unfortunate  evening. 

Instead  of  reassuring  the  baroness,  however,  his  recital 
seemed  to  increase  her  anxiety.  "I  understand  you,"  she  inter- 
rupted, "and  I  believe  you.  But  I  also  know  that  all  the  people 
in  the  country  round  about  are  convinced  that  my  husband  com- 
manded the  rebels.     Thev  believe  it,  and  they  will  say  it." 

"And  what  of  that?" 

"If  he  has  been  arrested,  as  you  give  me  to  understand  may 
be  the  case,  he  will  be  summoned  before  a  court-martial.  Was 
he  not  one  of  the  emperor's  friends  ?  That  alone  is  a  crime,  as 
you  know  very  well  yourself.  He  will  be  convicted  and  sen- 
tenced to  death." 

"No,  madame,  no  !  Am  I  not  here  ?  I  will  go  to  the  tribunal 
and  say :  'I  have  seen  and  know  everything.'  " 

"But  they  will  arrest  you  as  well,  for  you  are  not  a  priest 
after  their  cruel  hearts.  They  will  throw  you  into  prison,  and 
you  will  meet  him  on  the  scaffold." 

Maurice  had  been  listening  with  a  pale,  haggard  face.  "Ah. 
I  shall  have  been  the  cause  of  the  death  of  my  father,"  he  ex- 
claimed, as  he  heard  these  last  words,  and  then,  despite  all  the 
abbe's  attempts  to  silence  him,  he  continued :  "Yes,  I  shall  have 
killed  him.  He  was  ignorant  even  of  the  existence  of  this  con- 
spiracy desired  by  Lacheneur;  but  I  knew  of  it,  and  wished  to 
succeed,  because  on  it  the  success,  the  happiness  of  my  life 
depended.  And  then — wretch  that  I  was  ! — at  times  when  I 
wished  to  gain  a  waverer  in  our  ranks,  I  mentioned  the  hon- 
ored name  of  D'Escorval.  Ah  !  I  was  mad  ! — I  was  mad  !  And 
yet,  even  now,  I  have  not  the  courage  to  curse  my  folly!  Oh. 
mother,  mother,  if  you  knew — " 

The  young  fellow  paused,  the  sobs  which  convulsively  rose 
in  his  throat  choking  all  further  utterances.  Just  then  a  faint 
moan  was  heard.  Marie-Anne  was  slowly  regaining  conscious- 
ness. She  seemed  intensely  puzzled  by  the  scene  around  her, 
and  passed  her  hands  before  her  wandering  eyes  as  if  to  ascer- 
tain whether  she  were  really  awake  or  not.  At  one  moment 
she  opened   her   mouth   as   if   to  speak,   but  the   Abbe   Midon 


398     THE  HONOR  OF  THE  NAME 

checked  her  with  a  hasty  gesture.  Maurice's  confession  and  his 
mother's  remarks  had  fully  enlightened  the  priest  as  to  the 
danger  threatening  the  D'Escorvals.  How  could  it  he  averted? 
There  was  no  time  for  reflection.  He  must  decide  and  act  at 
once.  Accordingly,  he  darted  to  the  door  and  summoned  the 
servants,  still  clustering  in  the  hall  and  on  the  staircase.  "Lis- 
ten to  me  attentively,"  said  he,  in  that  quick  imperious  voice 
which  unhesitatingly  impresses  the  hearer  with  the  certainty 
of  approaching  peril,  "and  remember  that  your  master's  life 
depends,  perhaps,  upon  your  discretion.  We  can  rely  upon  you, 
can  we  not?" 

Simultaneously  the  little  group  of  dependents  raised  their 
hands,  as  if  to  call  upon  Heaven  to  witness  their  fidelity. 

"In  less  than  an  hour,"  continued  the  priest,  "the  soldiers 
sent  in  pursuit  of  the  fugitives  will  be  here.  Not  a  word  must 
be  said  concerning  what  has  happened  this  evening.  Whoever 
questions  you  must  be  led  to  suppose  that  I  went  away  with  the 
baron,  and  returned  alone.  Not  one  of  you  must  have  seen 
Mademoiselle  Lacheneur.  We  are  going  to  conceal  her.  Re- 
member, my  friends,  that  all  is  lost  if  the  slightest  suspicion  of 
her  presence  here  is  roused.  Should  the  soldiers  question  you, 
try  and  convince  them  that  M.  Maurice  has  not  left  the  house 
this  evening."  The  priest  paused  for  a  moment,  trying  to  think 
if  he  had  forgotten  any  other  precaution  that  human  prudence 
could  suggest ;  then  he  added  again :  "One  word  more ;  to  see 
you  standing  about  at  this  hour  of  the  night  will  awaken  sus- 
picion at  once.  However,  we  must  plead  in  justification  the 
alarm  we  feel  at  the  baron's  prolonged  absence.  Besides,  Ma- 
dame d'Escorval  is  ill  and  that  will  furnish  another  excuse. 
She  must  go  to  bed  at  once,  for  by  this  means  she  may  escape 
all  awkward  questioning.  As  for  you,  Maurice,  run  and  change 
your  clothes ;  and  above  all,  wash  your  hands,  and  sprinkle  some 
scent  over  them." 

Those  who  heard  the  abbe  were  so  impressed  with  the  immi- 
nence of  the  danger  that  they  were  more  than  willing  to  obey 
his  orders.  As  soon  as  Marie-Anne  could  be  moved,  she  was 
carried  to  a  tiny  garret  under  the  roof ;  while  Madame  d'Escor- 
val retired  to  her  own  room,  and  the  servants  went  back  to  the 
kitchen.  Maurice  and  the  abbe  remained  alone  in  the  drawing- 
room.  They  were  both  cruelly  oppressed  by  anxiety,  and  shared 
the  opinion  that  the  Baron  d'Escorval  had  been  made  a  prisoner. 
In  that  event,  the  Abbe  Midon  felt  that  all  he  could  usefully  at- 


THE   HONOR   OF   THE    NAME  399 

tempt  was  to  try  and  save  Maurice  from  any  charge  of  com- 
plicity. "And  who  knows,"  he  muttered,  "the  son's  freedom 
may  save  the  father's  life?" 

At  that  moment,  his  meditations  were  interrupted  by  a  violent 
pull  at  the  bell  of  the  front  gate.  The  gardener  could  be  heard 
hastening  to  answer  the  summons,  the  gate  grated  on  its  hinges, 
and  then  the  measured  tread  of  soldiers  resounded  over  the 
gravel.    Half  a  minute  later  a  loud  voice  commanded :  "Halt !" 

The  priest  looked  at  Maurice  and  saw  that  he  was  as 
pale  as  death.  "Be  calm,"  he  entreated,  "don't  be  alarmed. 
Don't  lose  your  self-possession — and,  above  all,  don't  forget  my 
instructions." 

"Let  them  come,"  replied  Maurice.     "I  am  prepared." 

Scarcely  had  he  spoken  than  the  drawing-room  door  was 
flung  violently  open,  and  a  captain  of  grenadiers  entered  the 
apartment.  He  was  a  young  fellow  of  five-and-twenty,  tall, 
fair-haired,  with  blue  eyes,  and  a  little,  carefully  waxed  mus- 
tache. No  doubt  on  ordinary  occasions  this  military  dandy's 
features  wore  the  coxcomb's  usual  look  of  self-complacency,  but 
for  the  time  being  he  had  a  really  ferocious  air.  The  soldiers 
by  whom  he  was  accompanied  awaited  his  orders  in  the  hall. 
After  glancing  suspiciously  round  the  apartment,  he  asked  in 
a  harsh  voice:  "Who  is  the  master  of  this  house?" 

"The  Baron  d'Escorval,  my  father,  who  is  absent,"  replied 
Maurice. 

"Where  is  he  ?" 

The  abbe,  who  had  hitherto  remained  seated,  now  rose  to 
his  feet.  "On  hearing  of  the  unfortunate  outbreak  of  this  even- 
ing," he  replied,  "the  baron  and  myself  went  after  the  peasants 
in  the  hope  of  inducing  them  to  relinquish  their  foolish  under- 
taking. They  would  not  listen  to  us.  In  the  confusion  that 
ensued,  I  became  separated  from  the  baron ;  I  returned  here 
very  anxious,  and  am  now  waiting  for  his  return." 

The  captain  twisted  his  mustache  with  a  sneering  air.  "Not 
a  bad  invention !"  said  he.     "Only  I  don't  believe  a  word  of  it." 

A  threatening  light  gleamed  in  the  priest's  eyes,  and  his  lips 
trembled  for  a  moment.    However,  he  prudently  held  his  peace. 

"Who  are  you?"  rudely  asked  the  officer. 

"I  am  the  cure  of  Sairmeuse." 

"Honest  men  ought  to  be  in  bed  at  this  hour.  And  you  are 
racing  about  the  country  after  rebellious  peasants.  Really,  I 
don't  know  what  prevents  me  from  ordering  your  arrest." 

7 — Vol.  II — Gab. 


400     THE  HONOR  OF  THE  NAME 

What  did  prevent  him  was  the  priestly  robe,  all  powerful 
under  the  Restoration.  With  Maurice,  however,  the  swagger- 
ing swashbuckler  was  more  at  ease.  "How  manv  are  there  in 
this  family  of  yours?"  he  asked. 

"Three;  my  father,  my  mother — ill  at  this  moment — and 
myself." 

"And  how  many  servants?" 

"Seven — four  men  and  three  women." 

"You  haven't  housed  or  concealed  any  one  here  this  evening?" 

"No  one." 

"It  will  be  necessary  to  prove  that,"  rejoined  the  captain; 
and,  turning  toward  the  door,  he  called:  "Corporal  Bavois, 
step  here  !" 

This  corporal  proved  to  be  one  of  the  old  soldiers  who  had 
followed  the  emperor  all  over  Europe.  Two  tiny,  but  piercing 
gray  eyes  lighted  his  tanned,  weather-beaten  face,  and  an  im- 
mense hooked  nose  surmounted  a  heavy,  bristling  mustache. 
"Bavois,"  commanded  the  officer,  "take  half  a  dozen  men  and 
search  this  house  from  top  to  bottom.  You  are  an  old  fox, 
and  if  there  be  any  hiding-place  here,  you  will  be  sure  to  dis- 
cover it.  If  you  find  any  one  concealed  here,  bring  the  person 
to  me.     Go,  and  make  haste !" 

The  corporal  saluted  and  turned  on  his  heels ;  while  the  cap- 
tain walked  toward  Maurice :  "And  now,"  said  he,  "what  have 
you  been  doing  this  evening?" 

The  young  man  hesitated  for  a  moment :  then,  with  well- 
feigned  indifference,  replied :  "I  have  not  put  my  head  out  of 
doors." 

"Hum  !  that  must  be  proved.    Let  me  see  your  hands." 

The  soldier's  tone  was  so  offensive  that  Maurice  felt  the 
blood  rise  to  his  forehead.  Fortunately  a  warning  glance  from 
the  abbe  made  him  restrain  himself.  He  offered  his  hands  for 
inspection,  and  the  captain,  after  examining  them  carefully  on 
either  side,  took  the  final  precaution  to  smell  them.  "Ah !" 
quoth  he,  "these  hands  are  too  white  and  smell  too  sweet  to 
have  been  dabbling  with  powder." 

At  the  same  time  he  was  somewhat  surprised  that  this  young 
man  should  have  so  little  courage  as  to  remain  by  the  fireside 
at  home,  while  his  father  was  leading  the  peasants  on  to  battle. 
"Another  thing,"  said  he:  "you  must  have  some  weapons  here?" 

"Yes,  a  few  hunting  rifles." 

"Where  are  they?" 


THE   HONOR   OF   THE    NAME  401 

"In  a  small  room  on  the  ground  floor." 

"Take  me  there." 

They  conducted  him  to  the  room,  and  on  finding  that  none 
of  the  guns  had  been  used,  at  least  for  some  days,  he  seemed 
considerably  annoyed.  But  his  disappointment  reached  a  climax 
when  Corporal  Bavois  returned  and  stated  that  he  had  searched 
everywhere,  without  finding  anything  of  a  suspicious  character. 

"Send  for  the  servants,"  was  the  officer's  next  order ;  but  all 
the  dependents  faithfully  confined  themselves  to  the  story  in- 
vented by  the  Abbe  Midon,  and  the  captain  perceived  that  even 
if  a  mystery  existed,  as  he  suspected,  he  was  not  likely  to  fathom 
it.  Swearing  that  all  the  inmates  of  the  house  should  pay  a 
heavy  penalty  if  they  were  deceiving  him,  he  again  called  Bavois 
and  told  him  that  he  should  resume  the  search  himself.  "You," 
he  added,  "will  remain  here  with  two  men,  and  I  shall  expect 
you  to  render  a  strict  account  of  all  you  see  and  hear.  If 
M.  d'Escorval  returns,  bring  him  to  me  at  once ;  do  not  allow 
him  to  escape.     Keep  your  eyes  open  and  good  luck  to  you!" 

He  added  a  few  words  in  a  low  voice,  and  then  left  the  room 
as  abruptly  as  he  had  entered  it.  Scarcely  had  the  sound  of 
his  footsteps  died  away  than  the  corporal  gave  vent  to  his  dis- 
gust in  a  frightful  oath.  "Hein!"  said  he  to  his  men,  "did  you 
hear  that  cadet  ?  Listen,  watch,  arrest,  report.  So  he  takes 
us  for  spies  !  Ah  !  if  the  Little  Corporal  only  knew  how  his 
old  soldiers  were  degraded !" 

The  two  men  responded  with  sullen  growls. 

"As  for  you,"  pursued  the  old  trooper,  addressing  Maurice 
and  the  abbe,  "I,  Bavois,  corporal  of  the  grenadiers,  declare 
in  my  own  name  and  in  that  of  my  comrades  here,  that  you 
are  as  free  as  birds,  and  that  we  shall  arrest  no  one.  More 
than  that,  if  we  can  aid  you  in  any  way,  we  are  at  your  service. 
The  little  fool  who  commands  us  this  evening  thought  we  were 
fighting.  Look  at  my  gun — I  have  not  fired  a  shot  from  it — 
and  my  comrades  only  fired  blank  cartridges."  The  statement 
might  possibly   be   a   sincere   one,  but   was   scarcely   probable. 

"We  have  nothing  to  conceal,"  replied  the  cautious  priest. 

The  old  corporal  gave  a  knowing  wink.  "Ah  !  you  distrust 
me  !"  said  he.  "You  are  wrong,  as  I'll  show  you.  It  may  be 
easy  to  gull  that  fool  who  has  just  left  here,  but  it's  not  so 
easy  to  deceive  Corporal  Bavois.  And  if  you  had  intended  to 
do  so,  you  shouldn't  have  left  a  gun  in  the  courtyard,  which 
was  certainly  never  loaded  for  firing  at  swallows." 


402     THE  HONOR  OF  THE  NAME 

The  cure  and  Maurice  exchanged  glances  of  consternation. 
Maurice  now  recollected,  for  the  first  time,  that  on  alighting 
from  the  cabriolet  on  his  return  he  had  hastily  propped  the 
loaded  gun  against  the  wall.  The  weapon  had  subsequently 
escaped  the  servants'  notice. 

"Secondly!"  resumed  Bavois,  "there  is  some  one  concealed 
in  the  attic.  I  have  excellent  ears.  Thirdly,  I  arranged  matters 
so  that  no  one  should  enter  the  sick  lady's  room." 

Maurice  needed  no  further  proof.  He  held  out  his  hand  to 
the  corporal,  and,  in  a  voice  trembling  with  emotion,  replied : 
"You  are  a  noble  fellow !" 

A  few  moments  later — the  three  grenadiers  having  retired  to 
another  room,  where  they  were  served  with  supper — Maurice, 
the  abbe,  and  Madame  d'Escorval  were  again  deliberating  con- 
cerning their  future  action,  when  Marie-Anne  entered  the  apart- 
ment with  a  pale  face,  but  firm  step.  "I  must  leave  this  house," 
she  said  to  the  baroness  in  a  tone  of  quiet  resolution.  "Had  I 
been  conscious.  I  would  never  have  accepted  hospitality  which 
is  likely  to  bring  such  misfortune  on  your  family.  Your  ac- 
quaintance with  me  has  cost  you  too  much  sorrow  already. 
Don't  you  understand  now  why  I  wished  you  to  look  on  us 
as  strangers?  A  presentiment  told  me  that  my  family  would 
prove  fatal  to  yours!" 

"Poor  child!"  exclaimed  Madame  d'Escorval;  "where  will 
you  go?" 

Marie-Anne  raised  her  beautiful  eyes  to  heaven.  "I  don't 
know,  madame,"  she  replied,  "but  duty  commands  me  to  go. 
I  must  learn  what  has  become  of  my  father  and  brother,  and 
share  their  fate." 

"What!"  exclaimed  Maurice,  "still  this  thought  of  death. 
You,  who  no  longer — "  He  paused,  for  a  secret  which  was 
not  his  own  had  almost  escaped  his  lips.  But  visited  by  a 
sudden  inspiration,  he  threw  himself  at  his  mother's  feet.  "Oh, 
my  mother !  my  dearest  mother,  do  not  allow  her  to  go,"  he 
cried.  "I  may  perish  in  my  attempt  to  save  my  father.  She 
will  be  your  daughter  then — she  whom  I  have  loved  so  dearly. 
She  can  not  leave  us.  You  will  encircle  her  with  your  tender 
and  protecting  love;  and  maybe,  after  all  these  trials,  happier 
times  will  come." 

Touched  by  her  son's  despair,  Madame  d'Escorval  turned  to 
Marie-Anne,  and  with  her  winning  words  soon  prevailed  upon 
her  to  remain. 


THE    HONOR    OF    THE    NAME 


403 


HP  HE  baroness  knew  nothing  of  the  secret  which  Marie-Anne 
■*•  had  revealed  at  the  Croix  d'Arcy,  when  she  proclaimed 
her  desire  to  die  by  her  father's  side.;  but  Maurice  was  scarcely 
uneasy  on  that  score,  for  his  faith  in  his  mother  was  so  great 
that  he  felt  sure  she  would  forgive  them  both  when  she  learned 
the  truth.  Not  unfrequently  does  it  happen,  that  of  all  women, 
chaste  and  loving  wives  and  mothers  are  precisely  the  most 
indulgent  toward  those  whom  the  voice  of  passion  has  led 
astray. 

Comforted  by  this  reflection,  which  reassured  him  as  to 
the  future  of  the  girl  he  loved,  Maurice  now  turned  all  his 
thoughts  toward  his  father. 

The  day  was  breaking,  and  he  declared  that  he  would  dis- 
guise himself  as  best  he  could,  and  go  to  Montaignac  at  once. 
It  was  not  without  a  feeling  of  anxiety  that  Madame  d'Escorval 
heard  him  speak  in  this  manner.  She  was  trembling  for  her 
husband's  life,  and  now  her  son  must  hurry  into  danger.  Per- 
haps before  the  day  was  over  neither  husband  nor  son  would 
be  left  to  her.  And  yet  she  did  not  forbid  his  going;  for  she 
felt  that  he  was  only  fulfilling  a  sacred  duty.  She  would  have 
loved  him  less  had  she  supposed  him  capable  of  cowardly  hesi- 
tation, and  would  have  dried  her  tears  if  necessary  to  bid  him 
"go."  Moreover,  was  not  anything  preferable  to  the  agony  of 
suspense  which  they  had  been  enduring  for  hours? 

Maurice  had  reached  the  drawing-room  door  when  the  abbe 
called  him  back.  "You  must  certainly  go  to  Montaignac,"  said 
he,  "but  it  would  be  folly  to  disguise  yourself.  You  would 
surely  be  recognized,  and  the  saying,  'He  who  conceals  himself 
is  guilty,'  would  at  once  be  applied  to  you.  You  must  proceed 
openly,  with  head  erect,  and  you  must  even  exaggerate  the 
assurance  of  innocence.  Go  straight  to  the  Due  de  Sairmeuse 
and  the  Marquis  de  Courtornieu.  I  will  accompany  you;  we 
will  go  together  in  the  carriage." 

"Take  this  advice,  Maurice,"  said  Madame  d'Escorval,  see- 


404     THE  HONOR  OF  THE  NAME 

ing  that  her  son  seemed  undecided ;  "the  abbe  knows  what  is 
best  much  better  than  we  do." 

The  cure  had  not  waited  for  the  assent  which  Maurice  gave 
to  his  mother's  words,  but  had  already  gone  to  order  the  car- 
riage to  be  got  ready.  On  the  other  hand,  Madame  d'Escorval 
now  left  the  room  to  write  a  few  lines  to  a  lady  friend,  whose 
husband  had  considerable  influence  in  Montaignac ;  and  Maurice 
and  Marie-Anne  were  thus  left  alone.  This  was  the  first  mo- 
ment of  freedom  they  had  found  since  Marie-Anne's  confes- 
sion. "My  darling,"  whispered  Maurice,  clasping  the  young 
girl  to  his  heart,  "I  did  not  think  it  was  possible  to  love  more 
fondly  than  I  loved  you  yesterday ;  but  now —  And  you — you 
wish  for  death  when  another  precious  life  depends  on  yours." 

"I  was  terrified,"  faltered  Marie-Anne.  "I  was  terrified  at 
the  prospect  of  shame  which  I  saw — which  I  still  see  before 
me;  but  now  I  am  resigned.  My  frailty  deserves  punishment, 
and  T  must  submit  to  the  insults  and  disgrace  awaiting  me." 

"Insults  !  Let  any  one  dare  insult  you !  But  will  you  not 
now  be  my  wife  in  the  sight  of  men,  as  you  are  in  the  sight  of 
heaven?    The  failure  of  your  father's  scheme  sets  you  free!" 

"No,  no,  Maurice,  I  am  not  free !  Ah  !  it  is  you  who  are 
pitiless !  I  see  only  too  well  that  you  curse  me,  that  you  curse 
the  day  when  we  met  for  the  first  time !  Confess  it !"  And 
so  speaking,  Marie-Anne  lifted  her  streaming  eyes  to  his.  "As 
for  me,"  she  resumed,  "I  could  not  say  so.  Grievous  my  fault 
is,  no  doubt  I  am  disgraced  and  humiliated,  but  still — " 

She  could  not  finish ;  Maurice  drew  her  to  him,  and  their 
lips  and  their  tears  met  in  one  long  embrace.  "You  love  me," 
he  exclaimed,  "you  love  me  in  spite  of  everything !  We  shall 
succeed.  I  will  save  your  father,  and  mine — I  will  save  your 
brother  too." 

He  had  no  time  to  say  more.  The  baron's  berlin,  to  which 
a  couple  of  horses  had  been  harnessed,  that  they  might  reach 
Montaignac  with  greater  speed,  was  waiting  in  the  courtyard ; 
and  the  abbe's  voice  could  be  heard  calling  on  Maurice  to  make 
haste,  and  Madame  d'Escorval,  moreover,  now  returned,  carry- 
ing a  letter  which  she  handed  to  her  son.  One  long,  last 
embrace,  and  then  leaving  the  two  women  to  their  tears  and 
prayers,  Maurice  and  the  abbe  sprang  into  the  carriage,  which 
was  soon  dashing  along  the  highroad  toward  Montaignac. 

"If,  by  confessing  your  own  guilt,  you  could  save  your 
father,"  said  the  Abbe  Midon  as  they  rolled  through  the  vil- 


THE   HONOR   OF    THE    NAME  405 

lage  of  Sairmeuse,  "I  should  tell  you  to  give  yourself  up  and 
confess  the  whole  truth.  Such  would  be  your  duty.  But  such 
a  sacrifice  would  be  not  only  useless,  but  dangerous.  Your 
confessions  of  guilt  would  only  implicate  your  father  still  more. 
You  would  be  arrested,  but  they  would  not  release  him,  and 
you  would  both  be  tried  and  convicted.  Let  us  then  allow — 
I  will  not  say  justice,  for  that  would  be  blasphemy — but  these 
bloodthirsty  men,  who  call  themselves  judges,  to  pursue  their 
course,  and  attribute  all  that  you  yourself  have  done  to  your 
father.  When  the  trial  comes  on  you  will  be  able  to  prove 
his  innocence,  and  to  produce  alibis  of  so  unimpeachable  a 
character  that  they  will  be  forced  to  acquit  him.  And  I  under- 
stand the  people  of  our  province  well  enough  to  feel  sure  that 
none  of  them  will  reveal  our  stratagem." 

"And  if  we  should  not  succeed  in  that  way,"  asked  Maurice, 
gloomily,  "what  could  I  do  then  ?" 

The  question  was  so  grave  a  one  that  the  priest  did  not  even 
try  to  answer  it,  and,  tortured  with  anxiety  and  cruel  forebod- 
ings, he  and  Maurice  remained  silent  during  the  rest  of  the 
journey.  When  they  reached  the  town  young  D'Escorval  real- 
ized the  abbe's  wisdom  in  preventing  him  from  assuming  a  dis- 
guise ;  for,  armed  as  they  were  with  absolute  power,  the  Due 
de  Sairmeuse  and  the  Marquis  de  Courtornieu  had  closed  all 
the  gates  of  Montaignac  but  one,  through  which  all  those  who 
desired  to  leave  or  enter  the  town  were  obliged  to  pass;  two 
officers  being,  moreover,  stationed  beside  it,  to  examine  and 
question  all  comers  and  goers.  Maurice  noticed  these  officers' 
surprise  when,  on  being  asked  who  he  was,  he  gave  them  the 
name  of  D'Escorval.  "Ah  !  you  know  what  has  become  of  my 
father!"  he  exclaimed. 

"The  Baron  d'Escorval  is  a  prisoner,"  replied  one  of  the 
officers. 

Although  Maurice  had  expected  this  reply,  he  turned  pale  with 
suppressed  emotion.    "Is  he  wounded  ?"  he  asked,  eagerly. 

"He  hasn't  a  scratch,"  was  the  answer;  "but  please  pass  on." 
From  the  tone  of  this  last  remark,  and  the  anxious  looks  the 
officers  exchanged  one  might  have  supposed  that  they  feared 
they  might  compromise  themselves  by  conversing  with  the  son 
of  so  great  a  criminal. 

The  carriage  rolled  under  the  archway,  and  had  gone  a 
couple  of  hundred  yards  or  so  along  the  Grand  Rue  when 
Maurice  noticed  a  large  poster  affixed  to  one  of  the  walls,  and 


406      THE  HONOR  OF  THE  NAME 

which  an  elderly  man  was  busy  perusing.  Instinctively  both 
the  occupants  of  the  vehicle  felt  that  this  notice  must  have  some 
connection  with  the  revolt;  and  they  were  not  mistaken,  for 
on  springing  to  the  ground  they  themselves  read  as  follows : 
"We,  commander  of  the  Military  Division  of  Montaignac,  in 
virtue  of  the  State  of  Siege,  decree:  Article  I.  The  inmates  of 
the  house  in  which  the  elder  Lacheneur  is  found  shall  be  handed 
over  to  a  military  commission  for  trial.  Article  II.  Whoever 
shall  deliver  up  the  body  of  the  elder  Lacheneur,  dead  or  alive, 
will  receive  a  reward  of  twenty  thousand  francs.  Signed: 
Due  de  Sairmeuse." 

"God  be  praised !"  exclaimed  Maurice  when  he  had  finished 
his  perusal.  "Then  Marie-Anne's  father  has  escaped !  He  had 
a  good  horse,  and  in  two  hours — " 

A  glance  and  a  nudge  from  the  abbe  checked  him ;  and  in 
turning  he  recognized  that  the  man  standing  near  them  was 
none  other  than  Father  Chupin.  The  old  scoundrel  had  also 
recognized  them,  for  he  took  off  his  hat  to  the  cure,  and  with 
an  expression  of  intense  covetousness  remarked :  "Twenty  thou- 
sand francs !  What  a  sum !  A  man  could  live  comfortably  all 
his  life  on  the  interest." 

The  abbe  and  Maurice  shuddered  as  they  reentered  the  car- 
riage. "Lacheneur  is  lost  if  that  man  discovers  his  where- 
abouts," murmured  the  priest. 

"Fortunately  he  must  have  crossed  the  frontier  before  now," 
replied  Maurice.    "A  hundred  to  one  he  is  beyond  reach." 

"And  if  you  should  be  mistaken?  What,  if  wounded  and 
faint  from  loss  of  blood,  Lacheneur  only  had  strength  enough 
to  drag  himself  to  the  nearest  house  and  implore  the  hospitality 
of  its  inmates?" 

"Oh  !  even  in  that  case  he  is  safe ;  I  know  our  peasants. 
There  is  not  one  who  is  capable  of  selling  the  life  of  a  pro- 
scribed man." 

This  youthful  enthusiasm  elicited  a  sad  smile  from  the  priest. 
"You  forget  the  dangers  to  be  incurred  by  those  who  shelter 
him,"  he  said.  "Many  a  man  who  would  not  soil  his  hands  with 
the  price  of  blood  might  deliver  up  a  fugitive  from  fear." 

They  were  passing  through  the  principal  street,  and  were 
struck  with  the  mournful  aspect  of  the  little  city,  usually  so 
gay  and  full  of  bustle.  The  shops  were  closed,  and  even  the 
window  shutters  of  the  houses  had  not  been  opened.  So  lugu- 
brious was  the  silence  that  one  might  have  supposed  there  was 


THE   HONOR   OF   THE    NAME  407 

a  general  mourning,  and  that  each  family  had  lost  one  or  more 
of  its  members.  The  manner  of  the  few  persons  passing  along 
the  footways  testified  to  their  deep  anxiety.  They  hurried  along, 
casting  suspicious  glances  on  every  side ;  and  two  or  three  who 
were  acquaintances  of  the  Baron  d'Escorval  averted  their  heads 
directly  they  saw  his  carriage,  so  as  to  avoid  the  necessity  of 
bowing. 

The  terror  prevailing  in  the  town  was  explained  when  Mau- 
rice and  the  abbe  reached  the  Hotel  de  France,  where  they 
proposed  taking  up  their  quarters ;  and  which  establishment  the 
former's  father  had  always  patronized  whenever  he  visited  Mon- 
taignac, the  landlord  being  Laugeron — Lacheneur's  friend,  who 
had  been  so  anxious  to  warn  him  of  the  Due  de  Sairmeuse's 
return  to  France.  On  catching  sight  of  his  visitors,  this  worthy 
man  hastened  into  the  courtyard,  cap  in  hand,  to  give  them  a 
fitting  greeting.  In  such  a  situation  politeness  amounted  tc 
heroism ;  but  it  has  always  been  supposed  that  Laugeron  was 
in  some  way  connected  with  the  conspiracy.  He  at  once  in- 
vited Maurice  and  the  abbe  to  take  some  refreshments,  doing 
so  in  such  a  way  as  to  make  them  understand  that  he  was 
anxious  to  speak  to  them  in  private.  Thanks  to  one  of  the 
Due  de  Sairmeuse's  valets  who  frequented  the  house,  the  land- 
lord knew  as  much  as  the  authorities ;  and,  indeed,  he  knew 
even  more,  since  he  had  also  received  information  from  sev- 
eral rebels  who  had  escaped  capture.  He  conducted  Maurice 
and  the  abbe  to  a  room  looking  on  to  the  back  of  the  house, 
where  he  knew  they  would  be  secure  from  observation,  and 
then  it  was  that  they  obtained  their  first  positive  information. 
In  the  first  place,  nothing  had  been  heard  either  of  Lacheneur 
or  his  son  Jean,  who  had  so  far  eluded  all  pursuit.  Secondly, 
there  were,  at  that  moment,  no  fewer  than  two  hundred  pris- 
oners in  the  citadel,  including  both  the  Baron  d'Escorval  and 
Chanlouineau.  And  finally,  that  very  morning  there  had  been 
at  least  sixty  additional  arrests  in  Montaignac.  It  was  gen- 
erally supposed  that  these  arrests  were  due  to  traitorous  de- 
nunciations, and  all  the  inhabitants  were  trembling  with  fear. 
M.  Laugeron  knew  the  real  cause,  however,  for  it  had  been 
confided  to  him  under  pledge  of  secrecy  by  his  customer,  the 
duke's  valet.  "It  certainly  seems  an  incredible  story,  gentle- 
men," he  remarked ;  "but  yet  it  is  quite  true.  Two  officers, 
belonging  to  the  Montaignac  militia,  were  returning  from  the 
expedition   this    morning   at   daybreak,    when   on   passing   the 


408      THE  HONOR  OF  THE  NAME 

Croix  d'Arcy  they  perceived  a  man,  wearing  the  uniform  of 
the  emperor's  bodyguard,  lying  dead  in  s.  ditch.  Not  unnat- 
urally they  examined  the  body,  and  to  their  great  astonishment 
they  found  a  slip  of  paper  between  the  man's  clenched  teeth. 
It  proved  to  be  a  list  of  Montaignac  conspirators,  which  this 
old  soldier,  finding  himself  mortally  wounded,  had  endeavored 
to  destroy;  but  the  agonies  of  death  had  prevented  him  from 
swallowing  it — " 

The  abbe  and  Maurice  had  no  time  to  listen  to  the  general 
news  the  landlord  might  have  to  impart.  They  requested 
him  to  procure  a  messenger,  who  was  at  once  despatched  to 
Escorval,  so  that  the  baroness  and  Marie-Anne  might  be  made 
acquainted  with  the  information  they  had  obtained  concerning 
both  the  baron  and  Lacheneur.  They  then  left  the  hotel  and 
hastened  to  the  house  occupied  by  the  Due  de  Sairmeuse. 
There  was  a  crowd  at  the  door ;  a  crowd  of  a  hundred  per- 
sons or  so — men  with  anxious  faces,  women  in  tears — all  of 
them  begging  for  an  audience.  These  were  the  friends  and 
relatives  of  the  unfortunate  men  who  had  been  arrested.  Two 
footmen,  wearing  gorgeous  liveries,  of  haughty  mien,  stood  in 
the  doorway,  their  time  being  fully  occupied  in  keeping  back 
the  struggling  throng.  Hoping  that  his  priestly  dress  would 
win  him  a  hearing,  the  Abbe  Midon  approached  and  gave  his 
name.  But  he  was  repulsed  like  the  others.  "M.  le  Due  is 
busy,  and  can  receive  nobody,"  said  one  of  the  servants.  "M.  le 
Due  is  preparing  his  report  to  his  majesty."  And  in  support 
of  his  assertion  he  pointed  to  the  horses  standing  saddled  in 
the  courtyard,  and  waiting  for  the  couriers  who  were  to  carry 
the  despatches. 

The  priest  sadly  rejoined  his  companions.  "We  must  wait !' 
said  he.  And  yet,  intentionally  or  not,  the  servants  were  de- 
ceiving these  poor  people,  for  just  then  the  duke  was  in  no 
wise  troubling  himself  about  his  despatches.  In  point  of  fact, 
he  happened  to  be  engaged  in  a  violent  altercation  with  the 
Marquis  de  Courtornieu.  Each  of  these  noble  personages  wa 
anxious  to  play  the  leading  part — that  which  would  meet  with 
the  highest  reward  at  the  hands  of  the  supreme  authorities  at 
Paris.  This  quarrel  had  begun  on  some  petty  point,  but  soon 
they  both  lost  their  tempers,  and  stinging  words,  bitter  allu- 
sions, and  even  threats  were  rapidly  exchanged.  The  marquis 
declared  it  necessary  to  inflict  the  most  frightful,  he  said  the 
most  salutary,  punishment  upon  the  offenders ;  while  the  duke, 


THE   HONOR   OF   THE   NAME  409 

on  the  contrary,  was  inclined  to  be  indulgent.  The  marquis 
opined  that  since  Lacheneur,  the  prime  mover,  and  his  son, 
had  both  eluded  pursuit,  it  was  absolutely  requisite  that  Marie- 
Anne  should  be  arrested.  M.  de  Sairmeuse,  however,  would 
not  listen  to  the  suggestion.  To  his  mind  it  would  be  most 
impolitic  to  arrest  this  young  girl.  Such  a  course  would  ren- 
der the  authorities  odious,  and  would  exasperate  all  the  rebels 
who  were  still  at  large. 

"These  men  must  be  put  down  with  a  strong  hand!"  urged 
M.  de  Courtornieu. 

"I  don't  wish  to  exasperate  the  populace,"  replied  the 
duke. 

"Bah!  what  does  public  sentiment  matter?" 

"It  matters  a  great  deal  when  you  can  not  depend  upon  your 
soldiers.  Do  you  know  what  happened  last  night?  There  was 
enough  powder  burned  to  win  a  battle,  and  yet  there  were  only 
fifteen  peasants  wounded.  Our  men  fired  in  the  air.  You  for- 
get that  the  Montaignac  Corps  is  for  the  most  part  composed 
of  men  who  formerly  fought  under  Bonaparte,  and  who  are 
burning  to  turn  their  weapons  against  us." 

Thus  did  the  dispute  continue,  ostensibly  for  motives  of 
public  policy,  though,  in  reality,  both  the  duke  and  the  mar- 
quis had  a  secret  reason  for  their  obstinacy.  Blanche  de  Cour- 
tornieu had  reached  Montaignac  that  morning  and  had  confided 
her  anxiety  and  her  sufferings  to  her  father,  with  the  result 
that  she  had  made  him  swear  to  profit  by  this  opportunity  to 
rid  her  of  Marie-Anne.  On  his  side,  the  duke  was  convinced 
that  Marie-Anne  was  his  son's  mistress,  and  wished,  at  any 
cost,  to  prevent  her  appearance  at  the  tribunal.  Finding  that 
words  had  no  influence  whatever  on  his  coadjutor,  his  grace 
at  last  finished  the  dispute  by  a  skilful  stratagem.  "As  we 
are  of  different  opinions  we  can't  possibly  work  together." 
quoth  he ;  "we  are  one  too  many."  And  speaking  in  this  fash- 
ion he  glanced  so  meaningly  at  a  pair  of  pistols  that  the  noble 
marquis  felt  a  disagreeable  chilliness  creep  up  his  spine.  He 
had  never  been  noted  for  bravery,  and  did  not  in  the  least 
relish  the  idea  of  having  a  bullet  lodged  in  his  brains.  Accord- 
ingly he  waived  his  proposal,  and  eventually  agreed  to  go  to 
the  citadel  with  the  duke  to  inspect  the  prisoners. 

The  whole  day  passed  by  without  M.  de  Sairmeuse  consent- 
ing to  give  a  single  audience,  and  Maurice  spent  his  time  in 
watching:  the  moving  arms  of  the  semaphore  perched  on  the 


410     THE  HONOR  OF  THE  NAME 

tall  keep-tower.  "What  orders  are  traveling  through  space?" 
he  said  to  the  abbe.     "Are  these  message,   of  life  or  death?" 

The  messenger  despatched  from  the  Hotel  de  France  had 
been  instructed  to  make  haste,  and  yet  he  did  not  reach  Escorval 
until  nightfall.  Beset  by  a  thousand  fears,  he  had  taken  the 
longest  but  less  frequented  roads,  and  had  made  numerous  cir- 
cuits to  avoid  the  people  he  had  seen  approaching  in  the  dis- 
tance. Scarcely  had  the  baroness  read  the  letter  written  to 
her  by  Maurice  than,  turning  to  Marie-Anne,  she  exclaimed: 
"We  must  go  to  Montaignac  at  once !" 

But  this  was  easier  said  than  done,  for  they  only  kept  three 
horses  at  Escorval.  The  one  which  had  been  harnessed  to  the 
cabriolet  the  preceding  night  was  lame — indeed,  nearly  dead; 
while  the  other  two  had  been  taken  to  Montaignac  that  morn- 
ing by  Maurice  and  the  priest.  What  were  the  ladies  to  do? 
They  appealed  to  some  neighbors  for  assistance,  but  the  latter, 
having  heard  of  the  baron's  arrest,  firmly  refused  to  lend  a 
horse,  believing  they  should  gravely  compromise  themselves  if 
they  in  any  way  helped  the  wife  of  a  man  charged  with  such 
grievous  offenses  as  high  treason  and  revolt.  Madame  d'Es- 
corval  and  Marie-Anne  were  talking  of  making  the  journey 
on  foot  when  Corporal  Bavois,  still  left  on  guard  at  the  chateau, 
swore  by  the  sacred  name  of  thunder  that  this  should  not  be. 
He  hurried  off  with  his  two  men,  and,  after  a  brief  absence, 
returned  leading  an  old  plow-horse  by  the  mane.  He  had,  more 
or  less  forcibly,  requisitioned  this  clumsy  steed,  which  he  har- 
nessed to  the  cabriolet  as  best  he  could.  This  was  not  his  only 
demonstration  of  good-will.  His  duties  at  the  chateau  were 
over  now  that  M.  d'Escorval  had  been  arrested,  and  nothing 
remained  for  him  but  to  rejoin  his  regiment.  Accordingly  he 
declared  that  he  would  not  allow  these  ladies  to  travel  un- 
attended at  night-time  along  a  road  where  they  might  be  ex- 
posed to  many  disagreeable  encounters,  but  should  escort  them 
to  their  journey's  end  with  his  two  subordinates.  "And  it  will 
go  hard  with  soldier  c;  civilian  who  ventures  to  molest  them, 
will  it  not,  comrades?"  he  exclaimed. 

As  usual,  his  companions  assented  with  an  oath ;  and  as 
Madame  d'Escorval  and  Marie-Anne  journeyed  onward,  they 
could  perceive  the  three  men  preceding  or  following  the  vehicle, 
or  oftener  walking  beside  it.  Not  until  they  reached  the  gates 
of  Montaignac  did  the  old  soldier  forsake  his  protegees,  and 
then  not  without  bidding  them   a   respectful   farewell,   in   his 


THE    HONOR   OF   THE    NAME  411 

own  name  and  that  of  his  subordinates,  adding  that  if  they 
had  need  of  his  services  they  had  only  to  call  upon  Bavois, 
corporal  of  grenadiers  in  Company  No.  I,  stationed  at  the 
citadel. 

The  clocks  were  striking  half-past  ten  when  Madame  d'Es- 
corval  and  Marie-Anne  alighted  at  the  Hotel  de  France.  They 
found  Maurice  in  despair,  and  even  the  abbe  disheartened,  for 
since  the  morning  events  had  progressed  with  fearful  rapidity. 
The  semaphore  signals  were  now  explained ;  orders  had  come 
from  Paris ;  and  there  they  could  be  read  in  black  and  white, 
affixed  to  the  walls  of  the  town.  "Montaignac  must  be  re- 
garded as  in  a  state  of  siege.  The  military  authorities  have 
been  granted  discretionary  powers.  A  military  commission  will 
exercise  jurisdiction  in  lieu  of  all  other  courts.  Let  peaceable 
citizens  take  courage ;  let  the  evil-disposed  tremble !  As  for 
the  rabble,  the  sword  of  the  law  is  about  to  strike !"  Only  six 
lines  in  all — but  each  word  fraught  with  menace ! 

The  abbe  most  regretted  that  trial  before  a  military  commis- 
sion had  been  substituted  for  the  customary  court-martial.  In- 
deed this  upset  all  the  plans  he  had  devised  in  the  hope  of 
saving  his  friend.  A  court-martial  is,  of  course,  hasty  and  often 
unjust  in  its  decisions;  but  still  it  observes  some  of  the  forms 
of  procedure  practised  in  judicial  tribunals.  It  still  retains 
some  of  the  impartiality  of  legal  justice,  which  asks  to  be 
enlightened  before  condemning.  But  the  military  commission 
now  to  be  appointed  would  naturally  neglect  all  legal  forms, 
and  the  prisoners  would  be  summarily  condemned  and  punished 
after  the  fashion  in  which  spies  are  treated  in  time  of  war. 

"What !"  exclaimed  Maurice,  "would  they  dare  to  condemn 
without  investigating,  without  listening  to  testimony,  without 
allowing  the  prisoners  time  to  prepare  their  defense?"  The 
abbe  remained  silent.  The  turn  events  had  taken  exceeded  his 
worst  apprehensions.  Now,  indeed,  he  believed  that  anything 
was  possible. 

Maurice  had  spoken  of  investigation.  Investigation,  if  such 
it  could  be  called,  had  indeed  begun  that  very  day,  and  was 
still  continuing  by  the  light  of  a  jailer's  lantern.  That  is  to 
say,  the  Due  de  Sairmeuse  and  the  Marquis  de  Courtornieu 
were  passing  the  prisoners  in  review.  They  now  numbered 
three  hundred,  and  the  duke  and  his  companion  had  decided  to 
begin  by  summoning  before  the  commission  thirty  of  the  most 
dangerous  conspirators.     How  were  they  to  select  them?     By 


412      THE  HONOR  OF  THE  NAME 

what  method  could  they  hope  to  discover  the  extent  of  each 
prisoner's  guilt?  It  would  have  been  difficult  for  them  to  ex- 
plain the  course  they  took.  They  simply  went  from  one  man 
to  another,  asking  any  question  that  entered  their  minds,  and 
when  the  terrified  captive  had  answered  them  they  either  said 
to  the  head  jailer,  "Keep  this  one  until  another  time,"  or  "This 
one  for  to-morrow,"  their  decision  being  guided  by  the  impres- 
sion the  man's  language  and  demeanor  had  created.  By  day- 
light they  had  thirty  names  upon  their  list,  at  the  head  of  which 
figured  those  of  the  Baron  d'Escorval  and  Chanlouineau. 

Although  the  unhappy  party  at  the  Hotel  de  France  were 
not  aware  of  this  circumstance,  they  passed  a  sleepless,  anxious 
night;  and  it  was  relief,  indeed,  when  the  daylight  peered 
through  the  windows  and  the  reveille  could  be  heard  beating 
at  the  citadel ;  for  now  at  least  they  might  renew  their  efforts. 
The  abbe  intimated  his  intention  of  going  alone  to  the  duke's 
house,  declaring  that  he  would  find  a  way  to  force  an  entrance. 
He  had  just  bathed  his  red  and  swollen  eyes  in  fresh  water, 
and  was  preparing  to  start,  when  a  rap  was  heard  at  the  door. 
Directly  afterward  M.  Laugeron,  the  landlord,  entered  the  room. 
His  face  betokened  some  dreadful  misfortune;  and  indeed  he 
had  just  been  made  acquainted  with  the  composition  of  the 
military  commission.  In  defiance  of  all  equity  and  justice,  the 
presidency  of  this  tribunal  of  vengeance  had  been  offered  to 
the  Due  de  Sairmeuse,  who  had  unblushingly  accepted  it — 
he  who  was  at  the  same  time  both  witness  and  executioner. 
Moreover,  he  was  to  be  assisted  by  other  officers  hitherto 
placed  under  his  immediate  orders. 

"And  when  does  the  commission  enter  upon  its  functions?" 
inquired  the  abbe. 

"To-day,"  replied  the  host,  hesitatingly;  "this  morning — in 
an  hour — perhaps  sooner!" 

The  priest  understood  well  enough  what  M.  Laugeron  meant, 
but  what  he  dared  not  say:  "The  commission  is  assembling, 
make  haste."  "Come!"  said  the  Abbe  Midon,  turning  to  Mau- 
rice, "1  wish  to  be  present  when  your  father  is  examined." 

The  baroness  would  have  given  anything  to  accompany  the 
priest  and  her  son,  but  this  could  not  be;  she  understood  it 
and  submitted.  As  Maurice  and  his  companion  stepped  into 
the  street  they  saw  a  soldier  a  short  distance  off  who  made  a 
friendly  gesture.  Recognizing  Corporal  Bavois,  they  paused 
instinctively.    But  he,  now  passing  them  by  with  an  air  of  the 


THE    HOXOR   OF   THE    NAME  413 

utmost  indifference,  and  apparently  without  observing  them, 
hastily  exclaimed :  "I  have  seen  Chanlouineau.  Be  of  good 
cheer :  he  promises  to  save  the  baron  !" 


T17ITHIN  the  limits  of  the  citadel  of  Montaignac  stands  an 
old  building  known  as  the  chapel.  Originally  consecrated 
to  purposes  of  worship,  this  structure  had  at  the  time  of  which 
we  write  fallen  into  disuse.  It  was  so  damp  that  it  could  not 
even  be  utilized  for  storage  purposes,  and  yet  this  was  the 
place  selected  by  the  Due  de  Sairmeuse  and  the  Marquis  de 
Courtornieu  for  the  assembling  of  the  military  commission. 
When  Maurice  and  the  abbe  entered  this  gloomy  building  they 
found  that  the  proceedings  had  not  yet  commenced.  The  little 
trouble  taken  to  transform  the  old  chapel  into  a  hall  of  justice 
impressed  them  sadly,  for  it  testified  beyond  power  of  mistake 
to  the  precipitation  of  the  judges,  and  revealed  their  deter- 
mination to  carry  out  the  work  of  vengeance  without  either 
delay  or  mercy.  Three  large  tables  taken  from  a  soldier's 
mess-room,  and  covered  with  horse  blankets  instead  of  baize, 
stood  on  a  raised  platform  formerly  occupied  by  the  chief  altar 
Behind  these  tables  were  ranged  a  few  rush-seated  chairs,  wait- 
ing the  president's  assessors,  and  in  the  midst  glittered  a  richly 
carved  and  gilt  armchair,  which  his  grace  had  had  sent  from 
his  own  house  for  his  personal  accommodation.  In  front  of 
the  tables  three  or  four  long  wooden  benches  had  been  placed 
in  readiness  for  the  prisoners,  while  several  strong  ropes  were 
stretched  from  one  wall  to  the  other,  so  as  to  divide  the  chapel 
into  two  parts  and  allow  considerable  room  for  the  public. 
This  last  precaution  had  proved  quite  superfluous,  for,  con- 
trary to  expectation,  there  were  not  twenty  persons  in  the 
building.  Prominent  among  these  were  ten  or  twelve  men  of 
martial  mien,  but  clad  in  civilian  attire.  Their  scarred  and 
weather-beaten  features  testified  to  many  an  arduous  campaign 
fought  in  imperial  times ;  and  indeed  they  had  all  served  Napo- 
leon— this  one  as  a  lieutenant,  that  other  as  a  captain — but  the 


4}4     THE  HONOR  OF  THE  NAME 

Restoration  had  dismissed  them  with  scanty  pensions  and  given 
their  well-earned  commissions  to  cadets  of  the  old  nobility. 
Their  pale  faces  and  the  sullen  fire  gleaming  in  their  eyes 
showed  plainly  enough  what  they  thought  of  the  Due  de  Sair- 
meuse's  proceedings.  In  addition  to  these  retired  officers  there 
were  three  men  dressed  in  professional  black,  who  stood  con- 
versing in  low  tones  near  the  chapel  door ;  while  in  a  corner 
one  could  perceive  several  peasant  women  with  their  aprons 
thrown  over  their  faces ;  they  were  the  mothers,  wives,  and 
daughters  of  some  of  the  imprisoned  rebels.  Save  for  their  con- 
stant sobs  the  silence  would  have  been  well-nigh  undisturbed. 

Nine  o'clock  had  just  struck  when  a  rolling  of  drums  shook 
the  window-panes ;  a  loud  voice  was  heard  outside  exclaiming, 
"Present  arms !"  and  then  the  members  of  the  commission  en- 
tered, followed  by  the  Marquis  de  Courtornieu  and  various  civil 
functionaries.  The  Due  de  Sairmeuse  was  in  full  uniform,  his 
face  rather  more  flushed,  and  his  air  a  trifle  more  haughty,  than 
usual.  "The  sitting  is  open !"  he  announced,  and  adding  in  a 
rough  voice :  "Bring  in  the  culprits." 

They  came  in,  one  by  one,  to  the  number  of  thirty,  and  sat 
themselves  down  an  the  benches  at  the  foot  of  the  platform. 
Chanlouineau  held  his  head  proudly  erect,  and  looked  about  him 
with  an  air  of  great  composure.  The  Baron  d'Escorval  was 
calm  and  grave ;  but  not  more  so  than  when,  in  days  gone  by, 
he  had  been  called  upon  to  express  his  opinion  in  the  councils 
of  the  empire.  Both  of  them  perceived  Maurice,  who  was  so 
overcome  that  he  had  to  lean  upon  the  abbe  for  support.  But 
while  the  baron  greeted  his  son  with  a  simple  bend  of  the  head, 
Chanlouineau  made  a  gesture  that  clearly  signified :  "Have  con- 
fidence in  me — fear  nothing."  The  attitude  of  the  other  pris- 
oners indicated  surprise  rather  than  fear.  Perhaps  they  were 
unconscious  of  the  peril  they  had  braved,  and  the  extent  of  the 
danger  that  now  threatened  them. 

When  the  prisoners  had  taken  their  places,  a  colonel  who 
filled  the  office  of  commissary  for  the  prosecution  rose  to  his 
feet.  His  presentation  of  the  case  was  violent  but  brief.  He 
narrated  a  few  leading  facts,  exalted  the  merits  of  the  govern- 
ment of  his  majesty  King  Louis  XVIII,  and  concluded  by  de- 
manding that  sentence  of  death  should  be  pronounced  upon  the 
culprits.  When  he  had  ceased  speaking,  the  duke  rudely  bade 
the  first  prisoner  on  the  nearest  bench  to  stand  up  and  give  his 
name,  age,  and  profession. 


THE   HONOR   OF   THE    NAME  415 

"Eugene  Michel  Chanlouineau,"  was  the  reply ;  "aged  twenty- 
nine,  a  farmer  by  occupation." 

"An  owner  of  national  lands,  probably?" 

"The  owner  of  lands  which,  having  been  paid  for  with  good 
money  and  made  fertile  by  my  own  labor,  are  rightfully  mine." 

The  duke  did  not  wish  to  waste  time  m  useless  discussion. 
"You  took  part  in  this  rebellion?"  he  asked;  and  receiving 
an  affirmative  reply,  pursued :  "You  are  right  in  confessing, 
for  witnesses  will  be  introduced  who  will  prove  this  fact 
conclusively." 

Five  grenadiers  entered — the  same  that  Chanlouineau  held  at 
bay  while  Maurice,  the  abbe,  and  Marie-Anne  were  getting  into 
the  cabriolet  near  the  cross-roads.  They,  all  of  them,  declared 
upon  oath  that  they  recognized  the  prisoner;  and  one  of  them 
even  went  so  far  as  to  say  he  was  a  solid  fellow  of  remark- 
able courage.  During  this  evidence  Chanlouineau's  eyes  be- 
trayed an  agony  of  anxiety.  Would  the  soldiers  allude  to  the 
circumstance  of  the  cabriolet  and  Marie- Anne's  escape?  Per- 
haps they  might  have  done  so  had  not  the  Due  de  Sairmeuse 
abruptly  stated  that  as  the  prisoner  confessed  he  had  heard  quite 
enough. 

"What  were  your  motives  in  fomenting  this  outbreak?"  asked 
his  grace,  turning  to  Chanlouineau. 

"We  hoped  to  free  ourselves  from  a  government  brought  back 
by  foreign  bayonets ;  to  free  ourselves  from  the  insolence  of  the 
nobility,  and  to  retain  the  lands  that  are  justly  ours." 

"Enough!     You  were  one  of  the  leaders  of  the  revolt?" 

"One  of  the  leaders — yes." 

"Who  were  the  others  ?" 

A  faint  smile  flitted  over  the  young  farmer's  lips  as  he  replied : 
"The  others  were  M.  Lacheneur,  his  son  Jean,  and  the  Marquis 
de  Sairmeuse." 

The  duke  bounded  from  his  carved  armchair.  "You  wretch ! 
you  rascal !  you  vile  scoundrel !"  he  exclaimed,  catching  up  a 
heavy  inkstand  that  stood  on  the  table  before  him.  Every  one 
supposed  that  he  was  about  to  hurl  it  at  the  prisoner's  head. 

But  Chanlouineau  stood  perfectly  unmoved  in  the  midst  of 
the  assembly,  which  had  been  excited  to  the  highest  pitch  by 
his  startling  declaration.  "You  questioned  me,"  he  resumed, 
"and  I  replied.  You  may  gag  me  if  my  answers  don't  please 
you.  If  there  were  witnesses  for  me  as  there  are  against  me, 
I  could  prove  the  truth  of  what  I  say.     As  it  is,  all  the  pris- 


416     THE  HONOR  OF  THE  NAME 

oners  here  will  tell  you  that  I  am   speaking  the  truth.     Is  it 
not  so,  you  others?" 

With  the  exception  of  the  Baron  d'Escorval,  there  was  not 
one  of  the  other  prisoners  who  was  capable  of  understanding 
the  real  bearing  of  these  audacious  allegations;  nevertheless, 
they  all  nodded  assent. 

"The  Marquis  de  Sairmeuse  was  so  truly  our  leader."  ex- 
claimed the  daring  peasant,  "that  he  was  wounded  by  a  sabre- 
thrust  while  fighting  by  my  side." 

The  duke's  face  was  as  purple  as  if  he  had  been  struck  with 
apoplexy;  and  his  fury  almost  deprived  him  of  the  power  of 
speech.     "You  lie,  scoundrel !  you  lie !"  he  gasped. 

"Send  for  the  marquis,"  said  Chanlouineau  quietly,  "and  see 
whether  he's  wounded  or  not." 

A  refusal  on  the  duke's  part  was  bound  to  arouse  suspicion. 
But  what  could  he  do?  Martial  had  concealed  his  wound  on 
the  previous  day,  and  it  was  now  impossible  to  confess  that 
he  had  been  wounded.  Fortunately  for  his  grace,  one  of  the 
commissioners  relieved  him  of  his  embarrassment.  "I  hope, 
sir,"  he  said,  "that  you  will  not  give  this  arrogant  rebel  the 
satisfaction  he  desires.     The  commission  opposes  his  demand." 

"Very  naturally,"  retorted  Chanlouineau.  "To-morrow  my 
head  will  be  off,  and  you  think  nothing  will  then  remain  to 
prove  what  I  say.  But,  fortunately,  I  have  other  proof — mate- 
rial and  indestructible  proof — which  it  is  beyond  your  power 
to  destroy,  and  which  will  speak  when  my  body  is  six  feet 
under  ground." 

"What  is  this  proof?"  asked  another  commissioner,  on  whom 
the  duke  looked  askance. 

The  prisoner  shook  his  head.  "You  shall  have  it,"  he  said, 
"when  you  promise  me  my  life  in  exchange  for  it.  It  is  now 
in  the  hands  of  a  trusty  person,  who  knows  its  value.  It  will 
go  to  the  king  if  necessary.  We  should  like  to  understand  the 
part  which  the  Marquis  de  Sairmeuse  played  in  this  affair — 
whether  he  was  truly  with  us,  or  whether  he  was  only  an  insti- 
gating agent." 

A  tribunal  regardful  of  the  simplest  rules  of  justice,  or  even 
of  its  own  honor,  would  have  instantly  required  the  Marquis 
de  Sairmeuse's  attendance.  But  the  military  commission  con- 
sidered such  a  course  quite  beneath  its  dignity.  These  men 
arrayed  in  glittering  uniforms  were  not  judges  charged  with 
the  vindication  of  the  law,  but  simply  agents  selected  by  the 


THE   HONOR   OF   THE   NAME  417 

conquerors  to  strike  the  conquered  in  virtue  of  that  savage  say- 
ing, "Wo  to  the  vanquished!"  The  president,  the  nohle  Due 
de  Sairmeuse,  would  not  have  consented  to  summon  Martial 
on  any  consideration.  Nor  did  his  associate  judges  wish  him 
to  do  so.  Had  Chanlouineau  foreseen  this  result?  Probably 
he  had ;  and  yet,  why  haa  he  ventured  on  so  hazardous  a  course  ? 
The  tribunal,  after  a  short  deliberation,  decided  that  it  would 
not  admit  this  "unjustifiable"  denunciation,  which,  while  ex- 
citing the  whole  audience,  had  quite  stupefied  Maurice  and  the 
Abbe  Midon. 

The  examination  was  continued,  therefore,  with  increased  bit- 
terness. "Instead  of  designating  imaginary  leaders,"  resumed 
the  duke,  "you  would  do  well  to  name  the  real  instigator  of 
this  revolt — not  Lacheneur,  but  an  individual  seated  at  the  other 
end  of  the  bench,  the  elder  D'Escorval — " 

"Monsieur  le  Baron  d'Escorval  was  entirely  ignorant  of  the 
conspiracy;  I  swear  it  by  all  that  I  hold  most  sacred — " 

"Hold  your  tongue !"  interrupted  the  emissary  for  the  prose- 
cution. "Instead  of  trying  the  patience  of  the  commission  with 
such  ridiculous  stories,  you  should  endeavor  to  merit  its  in- 
dulgence." 

Chanlouineau's  glance  and  gesture  expressed  such  disdain 
that  his  interrupter  was  abashed.  "I  wish  for  no  indulgence." 
said  the  young  farmer.  "I  have  played  my  game  and  lost  it; 
here  is  my  head.  But  if  you  are  not  wild  beasts  you  will  take 
pity  on  the  poor  wretches  who  surround  me.  I  see  at  least 
ten  among  them  who  were  not  our  accomplices,  and  who  cer- 
tainly did  not  take  up  arms.  Even  the  others  did  not  know  what 
they  were  doing." 

With  these  words  he  resumed  his  seat,  proud,  indifferent,  and 
apparently  oblivious  of  the  murmur  which  ran  through  the  audi- 
ence, the  soldiers  of  the  guard,  and  even  to  the  platform,  at 
the  sound  of  his  ringing  voice.  His  appeal  for  clemency  toward 
his  fellow  prisoners  had  reawakened  the  grief  of  the  poor  peas- 
ant women,  whose  sobs  and  moans  now  filled  the  hall.  The 
retired  officers  had  grown  paler  than  before,  and  as  they  ner- 
vously pulled  at  their  long  mustaches  they  murmured  among 
themselves,  "That's  a  man,  and  no  mistake!"  Just  then,  more- 
over, the  abbe  leaned  toward  Maurice  and  whispered  in  his 
ear:  '"Chanlouineau  evidently  has  some  plan.  He  intends  to 
save  your  father,  though  I  don't  at  all  understand  how." 

The   judges   were   conversing   with    considerable    animation, 


418     THE  HONOR  OF  THE  NAME 

although  in  an  undertone.  A  difficulty  had  presented  itself. 
The  prisoners,  ignorant  of  the  charges  which  would  be  brought 
against  them,  and  not  expecting  instant  trial,  had  not  thought 
of  procuring  defenders.  And  this  circumstance,  bitter  mockery ! 
caused  great  annoyance  to  this  iniquitous  tribunal,  despite  the 
complacency  with  which  it  was  prepared  to  trample  justice  under 
foot.  The  commissioners  had  made  up  their  minds,  they  had 
already  determined  on  their  verdict,  and  yet  they  wished  to 
hear  a  voice  raised  in  defense  of  those  who  were  already  doomed. 
It  chanced  that  three  lawyers,  retained  by  the  friends  of  a  few 
prisoners,  were  in  the  hall.  They  were  the  three  men  whom 
Maurice  had  noticed  conversing  near  the  door  when  he  entered 
the  chapel.  The  duke  was  informed  of  their  presence.  He 
turned  to  them,  and  motioned  them  to  approach ;  then,  point- 
ing to  Chanlouineau,  asked:  "Will  you  undertake  this  culprit's 
defense  ?" 

For  a  moment  the  lawyers  hesitated.  They  were  disgusted 
with  these  monstrous  proceedings,  and  looked  inquiringly  at  one 
another.  "We  are  all  disposed  to  undertake  the  prisoner's  de- 
fense." at  last  replied  the  eldest  of  the  three,  "but  we  see  him 
for  the  first  time :  we  do  not  know  what  defense  he  can  pre- 
sent. He  must  ask  for  a  delay ;  it  is  indispensable,  in  order 
to  confer  with  him." 

"The  court  can  grant  you  no  delay,"  interrupted  M.  de  Sair- 
meuse ;  "will  you  undertake  his  defense,  yes  or  no?" 

The  advocate  hesitated,  not  that  he  was  afraid,  for  he  was  a 
brave  man:  but  he  was  endeavoring  to  find  some  argument 
strong  enough  to  turn  these  mock  judges  from  the  course  on 
which  they  seemed  bent.  "I  will  speak  on  his  behalf,"  said  the 
advocate  at  last,  "but  not  without  first  protesting  with  all  my 
strength  against  these  unheard-of  modes  of  trial." 

"Oh !  spare  us  your  homilies,  and  be  brief." 

After  Chanlouineau's  examination,  it  was  difficult  to  impro- 
vise any  plea  for  him,  and  especially  so  on  the  spur  of  the 
moment.  Still,  in  his  indignation,  the  courageous  advocate 
managed  to  present  a  score  of  arguments  which  would  have 
made  any  other  tribunal  reflect.  But  all  the  while  he  was 
speaking  the  Due  de  Sairmeuse  fidgeted  in  his  armchair,  with 
every  sign  of  angry  impatience.  "Your  speech  was  very  long," 
he  remarked  when  the  lawyer  had  finished,  "terribly  long.  We 
shall  never  get  through  with  this  business  if  each  prisoner  takes 
up  as  much  time  !" 


THE   HONOR   OF   THE    NAME  419 

He  turned  to  his  colleagues  and  proposed  that  they  should 
unite  all  the  cases,  in  fact  try  all  the  culprits  in  a  body,  with 
the  exception  of  the  elder  d'Escorval.  "This  will  shorten  our 
task,"  said  he,  "and  there  will  then  be  but  two  judgments  to 
be  pronounced.  This  will  not,  of  course,  prevent  each  indi- 
vidual from  defending  himself." 

The  lawyers  protested  against  such  a  course;  for  a  general 
judgment  such  as  the  duke  suggested  would  destroy  all  hope 
of  saving  any  one  of  these  unfortunate  men.  "How  can  we 
defend  them,"  pleaded  one  advocate,  "when  we  know  nothing 
of  their  precise  situations ;  why,  we  do  not  even  know  their 
names.  We  shall  be  obliged  to  designate  them  by  the  cut  of 
their  coats  or  by  the  color  of  their  hair." 

They  implored  the  tribunal  to  grant  a  week  for  preparation, 
four  days,  even  twenty-four  hours ;  but  all  their  efforts  were 
futile,  for  the  president's  proposition  was  adopted  by  his  col- 
leagues. Consequently  each  prisoner  was  called  to  the  table, 
according  to  the  place  which  he  occupied  on  the  different 
benches.  Each  man  gave  his  name,  age,  dwelling  place,  and 
profession,  and  received  an  order  to  return  to  his  seat.  Six 
or  seven  of  the  prisoners  were  actually  granted  time  to  say 
that  they  were  absolutely  ignorant  of  the  conspiracy,  and  that 
they  had  been  arrested  while  conversing  quietly  on  the  public 
highway.  They  begged  to  be  allowed  to  furnish  proof  of  the 
truth  of  their  assertions,  and  they  invoked  the  testimony  of  the 
soldiers  who  had  arrested  them.  M.  d'Escorval,  whose  case 
had  been  separated  from  the  others,  was  not  summoned  to  the 
table.    He  would  be  examined  last  of  all. 

"Xow  the  counsel  for  the  defense  will  be  heard,"  said  the 
duke ;  "but  make  haste ;  lose  no  time,  for  it  is  already  twelve 
o'clock." 

Then  began  a  shameful  and  revolting  scene.  The  duke  inter- 
rupted the  lawyers  every  other  moment,  bidding  them  be  silent, 
questioning  them,  or  jeering  at  their  arguments.  "It  seems  in- 
credible," said  he,  "that  any  one  can  think  of  defending  such 
wretches  !"  Or  again  :  "Silence  !  You  should  blush  with  shame 
for  having  constituted  yourself  the  defender  of  such  rascals  !*' 

However,  the  advocates  courageously  persevered,  even  al- 
though they  realized  the  utter  futility  of  their  efforts.  But 
what  could  they  do  under  such  circumstances  ?  The  defense  of 
these  twenty-nine  prisoners  lasted  only  one  hour  and  a  half. 

Before  the  last  word  was  fairly  uttered,  the  Due  de  Sairmeuse 


420      THE  HONOR  OF  THE  NAME 

gave  a  sigh  of  relief,  and  in  a  tone  which  betrayed  his  inward 
delight,  exclaimed :  "Prisoner  d'Escorval,  stand  up." 

Thus  called  upon,  the  baron  rose  to  his  feet,  calm  and  digni- 
fied. Terrible  as  his  sufferings  must  have  been,  there  was  no 
trace  of  them  on  his  noble  face.  He  had  even  repressed  the 
smile  of  disdain  which  the  duke's  paltry  spite  in  not  giving  him 
the  title  he  had  a  right  to  almost  brought  to  his  lips.  But  Chan- 
louineau  sprang  up  at  the  same  time,  trembling  with  indignation, 
and  his  face  all  aglow  with  anger. 

"Remain  seated,"  ordered  the  duke,  "or  you  shall  be  removed 
from  the  courtroom." 

Despite  this  order  the  young  farmer  declared  that  he  would 
speak :  that  he  had  some  remarks  to  add  to  the  plea  made  by 
the  defending  counsel.  At  a  sign  from  the  duke,  two  gendarmes 
approached  him  and  placed  their  hands  on  his  shoulders.  He 
allowed  them  to  force  him  back  into  his  seat,  though  he  could 
easily  have  crushed  them  with  one  blow  of  his  brawny  arm. 
An  observer  might  have  supposed  that  he  was  furious;  but  in 
reality  he  was  delighted.  He  had  attained  the  end  he  had  in 
view.  While  standing  he  had  been  able  to  glance  at  the  Abbe 
Midon,  and  the  latter  had  plainly  read  in  his  eyes :  "Whatever 
happens,  watch  over  Maurice;  restrain  him.  Do  not  allow  him 
to  defeat  my  plans  by  any  outburst." 

This  caution  was  not  unnecessary,  for  Maurice  was  terribly 
agitated;  his  sight  failed  him,  his  head  swam,  he  felt  that  he 
was  suffocating,  that  he  was  losing  his  reason.  "Where  is  the 
self-control  you  promised  me?"  murmured  the  priest. 

But  no  one  observed  the  young  man's  condition.  The  atten- 
tion of  the  audience  was  elsewhere,  and  the  silence  was  so 
perfect  that  one  could  distinctly  hear  the  measured  tread  of 
the  sentinels  pacing  to  and  fro  in  the  courtyard  outside.  It 
was  plain  to  every  one  that  the  decisive  moment  for  which  the 
tribunal  had  reserved  all  its  attention  and  efforts  had  now  ar- 
rived. The  conviction  and  condemnation  of  the  poor  peasants 
were,  after  all,  mere  trifles ;  otherwise,  indeed,  was  the  task  of 
humbling  a  prominent  statesman,  who  had  been  the  emperor's 
faithful  friend  and  counselor.  Seldom  could  circumstances  offer 
so  splendid  an  opportunity  to  satisfy  the  cravings  of  royalist 
prejudice  and  ambition;  and  the  Due  de  Sairmeuse  and  his  col- 
leagues had  fully  determined  not  to  allow  it  to  slip  by.  If 
they  had  acted  informally  in  the  case  of  the  obscure  con- 
spirators,  they   had  carefully  prepared  their  suit  against  the 


THE   HONOR   OF   THE    NAME  421 

baron.  Thanks  to  the  activity  of  the  Marquis  de  Courtornieu, 
the  prosecution  had  found  no  fewer  than  seven  charges  against 
him,  the  least  notable  of  which  was  alone  punishable  with  death. 
"Which  of  you,"  asked  the  president,  turning  to  the  lawyers, 
"will  consent  to  defend  this  great  culprit?" 

"I !"  exclaimed  the  three  advocates  all  in  one  breath. 

"Take  care,"  said  the  duke,  with  a  malicious  smile;  "the 
task  may  prove  a  difficult  one." 

"Difficult,  indeed!"  It  would  have  been  better  to  have  said 
dangerous,  for  the  defender  risked  his  career,  his  peace,  his 
liberty,  and  very  probably — his  life. 

"Our  profession  has  its  exigencies,"  nobly  replied  the  oldest 
of  the  advocates.  And  then  the  two  courageously  took  their 
places  beside  the  baron,  thus  avenging  the  honor  of  their  robe. 

"Prisoner,"  resumed  M.  de  Sairmeuse,  "state  your  name  and 
profession." 

"Louis  Guillaume.  Baron  d'Escorval,  Commander  of  the 
Order  of  the  Legion  of  Honor,  formerly  Councilor  of  State 
under  the  Empire." 

"So  you  avow  these  shameful  services?    You  confess — " 

"Excuse  me ;  I  am  proud  of  having  had  the  honor  of  serving 
my  country,  and  of  being  useful  to  her  in  proportion  to  my 
abilities — " 

"Ah,  ha!  very  good  indeed!"  interrupted  the  duke  with  a 
furious  gesture.  "These  gentlemen,  my  fellow  commissioners, 
will  appreciate  those  words  of  yours.  No  doubt  it  was  in  the 
hope  of  regaining  your  former  position  that  you  entered  into 
this  shameful  conspiracy  against  a  magnanimous  prince." 

"You  know  as  well  as  I  do  myself,  sir,  that  I  have  had  no 
hand  in  this  conspiracy." 

"Why,  you  were  arrested  in  the  ranks  of  the  conspirators 
with  weapons  in  your  hands!" 

"I  was  unarmed,  as  you  are  well  aware ;  and  if  I  was  among 
the  peasantry,  it  was  only  because  I  hoped  to  induce  them  to 
relinquish  their  senseless  enterprise." 

"You  lie  !" 

The  baron  paled  beneath  the  insult,  but  he  made  no  response. 
There  was,  however,  one  man  in  the  assemblage  who  could  no 
longer  endure  such  abominable  injustice,  and  this  was  the  Abbe 
Midon,  who  only  a  moment  before  had  advised  Maurice  to  re- 
main calm.  Abruptly  leaving  his  place,  he  advanced  to  the  foot 
of  the  platform. 


422      THE  HONOR  OF  THE  NAME 

"The  Baron  d'Escorval  speaks  the  truth,"  he  cried  in  a  ring- 
ing voice:  "as  each  of  the  three  hundred  piisoners  in  the  cita- 
del will  swear.  Those  who  are  here  would  say  the  same,  even 
if  they  stood  upon  the  guillotine ;  and  I,  who  accompanied  him, 
who  walked  beside  him,  I,  a  priest,  swear  before  the  God  who 
one  day  will  judge  us  all,  Monsieur  de  Sairmeuse,  I  swear  we 
did  everything  that  was  humanly  possible  to  do  to  arrest  this 
movement !" 

The  duke  listened  with  an  ironical  smile.  "I  was  not  de- 
ceived, then,"  he  answered,  "when  I  was  told  that  this  army  of 
rebels  had  a  chaplain !  Ah !  sir,  you  should  sink  to  the  earth 
with  shame.  What !  You,  a  priest,  mingle  with  such  scoun- 
drels as  these — with  these  enemies  of  our  good  king  and  of 
our  holy  religion !  Do  not  deny  it !  Your  haggard  features, 
your  swollen  eyes,  your  disordered  attire,  plainly  betray  your 
guilt.  Must  I,  a  soldier,  remind  you  of  what  is  due  to  your 
sacred  calling?    Hold  your  peace,  sir,  and  depart!" 

But  the  prisoner's  advocates  were  on  their  feet.  "We  de- 
mand," cried  they,  "we  demand  that  this  witness  be  heard. 
He  must  be  heard !  Military  commissions  are  not  above  the 
laws  that  regulate  ordinary  tribunals." 

"If  I  do  not  speak  the  truth,"  resumed  the  abbe,  "I  am  a 
perjured  witness — worse  yet,  an  accomplice.  It  is  your  duty,  in 
that  case,  to  have  me  arrested." 

The  duke's  face  assumed  a  look  of  hypocritical  compassion. 
"No,  Monsieur  le  Cure,"  said  he,  "I  shall  not  arrest  you.  I  wish 
to  avert  the  scandal  which  you  are  trying  to  cause.  We  will 
show  your  priestly  garb  the  respect  the  wearer  does  not  deserve. 
Again,  and  for  the  last  time,  retire,  or  I  shall  be  obliged  to 
employ  force." 

What  would  further  resistance  avail?  Nothing.  The  abbe, 
with  a  face  whiter  than  the  plastered  walls,  and  eyes  filled  with 
tears,  returned  to  his  place  beside  Maurice. 

In  the  mean  while,  the  advocates  were  protesting  with  in- 
creasing energy.  But  the  duke,  hammering  on  the  table  with 
both  fists,  at  last  succeeded  in  reducing  them  to  silence.  "Ah ! 
you  want  evidence !"  he  exclaimed.  "Very  well  then,  you  shall 
have  it.    Soldiers,  bring  in  the  first  witness." 

There  was  some  little  movement  among  the  guards,  and 
then  Father  Chupin  made  his  appearance.  He  advanced  with 
a  deliberate  step,  but  his  restless,  shrinking  eyes  showed  plainly 
enough  that  he  was  ill  at  ease.     And  there  was  a  very  per- 


THE   HONOR   OF   THE    NAME  423 

ceptible  tremor  in  his  voice  when,  with  hand  uplifted,  he  swore 
to  tell  the  truth,  the  whole  truth,  and  nothing  but  the  truth. 

"What  do  you  know  concerning  the  prisoner  D'Escorval  ?" 
asked  the  duke. 

"I  know  that  he  took  part  in  the  rising  the  other  night." 

"Are  you  sure  of  this?" 

"I  can  furnish  proofs." 

"Submit  them  to  the  consideration  of  the  commission." 

The  old  scoundrel  began  to  grow  more  confident.  "First  of 
all,"  he  replied,  "directly  Lacheneur  had  given  up  your  grace's 
family  estates,  much  against  his  will,  he  hastened  to  M.  d'Es- 
corval's  house,  where  he  met  Chanlouineau.  It  was  then  that 
they  plotted  this  insurrection  between  them." 

"I  was  Lacheneur's  friend,"  observed  the  baron ;  "and  it  was 
perfectly  natural  that  he  should  come  to  me  for  consolation  after 
a  great  misfortune." 

M.  de  Sairmeuse  turned  to  his  colleagues.  "Do  you  hear 
that !"  said  he.  "This  D'Escorval  calls  the  restitution  of  a 
deposit  a  great  misfortune  !     Proceed,  witness." 

"In  the  second  place,"  resumed  Chupin,  "M.  d'Escorval  was 
always  prowling  round  about  Lacheneur's  house." 

"That's  false,"  interrupted  the  baron.  "I  never  visited  the 
house  but  once,  and  on  that  occasion  I  implored  him  to  re- 
nounce— "  He  paused,  understanding  only  when  it  was  too 
late  the  terrible  significance  of  these  few  words.  However, 
having  begun,  he  would  not  retract,  but  calmly  added :  "I 
implored  him  to  renounce  all  idea  of  provoking  an  insur- 
rection." 

"Ah!  then  you  knew  of  his  infamous  intentions?" 

"I  suspected  them." 

"At  all  events  you  must  be  perfectly  well  aware  that  the 
fact  of  not  revealing  this  conspiracy  made  you  an  accomplice, 
which  implies  the  guillotine." 

The  Baron  d'Escorval  had  just  signed  his  death-warrant. 
How  strange  is  destiny !  He  was  innocent,  and  yet  he  was 
the  only  one  among  all  the  prisoners  whom  a  regular  tribunal 
could  have  legally  condemned.  Maurice  and  the  abbe  were 
overcome  with  grief ;  but  Chanlouineau,  who  turned  toward 
them,  had  still  the  same  smile  of  confidence  on  his  lips.  How 
could  he  hope  when  all  hope  seemed  absolutely  lost? 

The  commissioners  made  no  attempt  to  conceal  their  satis- 
faction, and  M.  de  Sairmeuse,  especially,  evinced  an  indecent 

8 — Vol.  II— Gab. 


424     THE  HONOR  OF  THE  NAME 

joy.     "Ah,   well!   gentlemen,   what   do   yo->   say   to   that?"   he 
remarked  to  the  lawyers  in  a  sneering  tone. 

The  counsel  for  the  defense  were  unable  to  conceal  their 
discouragement ;  though  they  still  endeavored  to  question  the 
validity  of  their  client's  declaration.  He  had  said  that  he 
suspected  the  conspiracy,  not  that  he  knezv  of  it,  which  was  a 
very  different  thing. 

"Say  at  once  that  you  wish  for  still  more  overwhelming  tes- 
timony," interrupted  the  duke.  "Very  well !  You  shall  have  it. 
Continue  your  evidence,  witness." 

"The  prisoner,"  continued  Chupin,  "was  present  at  all  the 
conferences  held  at  Lacheneur's  house ;  and  having  to  cross  the 
Oiselle  each  time,  and  fearing  lest  the  ferryman  might  speak 
about  his  frequent  nocturnal  journeys,  he  had  an  old  boat 
repaired,  which  he  had  not  used  for  years." 

"Ah !  that's  a  remarkable  circumstance,  prisoner ;  do  you 
recollect  having  your  boat  repaired?" 

"Yes;  but  not  for  the  purpose  this  man  mentions." 

"For  what  purpose,  then?" 

The  baron  made  no  reply.  Was  it  not  in  compliance  with 
Maurice's  request  that  this  boat  had  been  put  in  order? 

"And  finally,"  continued  Chupin,  "when  Lacheneur  set  fire 
to  his  house  as  a  signal  for  the  insurrection,  the  prisoner  was 
with  him." 

"That,"  exclaimed  the  duke,  "is  conclusive  evidence." 

"Yes,  I  was  at  La  Reche,"  interrupted  the  baron ;  "but,  as  I 
have  already  told  you,  it  was  with  the  firm  determination  of 
preventing  this  outbreak." 

M.  de  Sairmeuse  laughed  disdainfully.  "Ah,  gentlemen !"  he 
said,  addressing  his  fellow  commissioners,  "you  see  that  the 
prisoner's  courage  does  not  equal  his  depravity.  But  I  will 
confound  him.  What  did  you  do,  prisoner,  when  the  insurgents 
left  La  Reche?" 

"I  returned  home  with  all  possible  speed,  took  a  horse  and 
hastened  to  the  Croix  d'Arcy." 

"Then  you  knew  that  this  was  to  be  the  general  meeting 
place?" 

"Lacheneur  had  just  informed  me  of  it." 

"Even  if  I  believed  your  story,"  retorted  the  duke,  "I  should 
have  to  remind  you  that  your  duty  was  to  have  hastened  to 
Montaignac  and  informed  the  authorities.  But  what  you  say 
is  untrue.    You  did  not  leave  Lacheneur,  you  accompanied  him." 


THE   HONOR   OF   THE   NAME  425 

"No,  sir,  no !" 

"And  what  if  I  could  prove  that  you  did  so  beyond  all 
question  ?" 

"Impossible,  since  such  was  not  the  case." 

By  the  malicious  satisfaction  that  sparkled  in  M.  de  Sair- 
meuse's  eyes,  the  Abbe  Midon  divined  that  he  had  some  ter- 
rible weapon  in  reserve,  and  that  he  was  about  to  overwhelm 
the  Baron  d'Escorval  with  false  evidence,  or  fatal  coincidence, 
which  would  place  Maurice's  father  beyond  all  possibility  of 
being  saved.  At  a  sign  from  the  commissary  for  the  prosecu- 
tion the  Marquis  de  Courtornicu  now  left  his  seat  and  advanced 
to  the  front  of  the  platform.  "I  must  request  you,  Monsieur 
le  Marquis,"  said  the  duke,  "to  be  kind  enough  to  read  us  the 
statement  your  daughter  has  prepared  and  signed." 

This  scene  had  evidently  been  prepared  beforehand.  M.  de 
Courtornieu  cleared  his  glasses,  produced  a  paper  which  he 
slowly  unfolded,  and  then  amid  a  death-like  silence,  emphat- 
ically read  as  follows :  "I,  Blanche  de  Courtornieu,  do  declare 
upon  oath  that,  on  the  evening  of  the  4th  of  March,  between 
ten  and  eleven  o'clock,  on  the  public  road  leading  from  Sair- 
meuse  to  Montaignac,  I  was  assailed  by  a  band  of  armed  brig- 
ands. While  they  were  deliberating  as  to  whether  they  should 
take  possession  of  my  person  and  pillage  my  carriage.  I  over- 
heard one  of  them  say  to  another,  speaking  of  me :  'She  must 
get  out,  must  she  not,  M.  d'Escorval  ?'  I  believe  that  the  brigand 
who  uttered  these  words  was  a  peasant  named  Chanlouineau, 
but  I  can  not  assert  this  on  oath." 

At  this  moment  a  loud  cry  ot  anguish  abruptly  interrupted 
the  marquis's  perusal.  The  tria.  was  too  great  for  Maurice's 
reason,  and  if  the  Abbe  Midon  had  not  restrained  him,  he  would 
have  sprung  forward  and  exclaimed :  "It  was  to  me,  not  to  my 
father,  that  Chanlouineau  addressed  those  words.  I  alone  am 
guilty;  my  father  is  innocent!'  But  fortunately  the  abbe  had 
sufficient  presence  of  mind  to  hold  the  young  fellow  back  and 
place  his  hand  before  his  mouth.  One  or  two  of  the  retired 
officers  standing  near  also  tendered  their  help  and,  probably 
divining  the  truth,  seized  hold  of  Maurice,  and  despite  all  his 
attempts  at  resistance  carried  him  from  the  room  by  main  force. 
The  whole  incident  scarcely  occupied  ten  seconds. 

"What  is  the  cause  of  this  disturbance?"  asked  the  duke, 
looking  angrily  at  the  spectators,  none  of  whom  uttered  a  word. 
"At  the  least  noise  the  hall  shall  be  cleared,"  added  his  grace. 


426     THE  HONOR  OF  THE  NAME 

"And  you,  prisoner,  what  have  you  to  say  in  self-justification 
after  Mademoiselle  de  Courtornieu's  crushing  evidence?" 

"Nothing,"  murmured  the  baron. 

But  to  return  to  Maurice.  Once  outside  the  courtroom,  the 
Abbe  Midon  confided  him  to  the  care  of  the  three  officers,  who 
promised  to  go  with  him,  to  carry  him  by  main  force,  if  need 
be,  to  the  Hotel  de  France,  and  keep  him  there.  Relieved  on 
this  score,  the  priest  reentered  the  hall  just  in  time  to  see  the 
baron  reseat  himself  without  replying  to  M.  de  Sairmeuse's 
final  sneer,  that  by  leaving  Mademoiselle  Blanche's  testimony 
unchallenged,  M.  d'Escorval  had  virtually  confessed  his  guilt. 
But  then,  in  truth,  how  could  he  have  challenged  it?  How 
could  he  defend  himself  without  betraying  his  son?  Until  this 
moment  every  one  present  had  believed  in  the  baron's  innocence. 
Could  it  be  that  he  was  guilty?  His  silence  seemed  to  imply 
that  such  was  the  case ;  and  this  alone  was  a  sufficient  triumph 
for  the  Due  de  Sairmeuse  and  his  friends.  His  grace  now 
turned  to  the  lawyers,  and,  with  an  air  of  weariness  and  dis- 
dain, remarked :  "At  present  you  may  speak,  since  it  is  abso- 
lutely necessary ;  but  no  long  phrases,  mind !  we  ought  to  have 
finished  here  an  hour  ago." 

The  eldest  of  the  three  advocates  rose,  trembling  with  indig- 
nation, and  prepared  to  dare  anything  for  the  sake  of  giving 
free  utterance  to  his  thoughts,  but  before  a  word  was  spoken 
the  baron  hastily  checked  him.  "Do  not  try  to  defend  me,"  he 
said  calmly ;  "it  would  be  labor  wasted.  I  have  only  one  word 
to  say  to  my  judges.  Let  them  remember  what  noble  Marshal 
Moncey  wrote  to  the  king:  "The  scaffold  does  not  make  friends." 

But  this  reminder  was  not  of  a  nature  to  soften  the  judges' 
hearts.  For  that  very  phrase  the  marshal  had  been  deprived 
of  his  office  and  condemned  to  three  months'  imprisonment.  As 
the  advocates  made  no  further  attempt  to  argue  the  case,  the 
commission  retired  to  deliberate.  This  gave  M.  d'Escorval  an 
opportunity  to  speak  with  his  defenders.  He  shook  them  warmly 
by  the  hand,  and  thanked  them  for  their  courage  and  devotion. 
Then  drawing  the  eldest  among  them  on  one  side,  he  quickly 
added  in  a  low  voice :  "I  have  a  last  favor  to  ask  of  you.  When 
sentence  of  death  has  been  pronounced  upon  me,  go  at  once  to 
my  son.  Say  to  him  that  his  dying  falher  commands  him  to 
live — he  will  understand  you.  Tell  him  that  it  is  my  last  wish ; 
that  he  live — live  for  his  mother !" 

He  said  no  more;  the  judges  were  returning.     Of  the  thirty 


THE   HONOR   OF   THE   NAME 


427 


prisoners,  nine  were  declared  not  guilty,  and  released.  The 
remaining  twenty-one,  including  both  M.  d'Escorval  and  Chan- 
louineau,  were  then  formally  condemned  to  death.  But  Chanlou- 
ineau's  lips  still  retained  their  enigmatical  smile. 


'T'HE  three  military  men  to  whose  care  the  Abbe  Midon  had 
•*■  entrusted  Maurice  had  considerable  difficulty  in  getting 
him  to  the  Hotel  de  France,  for  he  made  continual  attempts 
to  return  to  the  courtroom,  having  the  fallacious  idea  that  by 
telling  the  truth  he  might  yet  save  his  father.  In  point  of  fact. 
however,  the  only  effect  of  his  confession  would  have  been  to 
provide  the  Due  de  Sairmeuse  with  another  welcome  victim. 
When  he  and  his  custodians  at  length  entered  the  room  where 
Madame  d'Escorval  and  Marie-Anne  were  waiting  in  cruel  sus- 
pense, the  baroness  eagerly  asked  whether  the  trial  were  over. 

"Nothing  is  decided  yet,"  replied  one  of  the  retired  officers. 
"The  cure  will  come  here  as  soon  as  the  verdict  is  given." 

Then  as  the  three  military  men  had  promised  not  to  lose  sight 
of  Maurice,  they  sat  themselves  down  in  gloomy  silence.  Not 
the  slightest  stir  could  be  heard  in  the  hotel,  which  seemed  in- 
deed as  if  it  were  deserted.  At  last,  a  little  before  four  o'clock, 
the  abbe  came  in,  followed  by  the  lawyer,  to  whom  the  baron 
had  confided  his  last  wishes. 

"My  husband !"  exclaimed  Madame  d'Escorval,  springing 
wildly  from  her  chair.  The  priest  bowed  his  head.  "Death !" 
she  faltered,  fully  understanding  the  significance  of  this  im- 
pressive gesture.  "What?  they  have  condemned  him!''  And 
overcome  with  the  terrible  blow,  she  sank  back,  with  hanging 
arms.  But  this  weakness  did  not  last  long.  "We  must  save 
him !"  she  exclaimed,  abruptly  springing  to  her  feet  again,  her 
eyes  bright  with  some  sudden  resolution,  "we  must  wrest  him 
from  the  scaffold.  Up,  Maurice !  up,  Marie- Anne  !  No  more 
lamentations.  To  work !  You  also,  gentlemen,  will  assist  me ; 
and  I  can  count  on  your  help.  Monsieur  le  Cure.  I  do  not 
quite  know  how  to  begin,  but  something  must  be  done.     The 


428     THE  HONOR  OF  THE  NAME 

murder  of  so  good,  so  noble  a  man  as  he  would  be  too  great 
a  crime.  God  will  not  permit  it."  She  paused,  with  clasped 
hands,  as  if  seeking  for  inspiration.  "And  the  king,"  she  re- 
sumed— "can  the  king  consent  to  such  a  crime?  No.  A  king 
can  refuse  mercy,  but  he  can  not  refuse  justice.  I  will  go  to 
him.  I  will  tell  him  everything.  Ah !  why  didn't  this  thought 
occur  to  me  sooner?  We  must  start  for  Paris  without  losing 
an  instant.  Maurice,  you  must  accompany  me;  and  one  of  you 
gentlemen  go  at  once  and  order  post-horses."  Then,  thinking 
they  would  obey  her,  she  hastened  into  the  next  room  to  make 
preparations  for  her  journey. 

"Poor  woman !"  whispered  the  lawyer  to  the  abbe,  "she  does 
not  know  that  the  sentence  of  a  military  commission  is  exe- 
cuted in  twenty-four  hours,  and  that  it  requires  four  days  to 
make  the  journey  to  Paris."  He  reflected  a  moment,  and  then 
added:  "But,  after  all,  to  let  her  go  would  be  an  act  of  mercy. 
Did  not  Ney,  on  the  morning  of  his  execution,  implore  the 
king  to  order  the  removal  of  his  wife,  who  was  sobbing  and 
moaning  in  his  cell?" 

The  abbe  shook  his  head.  "No,"  said  he;  "Madame  d'Es- 
corval  would  never  forgive  us  if  we  prevented  her  from  receiv- 
ing her  husband's  last  farewell." 

At  that  very  moment  the  baroness  reentered  the  room,  and 
the  priest  was  trying  to  gather  sufficient  courage  to  tell  her 
the  cruel  truth  when  a  loud  knock  was  heard  at  the  door.  One 
of  the  retired  officers  went  to  open  it,  and  our  old  friend  Bavois, 
the  corporal  of  grenadiers,  entered,  raising  his  right  hand  to 
his  cap,  as  if  he  were  in  his  captain's  presence.  "Is  Mademoi- 
selle Lacheneur  here?"  he  asked. 

Marie-Anne  stepped  forward.  "I  am  she,  sir,"  she  replied; 
"what  do  you  want  with  me?" 

"I  am  ordered  to  conduct  you  to  the  citadel,  mademoiselle." 

"What?"  exclaimed  Maurice,  in  a  tone  of  anger;  "so  they 
imprison  women  as  well  ?" 

The  worthy  corporal  struck  his  forehead  with  his  open  hand. 
"I  am  an  old  fool !"  he  exclaimed,  "and  don't  know  how  to 
express  myself.  I  meant  to  say  that  I  came  to  fetch  mademoi- 
selle at  the  request  of  one  of  the  prisoners,  a  man  named  Chan- 
louineau,  who  wishes  to  speak  with  her." 

"Impossible,  my  good  fellow,"  said  one  of  the  officers;  "they 
would  not  allow  this  lady  to  visit  one  of  the  prisoners  without 
special  permission — " 


THE   HONOR   OF   THE    NAME  429 

"Well,  she  has  this  permission,"  said  the  old  soldier.  And 
then  persuaded  he  had  nothing  to  fear  from  any  one  present, 
he  added  in  lower  tones :  "This  Chanlouineau  told  me  that  the 
cure  would  understand  his  reasons." 

Had  the  brave  peasant  really  found  some  means  of  salvation? 
The  abbe  almost  began  to  believe  that  such  was  the  case.  "You 
must  go  with  this  worthy  fellow,  Marie-Anne,"  said  he. 

The  poor  girl  shuddered  at  the  thought  of  seeing  Chanlouineau 
again,  but  the  idea  of  refusing  never  once  occurred  to  her. 
"Let  me  go,"  she  said  quietly. 

But  the  corporal  did  not  budge.  Winking  in  a  desperate 
fashion,  as  was  his  wont  whenever  he  wished  to  attract  atten- 
tion, he  exclaimed:  "Wait  a  bit.  I've  something  else  to  tell 
you.  This  Chanlouineau,  who  seems  to  be  a  shrewd  fellow,  told 
me  to  say  that  all  was  going  well.  May  I  be  hung  if  I  can  see 
how !  Still  such  is  his  opinion.  He  also  told  me  to  tell  you 
not  to  stir  from  this  place,  and  not  to  attempt  anything  until 
mademoiselle  comes  back  again,  which  will  be  in  less  than  an 
hour.  He  swears  that  he  will  keep  his  promise,  and  only  asks 
you  to  pledge  your  word  that  you  will  obey  him — " 

"We  will  wait  for  an  hour,"  replied  the  abbe.  "I  can  prom- 
ise that — " 

"Then  that'll  do,"  rejoined  Bavois.  "Salute,  company.  And 
now,  mademoiselle,  on  the  double-quick  march  !  The  poor  devil 
over  there  must  be  on  coals  of  fire." 

That  a  condemned  conspirator  should  be  allowed  to  receive 
a  visit  from  his  leader's  daughter — from  the  daughter  of  that 
Lacheneur  who  had  succeeded  in  making  his  escape — was  indeed 
surprising.  But  Chanlouineau  had  been  ingenious  enough  to 
discover  a  means  of  procuring  this  special  permission;  and  with 
this  aim  in  view  he  had  feigned  the  most  abject  terror  on  hear- 
ing the  sentence  of  death  passed  upon  him.  He  even  contrived 
to  weep  in  a  bellowing  fashion,  and  the  guards  could  scarcely 
believe  their  eyes  when  they  saw  this  robust  young  fellow,  so 
insolent  and  defiant  a  few  hours  before,  now  utterly  overcome, 
and  even  unable  to  walk  back  to  his  cell.  They  had  to  carry 
him  there,  and  then  his  lamentations  became  still  more  boister- 
ous, concluding  with  an  urgent  prayer  that  one  of  the  guard 
should  go  to  the  Due  de  Sairmeuse,  or  the  Marquis  de  Cour- 
tornieu,  and  tell  them  he  had  revelations  of  the  greatest  im- 
portance to  make. 

That    potent   word    "revelations"    made    M.    de    Courtornieu 


430     THE  HONOR  OF  THE  NAME 

hasten  to  the  prisoner's  cell.  He  found  Chanlouineau  on  his 
knees,  his  features  distorted  by  what  appeared  to  be  an  agony 
of  fear.  The  crafty  fellow  dragged  himself  toward  the  marquis, 
took  hold  of  his  hands  and  kissed  them,  imploring  mercy  and 
forgiveness,  and  swearing  that  to  save  his  own  life  he  was  ready 
to  do  anything,  yes,  anything,  even  to  deliver  Lacheneur  up  to 
the  authorities.  Such  a  prospect  had  powerful  attractions  for 
the  Marquis  de  Courtornieu.  "Do  you  know,  then,  where  this 
brigand  is  concealed  ?"  he  asked. 

Chanlouineau  admitted  that  he  did  not  know,  but  declared 
that  Marie-Anne,  Lacheneur's  daughter,  was  well  acquainted 
with  her  father's  hiding-place.  She  had,  he  said,  perfect  confi- 
dence in  him,  Chanlouineau;  and  if  they  would  only  send  for 
her,  and  allow  him  ten  minutes'  private  conversation  with  her, 
he  was  positive  he  could  ascertain  where  the  leader  of  the 
insurrection  was  concealed.  So  the  bargain  was  quickly  con- 
cluded; and  Chanlouineau's  life  was  promised  him  in  exchange 
for  Lacheneur's.  A  soldier,  who  fortunately  chanced  to  be  Cor- 
poral Bavois,  was  then  sent  to  summon  Marie-Anne ;  and  the 
young  farmer  awaited  her  coming  with  feelings  of  poignant 
anxiety.  He  loved  her,  remember,  and  the  thought  of  seeing 
her  once  more — for  the  last  time  on  earth — made  his  heart 
throb  wildly  with  mingled  passion  and  despair.  At  last,  at  the 
end  of  the  corridor,  he  could  hear  footsteps  approaching.  The 
heavy  bolts  securing  the  entrance  to  his  cell  were  drawn  back, 
the  door  opened,  and  Marie-Anne  appeared,  accompanied  by 
Corporal  Bavois.  "M.  de  Courtornieu  promised  me  that  we 
should  be  left  alone !"  exclaimed  Chanlouineau. 

"Yes,  I  know  he  did,  and  I  am  going,"  replied  the  old  sol- 
dier. "But  I  have  orders  to  return  for  mademoiselle  in  half 
an  hour." 

When  the  door  closed  behind  the  worthy  corporal,  Chan- 
louineau took  hold  of  Marie-Anne's  hand  and  drew  her  to  the 
tiny  grated  window.  "Thank  you  for  coming,"  said  he,  "thank 
you.  I  can  see  you  and  speak  to  you  once  more.  Now  that 
my  hours  are  numbered,  I  may  reveal  the  secret  of  my  soul  and 
of  my  life.  Now,  I  can  venture  to  tell  you  how  ardently  I  have 
loved  you — how  much  I  still  love  you." 

Involuntarily  Marie-Anne  drew  away  her  hand  and  stepped 
back ;  for  this  outburst  of  passion,  at  such  a  moment  and  in  such 
a  place,  seemed  at  once  unspeakably  sad  and  shocking. 

"Have   I,   then,  offended   you?"   asked   Chanlouineau   sadly. 


THE   HONOR   OF   THE    NAME  431 

"Forgive  me — for  I  am  about  to  die !  You  can  not  refuse  to 
listen  to  the  voice  of  one  who,  to-morrow,  will  vanish  from 
earth  forever.  I  have  loved  you  for  a  long  time,  Marie-Anne, 
for  more  than  six  years.  Before  I  saw  you  I  only  cared  for 
my  belongings,  and  to  raise  fine  crops  and  gather  money  to- 
gether seemed  to  me  the  greatest  possible  happiness  here  below. 
And  when  at  first  I  did  meet  you — you  were  so  high,  and  I  so 
low,  that  in  my  wildest  dreams  I  did  not  dare  to  aspire  to  you. 
I  went  to  the  church  each  Sunday  only  that  I  might  worship 
you  as  peasant  women  worship  the  Virgin ;  I  went  home  with 
my  eyes  and  heart  full  of  you — and  that  was  all.  But  then 
came  your  father's  misfortunes,  which  brought  us  nearer  to 
each  other ;  and  your  father  made  me  as  insane,  yes,  as  insane 
as  himself.  After  the  insults  he  received  from  the  Due  de 
Sairmeuse,  M.  Lacheneur  resolved  to  revenge  himself  upon  all 
these  arrogant  nobles,  and  selected  me  for  his  accomplice.  He 
had  read  my  heart  as  easily  as  if  it  had  been  an  open  book; 
and  when  we  left  the  baron's  house  that  Sunday  evening,  we 
both  have  such  good  reason  to  remember,  he  said  to  me:  'You 
love  my  daughter,  my  boy.  Very  well,  assist  me,  and  I  prom- 
ise you  that  if  we  succeed  she  shall  be  your  wife.  Only,'  he 
added,  'I  must  warn  you  that  you  risk  your  life.'  But  what 
was  life  in  comparison  with  the  hopes  that  dazzled  me  ?  From 
that  night  I  gave  body,  soul,  and  fortune  to  his  cause.  Others 
were  influenced  by  hatred  or  ambition,  but  I  was  actuated  by 
neither  of  these  motives.  What  did  the  quarrels  of  these  great 
folks  matter  to  me — a  simple  laborer?  I  knew  that  the  great- 
est were  powerless  to  give  my  crops  a  drop  of  rain  in  seasons 
of  drought  or  a  ray  of  sunshine  during  long  spells  of  rain.  I 
took  part  in  the  conspiracy,  it  was  because  I  loved  you — " 

It  seemed  to  Marie-Anne  that  he  was  reproaching  her  for 
the  deception  she  had  been  forced  to  practise,  and  for  the  cruel 
fate  to  which  Lacheneur's  wild  designs  had  brought  him.  "Ah, 
you  are  cruel,"  she  cried,  "you  are  pitiless !" 

But  Chanlouineau  scarcely  heard  her  words.  All  the  bitter- 
ness of  the  past  was  rising  to  his  brain  like  fumes  of  alcohol ; 
and  he  was  scarcely  conscious  of  what  ne  said  himself.  "How- 
ever, the  day  soon  came,"  he  continued,  "when  my  foolish  illu- 
sions were  destroyed.  You  could  not  be  mine  since  you  belonged 
to  another.  I  might  have  broken  my  compact !  I  thought  of 
doing  so,  but  I  did  not  have  the  courage.  To  see  you,  to  hear 
your  voice,  to  spend  my  time  under  the  same  roof  as  you.  was 


432     THE  HONOR  OF  THE  NAME 

happiness  enough.  I  longed  to  see  you  happy  and  honored;  I 
fought  for  the  triumph  of  another,  for  him  you  had  chosen — " 
A  sob  rose  in  his  throat  and  choked  his  utterance;  he  buried 
his  face  in  his  hands  to  hide  his  tears,  and  for  a  moment  seemed 
completely  overcome.  But  he  mastered  his  weakness  after  a 
brief  interval,  and  in  a  firm  voice  exclaimed:  "We  must  not 
linger  any  longer  over  the  past.    Time  flies,  and  the  future  is 


ominous." 


As  he  spoke  he  went  to  the  door  and  applied  first  his  eyes 
and  then  his  ear  to  the  grating,  to  see  that  there  were  no  spies 
outside.  But  he  could  perceive  no  one,  nor  could  he  hear  a 
sound.  He  came  back  to  Marie-Anne's  side,  and  tearing  the 
sleeve  of  his  jacket  open  with  his  teeth,  he  drew  from  the  lining 
two  letters,  wrapped  carefully  in  a  piece  of  cloth.  "Here,"  he 
said  in  a  low  voice,  "is  a  man's  life !" 

Marie-Anne  knew  nothing  of  Chanlouineau's  promises  and 
hopes,  and  she  was,  moreover,  so  distressed  by  what  the  young 
farmer  had  previously  said  that  at  first  she  did  not  understand 
his  meaning.  All  she  could  do  was  to  repeat  mechanically, 
"This  is  a  man's  life !" 

"Hush,  speak  lower!"  interrupted  Chanlouineau.  "Yes,  one 
of  these  letters  might,  perhaps,  save  the  life  of  a  prisoner  now 
under  sentence  of  death." 

"Unfortunate  man !  Why  do  you  not  make  use  of  it  and  save 
yourself?" 

The  young  farmer  shook  his  head.  "Would  it  ever  be  possi- 
ble for  you  to  love  me?  he  said.  "No,  it  wouldn't  be  possible; 
and  so  what  wish  can  I  have  to  live?  At  least  I  shall  be  able 
to  forget  everything  when  I  am  underground.  Moreover,  I  have 
been  justly  condemned.  I  knew  what  I  was  doing  when  I  left 
La  Reche  with  my  gun  over  my  shoulder  and  my  sword  by  my 
side;  I  have  no  right  to  complain.  But  these  judges  of  ours 
have  condemned  an  innocent  man — " 

"The  Baron  d'Escorval?" 

"Yes — Maurice's  father!"  His  voice  changed  as  he  pro- 
nounced the  name  of  his  envied  rival — envied,  no  doubt,  and  yet 
to  assure  this  rival's  happiness  and  Marie-Anne's  he  would  have 
given  ten  lives  had  they  been  his  to  give.  "I  wish  to  save  the 
baron,"  he  added,  "and  I  can  do  so." 

"Oh!  if  what  you  said  were  true?  But  you  undoubtedly 
deceive  yourself." 


THE    HONOR    OF    THE    NAME 

PART   II 

'T  KNOW  what  I  am  saying,"  rejoined  Chanlouineau ;  and  still 
fearful  lest  some  spy  might  be  concealed  outside,  he  now 
came  close  to  Marie-Anne  and  in  a  low  voice  spoke  rapidly  as 
follows:  "I  never  believed  in  the  success  of  this  conspiracy,  and 
when  I  sought  for  a  weapon  of  defense  in  case  of  failure,  the 
Marquis  de  Sairmeuse  furnished  it.  When  it  became  necessary 
to  send  out  a  circular,  warning  our  accomplices  of  the  date 
decided  upon  for  the  rising,  I  persuaded  M.  Martial  to  write 
a  model.  He  suspected  nothing.  I  told  him  it  was  for  a  wed- 
ding, and  he  did  what  I  asked.  This  letter,  which  is  now  in 
my  possession,  is  the  rough  draft  of  the  circular  we  sent;  and 
it  is  in  the  Marquis  de  Sairmeuse's  handwriting.  It  is  im- 
possible for  him  to  deny  it.  There  is  an  erasure  in  every  line, 
and  every  one  would  look  at  the  letter  as  the  handiwork  of  a 
man  seeking  to  convey  his  real  meaning  in  ambiguous  phrases." 

With  these  words  Chanlouineau  opened  the  envelope  and 
showed  her  the  famous  letter  he  had  dictated,  in  which  the 
space  for  the  date  of  the  insurrection  was  left  blank.  "My 
dear  friend,  we  are  at  last  agreed,  and  the  marriage  is  decided 
on,  etc." 

The  light  that  had  sparkled  in  Marie- Anne's  eyes  was  sud- 
denly bedimmed.  "And  you  think  that  this  letter  can  be  of  any 
use?"  she  inquired  with  evident  discouragement. 

"I  don't  think  so !" 

"But—" 

With  a  gesture  he  interrupted  her.  "We  must  not  lose  time 
ii  discussion — listen  to  me.  Of  itself,  this  letter  might  be  un- 
important, but  I  have  arranged  matters  in  such  a  wav  that  it 
will  produce  a  powerful  effect.  I  declared  before  the  commis- 
sion that  the  Marquis  de  Sairmeuse  was  one  of  the  leaders  of 
the  movement.  They  laughed;  and  I  read  incredulity  on  all 
the  judges'  faces.     But  calumny  is   never  without  its   effect. 

(433) 


434  THE   HONOR   OF   THE    NAME 

When  the  Due  de  Sairmeuse  is  about  to  receive  a  reward  for 
his  services,  there  will  be  enemies  in  plenty  to  remember  and 
repeat  my  words.  He  knew  this  so  well  that  he  was  greatly 
agitated,  even  while  his  colleagues  sneered  at  my  accusation." 

"It's  a  great  crime  to  charge  a  man  falsely,"  murmured  Marie- 
Anne  with  simple  honesty. 

"No  doubt,"  rejoined  Chanlouineau,  "but  I  wish  to  save  the 
baron,  and  I  can  not  choose  my  means.  As  I  knew  that  the 
marquis  had  been  wounded,  I  declared  that  he  was  fighting 
against  the  troops  by  my  side,  and  asked  that  he  should  be 
summoned  before  the  tribunal ;  swearing  that  I  had  in  my 
possession  unquestionable  proofs  of  his  complicity." 

"Did  you  say  that  the  Marquis  de  Sairmeuse  had  been 
wounded?"  inquired  Marie-Anne. 

Chanlouineau's  face  wore  a  look  of  intense  astonishment. 
"What!"  he  exclaimed,  "don't  you  know—?"  Then  after  an 
instant's  reflection:  "Fool  that  I  am!"  he  resumed.  "After 
all,  who  could  have  told  you  what  happened?  However,  you 
remember  that  while  we  were  on  our  way  to  the  Croix  d'Arcy, 
after  your  father  had  rode  on  in  advance,  Maurice  placed  him- 
self at  the  head  of  one  division,  and  you  walked  beside  him, 
while  your  brother  Jean  and  myself  stayed  behind  to  urge  the 
laggards  forward.  We  were  performing  our  duty  conscien- 
tiously enough,  when  suddenly  we  heard  the  gallop  of  a  horse 
behind  us.  'We  must  know  who  is  coming,'  said  Jean  to  me. 
So  we  paused.  The  horse  soon  reached  us ;  we  caught  the  bridle 
and  held  him.  Can  you  guess  who  the  rider  was  ?  Why,  Mar- 
tial de  Sairmeuse.  It  would  be  impossible  to  describe  your 
brother's  fury  when  he  recognized  the  marquis.  'At  last  I  find 
you,  you  wretched  noble !'  he  exclaimed,  'and  now  we  will  set- 
tle our  account !  After  reducing  my  father,  who  had  just  given 
you  a  fortune,  to  despair  and  penury,  you  tried  to  degrade  my 
sister.     I  will  have  my  revenge  !     Down,  we  must  fight !'  " 

Marie-Anne  could  scarcely  tell  whether  she  were  awake  or 
dreaming.  "What,  my  brother  challenged  the  marquis!"  she 
murmured;  "is  it  possible?" 

"Brave  as  the  marquis  may  be,"  pursued  Chanlouineau,  "he 
did  not  seem  inclined  to  accept  the  invitation.  He  stammered 
out  something  like  this:  'You  are  mad — you  are  jesting — haven't 
we  always  been  friends?  What  does  all  this  mean?'  Jean 
ground  his  teeth  in  rage.  'This  means  that  we  have  endured 
your  insulting  familiarity  long  enough,'  he  replied,  'and  if  you 


THE   HONOR   OF   THE    NAME  435 

don't  dismount  and  fight  me  fairly,  I  will  blow  your  brains  out!' 
Your  brother,  as  he  spoke,  manipulated  his  pistol  in  so  threat- 
ening a  manner  that  the  marquis  jumped  off  his  horse  and 
addressing  me:  'You  see,  Chanlouineau,'  he  said,  'I  must  fight 
a  duel  or  submit  to  murder.  If  Jean  kills  me  there  is  no  more 
to  be  said — but  if  I  kill  him,  what  is  to  b?  done?'  I  told  him 
he  would  be  free  to  go  off  unmolested  on  condition  that  he  gave 
me  his  word  not  to  proceed  to  Montaignac  before  two  o'clock. 
'Then  I  accept  the  challenge,'  said  he;  'give  me  a  weapon.  'I 
gave  him  my  sword,  your  brother  drew  his,  and  they  took  th«ir 
places  in  the  middle  of  the  highway." 

The  young  farmer  paused  to  take  breath,  and  then  more 
slowly  he  resumed:  "Marie-Anne,  your  father  and  I  misjudged 
your  brother.  Poor  Jean's  appearance  is  terribly  against  him. 
His  face  indicates  a  treacherous,  cowardly  nature,  his  smile  is 
cunning,  and  his  eyes  always  shun  yours.  We  distrusted  him, 
but  we  should  ask  his  forgiveness  for  having  done  so.  A  man 
who  fights  as  I  saw  him  fight  deserves  all  our  confidence.  For 
this  combat  in  the  road,  and  in  the  darkness,  was  terrible.  They 
attacked  each  other  furiously,  and  at  last  Jean  fell." 

"Ah !  my  brother  is  dead !"  exclaimed  Marie-Anne. 

"No,"  promptly  replied  Chanlouineau ;  "at  least  I  have  reason 
to  hope  not ;  and  I  know  he  has  been  well  cared  for.  The  duel 
had  another  witness,  a  man  named  Poignot,  whom  you  must 
remember,  as  he  was  one  of  your  father's  tenants.  He  took 
Jean  away  with  him,  and  promised  me  that  he  would  conceal 
him  and  care  for  him.  As  for  the  marquis,  he  showed  me  that 
he  was  wounded  as  well,  and  then  he  remounted  his  horse, 
saying:  'What  could  I  do?    He  would  have  it  so.'" 

Marie-Anne  now  understood  everything.  "Give  me  the  let- 
ter," she  said  to  Chanlouineau;  "I  will  go  to  the  duke.  I  will 
find  some  way  of  reaching  him,  and  then  God  will  guide  me 
in  the  right  course  to  pursue." 

The  noble-hearted  young  farmer  calmly  handed  her  the  scrap 
of  paper  which  might  have  been  the  means  of  his  own  salva- 
tion. "You  must  on  no  account  allow  the  duke  to  suppose  that 
you  have  the  proof  with  which  you  threaten  him  about  your 
person.  He  might  be  capable  of  any  infamy  under  such  cir- 
cumstances. He  will  probably  say  at  first  that  he  can  do  noth- 
ing— that  he  sees  no  way  to  save  the  baron ;  but  you  must  tell 
him  that  he  must  find  a  means  if  he  does  not  wish  this  letter 
sent  to  Paris,  to  one  of  his  enemies — " 


436     THE  HONOR  OF  THE  NAME 

He  paused,  for  the  bolt  outside  was  being  withdrawn.  A 
moment  later  Corporal  Bavois  reappeared.  "The  half-hour  ex- 
pired ten  minutes  ago,"  said  the  old  soldier  sadly,  "and  I  must 
obey  my  orders." 

"Coming,"  replied  Chanlouineau ;  "we  have  finished."  And 
then  handing  Marie-Anne  the  second  letter  he  had  taken  from 
his  sleeve,  "This  is  for  you,"  he  added.  "You  will  read  it  when 
I  am  no  more.  Pray,  pray,  do  not  cry  so !  Be  brave !  You 
will  soon  be  Maurice's  wife.  And  when  you  are  happy,  think 
sometimes  of  the  poor  peasant  who  loved  you  so." 

Marie-Anne  could  not  utter  a  word,  but  she  raised  her  face 
to  his.  "Ah !  I  dare  not  ask  it !"  he  exclaimed.  And  for  the 
first  and  only  time  in  life  he  clasped  her  in  his  arms,  and  pressed 
his  lips  to  her  pallid  cheek.  "Now,  good-by,"  he  said  once 
more.     "Do  not  lose  a  moment.     Good-by,  forever !" 

The  prospect  of  capturing  Lacheneur,  the  chief  conspirator,, 
had  so  excited  the  Marquis  de  Courtornieu  that  he  had 
not  been  able  to  tear  himself  away  from  the  citadel  to  go  home 
to  dinner.  Stationed  near  the  entrance  of  the  dark  corridor 
leading  to  Chanlouineau's  cell,  he  watched  Marie-Anne  hasten 
away ;  but  as  he  saw  her  go  out  into  the  twilight  with  a  quick, 
alert  step,  he  felt  a  sudden  doubt  concerning  Chanlouineau's 
sincerity.  "Can  it  be  that  this  miserable  peasant  has  deceived 
me  ?"  thought  he ;  and  so  strong  was  this  new-born  suspicion 
that  he  hastened  after  the  young  girl,  determined  to  question 
her — to  ascertain  the  truth — to  arrest  her  even,  if  need  be.  But 
he  no  longer  possessed  the  agility  of  youth,  and  when  he  reached 
the  gateway  the  sentinel  told  him  that  Mademoiselle  Lacheneur 
had  already  left  the  citadel.  He  rushed  out  after  her,  looked 
about  on  every  side,  but  could  see  no  trace  of  the  nimble  fugi- 
tive. Accordingly,  he  was  constrained  to  return  again,  inwardly 
furious  with  himself  for  his  own  credulity.  "Still,  I  can  visit 
Chanlouineau,"  thought  he,  "and  to-morrow  will  be  time  enough 
to  summon  this  creature  and  question  her." 

"This  creature"  was,  even  then,  hastening  up  the  long,  ill- 
paved  street  leading  to  the  Hotel  de  France.  Regardless  of 
the  inquisitive  glances  of  the  passers-by,  she  ran  on,  thinking 
only  of  shortening  the  terrible  suspense  which  her  friends  at 
the  hotel  must  be  enduring.  "All  is  not  lost !"  she  exclaimed 
as  she  reentered  the  room  where  they  were  assembled. 

"My  God,  Thou  hast  heard  my  prayers!"  murmured  the  bar- 
oness.    Then,  suddenly  seized  by  a  horrible  dread,  she  added: 


THE   HONOR   OF   THE    NAME  437 

"But  do  not  try  to  deceive  me.    Are  you  not  trying  to  comfort 
me  with  false  hopes?" 

"No !  I  am  not  deceiving  you,  madame.  Chanlouineau  has 
placed  a  weapon  in  my  hands,  which,  I  hope  and  believe,  will 
place  the  Due  de  Sairmeuse  in  our  power.  He  only  is  omnipo- 
tent at  Montaignac,  and  the  only  man  who  would  oppose  him, 
M.  de  Courtornieu,  is  his  friend.  I  believe  that  M.  d'Escorval 
can  be  saved." 

"Speak!"  cried  Maurice;  "what  must  we  do?" 

"Pray  and  wait,  Maurice ;  I  must  act  alone  in  this  matter, 
but  be  assured  that  I  will  do  everything  that  is  humanly  pos- 
sible. It  is  my  duty  to  do  so,  for  am  I  not  the  cause  of  all 
your  misfortune?" 

Absorbed  in  the  thought  of  the  task  before  her,  Marie-Anne 
had  failed  to  remark  a  stranger  who  had  arrived  during  her 
absence — an  old  white-haired  peasant. 

The  abbe  now  drew  her  attention  to  him.  "Here  is  a  cour- 
ageous friend,"  said  he,  "who  ever  since  morning  has  been 
searching  for  you  everywhere,  in  order  to  give  you  some  news 
of  your  father." 

Marie-Anne  could  scarcely  falter  her  gratitude.  "Oh,  you 
need  not  thank  me,"  said  the  old  peasant.  "I  said  to  myself : 
'The  poor  girl  must  be  terribly  anxious,  and  I  ought  to  relieve 
her  of  her  misery.'  So  I  came  to  tell  you  that  M.  Lacheneur 
is  safe  and  well,  except  for  a  wound  in  the  leg,  which  causes 
him  considerable  suffering,  but  which  will  be  healed  in  a  few 
weeks.  My  son-in-law,  who  was  hunting  yesterday  in  the  moun- 
tains, met  him  near  the  frontier  in  company  of  two  of  his 
friends.  By  this  time  he  must  be  in  Piedmont,  beyond  the 
reach  of  the  gendarmes." 

"Let  us  hope  now,"  said  the  abbe,  "that  we  shall  soon  hear 
what  has  become  of  Jean." 

"I  know  already,"  replied  Marie-Anne,  "that  my  brother 
has  been  badly  wounded,  but  some  kind  friends  are  caring 
for   him." 

Maurice,  the  abbe,  and  the  retired  officers  now  surrounded 
the  brave  young  girl.  They  wished  to  know  what  she  was  about 
to  attempt,  and  to  dissuade  her  from  incurring  useless  danger. 
But  she  refused  to  reply  to  their  pressing  questions;  and  when 
they  suggested  accompanying  her,  or,  at  least,  following  her  at 
a  distance,  she  declared  that  she  must  go  alone.  "However,  I 
shall  be  here  again  in  a  couple  of  hours,"  she  said,  "and  then 


438      THE  HONOR  OF  THE  NAME 

I  shall  be  able  to  tell  you  if  there  is  anyth'ng  else  to  be  done." 
With  these  words  she  hastened  away. 

To  obtain  an  audience  of  the  Due  de  Sairmeuse  was  certainly 
a  difficult  matter,  as  Maurice  and  the  abbe  had  ascertained  on 
the  previous  day.  Besieged  by  weeping  and  heart-broken  fam- 
ilies, his  grace  had  shut  himself  up  securely,  fearing,  perhaps, 
that  he  might  be  moved  by  their  entreaties.  Marie-Anne  was 
aware  of  this,  but  she  was  not  at  all  anxious,  for  by  employing 
the  same  word  that  Chanlouineau  had  used — that  same  word 
"revelation" — she  was  certain  to  obtain  a  hearing.  When  she 
reached  the  Due  de  Sairmeuse's  mansion  she  found  three  or 
four  lackeys  talking  in  front  of  the  principal  entrance. 

"I   am  the  daughter  of  M.  Lacheneur,"  said  she,   speaking 
to  one  of  them.    "I  must  see  the  duke  at  once,  on  matters  con- 
nected with  the  revolt." 
"The  duke  is  absent." 
"I  come  to  make  a  revelation." 

The  servant's  manner  suddenly  changed.  "In  that  case 
follow  me,  mademoiselle,"  said  he. 

She  did  follow  him  up  the  stairs  and  through  two  or  three 
rooms.  At  last  he  opened  a  door  and  bade  her  enter;  but,  to 
her  surprise,  it  was  not  the  Due  de  Sairmeuse  who  was  in  the 
room,  but  his  son,  Martial,  who,  was  stretched  upon  a  sofa, 
reading  a  paper  by  the  light  of  a  large  candelabra.  On  per- 
ceiving Marie-Anne  he  sprang  up,  pale  and  agitated.  "You 
here !"  he  stammered ;  and  then,  swiftly  mastering  his  emotion, 
he  bethought  himself  of  the  possible  motive  of  such  a  visit: 
"Lacheneur  must  have  been  arrested,"  he  continued,  "and 
wishing  to  save  him  from  the  military  commission  you  have 
thought  of  me.  Thank  you  for  doing  so,  dear  Marie-Anne, 
thank  you  for  your  confidence  in  me.  I  will  not  abuse  it.  Be  re- 
assured. We  will  save  your  father,  I  promise  you — I  swear  it. 
We  will  find  a  means,  for  he  must  be  saved.  I  will  have  it  so!" 
As  he  spoke  his  voice  betrayed  the  passionate  joy  that  was 
surging  in  his  heart. 

"My  father  has  not  been  arrested,"  said  Marie-Anne,  coldly. 
"Then,"    said    Martial,    with    some    hesitation — "Then    it    is 
Jean  who  is  a  prisoner." 

"My  brother  is  in  safety.  If  he  survives  his  wounds  he  will 
evade  all  attempts  at  capture." 

The  pale  face  of  the  Marquis  de  Sairmeuse  turned  a  deep 
crimson.     Marie-Anne's  manner  showed  him  that  she  was  ac- 


THE   HONOR   OF   THE    NAME  439 

quainted  with  the  duel.  It  would  have  been  useless  to  try  and 
deny  it;  still  he  endeavored  to  excuse  himself.  "It  was  Jean 
who  challenged  me,"  he  said;  "I  tried  to  avoid  fighting,  and  I 
only  defended  my  life  in  fair  combat,  and  with  equal  weapons — *' 

Marie-Anne  interrupted  him.  "I  do  not  reproach  you, 
Monsieur  le  Marquis,"  she  said,  quietly. 

"Ah !  Marie-Anne,  I  am  more  severe  than  you.  Jean  was 
right  to  challenge  me.  I  deserved  his  anger.  He  knew  my 
guilty  thoughts,  of  which  you  were  ignorant.  Oh !  Marie- 
Anne,  if  I  wronged  you  in  thought  it  was  because  I  did  not 
know  you.  Now  I  know  that  you,  above  all  others,  are  pure 
and   chaste — " 

He  tried  to  take  her  hands,  but  she  instantly  repulsed  him, 
and  broke  into  a  fit  of  passionate  sobbing.  Of  all  the  blows 
she  had  received  this  last  was  most  terrible.  What  shame  and 
humiliation !  Now,  indeed,  her  cup  of  sorrow  was  filled  to 
overflowing.  "Chaste  and  pure !"  he  had  said.  Oh,  the  bitter 
mockery  of  those  words ! 

But  Martial  misunderstood  the  meaning  of  her  grief.  "Your 
indignation  is  just,"  he  resumed,  with  growing  eagerness.  "But 
if  I  have  injured  you  even  in  thought,  I  now  offer  you  repara- 
tion. I  have  been  a  fool — a  miserable  fool — for  I  love  you;  I 
love,  and  can  love  you  only.  I  am  the  Marquis  de  Sairmeuse. 
I  am  wealthy.  I  entreat  you,  I  implore  you  to  be  my  wife." 

Marie-Anne  listened  in  utter  bewilderment.  But  an  hour 
before  Chanlouineau  in  his  cell  cried  aloud  that  he  died  for 
love  of  her,  and  now  it  was  Martial,  who  avowed  his  willing- 
ness to  sacrifice  his  ambition  and  his  future  for  her  sake.  And 
the  poor  peasant  condemned  to  death,  and  the  son  of  the  all- 
powerful  Due  de  Sairmeuse,  had  confessed  their  passions  in 
almost  the  same  words. 

Martial  paused,  awaiting  some  reply — a  word,  a  gesture. 
None  came;  and  then  with  increased  vehemence,  "You  are 
silent,"  he  cried.  "Do  you  question  my  sincerity?  No,  it  is 
impossible!  Then  why  this  silence?  Do  you  fear  my  father's 
opposition?  You  need  not.  I  know  how  to  gain  his  consent. 
Besides,  what  does  his  approbation  matter  to  us?  Have  we  any 
need  of  him?  Am  I  not  my  own  master?  Am  I  not  rich — im- 
mensely rich?  I  should  be  a  miserable  fool,  a  coward,  if 
I  hesitated  between  his  stupid  prejudices  and  the  happiness  of 
my  life."  He  was  evidently  weighing  all  the  possible  objec- 
tions, in  order  to  answer  and  overrule  them  beforehand.     "Is 


440     THE  HONOR  OF  THE  NAME 

it  on  account  of  your  family  thnt  you  hesitate?"  he  continued. 
"Your  father  and  brother  are  pursued,  and  France  is  closed 
against  them.  But  we  will  leave  France,  and  they  shall  come 
and  live  near  you.  Jean  will  no  longer  dislike  me  when  you 
are  my  wife.  We  will  all  live  in  England  or  in  Italy.  Now  I 
am  grateful  for  the  fortune  that  will  enable  me  to  make  your 
life  a  continual  enchantment.  I  love  you — and  in  the  happiness 
and  tender  love  which  shall  be  yours  in  the  future,  I  will  make 
you  forget  all  the  bitterness  of  the  past !" 

Marie- Anne  knew  the  Marquis  de  Sairmeuse  well  enough  to 
understand  the  intensity  of  the  love  revealed  by  these  astound- 
ing proposals.  And  for  that  very  reason  she  hesitated  to  tell 
him  that  he  had  triumphed  over  his  pride  in  vain.  She  was 
anxiously  wondering  to  what  extremity  his  wounded  vanity 
would  carry  him,  and  if  a  refusal  might  not  transform  him 
into  a  bitter  foe. 

"Why  do  you  not  answer?"  asked  Martial,  with  evident 
anxiety. 

She  felt  that  she  must  reply,  that  she  must  speak,  say  some- 
thing; and  yet  it  was  with  intense  reluctance  that  she  at  last 
unclosed  her  lips.  "I  am  only  a  poor  girl,  Monsieur  le  Marquis," 
she  murmured.  "If  I  accepted  your  offer,  you  would  regret  it 
for  ever." 

"Never !" 

"But  you  are  no  longer  free.  You  have  already  plighted 
your  troth.  Mademoiselle  Blanche  de  Courtornieu  is  your 
promised  wife." 

"Ah  !  say  one  word — only  one — and  this  engagement  which 
I  detest  shall  be  broken." 

She  was  silent.  It  was  evident  that  her  mind  was  fully  made 
up,   and  that  she   refused  his  offer. 

"Do  you  hate  me,  then?"  asked  Martial,  sadly. 

If  she  had  allowed  herself  to  tell  the  whole  truth,  Marie- 
Anne  would  have  answered  "Yes" ;  for  the  Marquis  de  Sair- 
meuse did  inspire  her  with  almost  insurmountable  aversion. 
"I  no  more  belong  to  myself  than  you  belong  to  yourself,"  she 
faltered. 

A  gleam  of  hatred  shone  for  a  second  in  Martial's  eyes. 
"Always  Maurice  !"  said  he. 

"Always." 

She  expected  an  angry  outburst,  but  he  remained  perfectly 
calm.     "Then,"   said  he,  with  a  forced  smile,  "I  must  believe 


THE   HONOR   OF   THE   NAME  441 

this  and  other  evidence.  I  must  believe  that  you  forced  me 
to  play  a  ridiculous  part.     Until  now  I  doubted  it." 

Marie-Anne  bowed  her  head,  blushed  with  shame  to  the  roots 
of  her  hair;  still  she  made  no  attempt  at  denial.  "I  was  not 
my  own  mistress,"  she  stammered;  "My  father  commanded 
and  threatened,  and  I — I  obeyed  him." 

"That  matters  little,"  he  interrupted ;  "a  pure  minded  young 
girl  should  not  have  acted  so."  This  was  the  only  reproach  he 
allowed  himself  to  utter,  and  he  even  regretted  it,  perhaps 
because  he  did  not  wish  her  to  know  how  deeply  he  was 
wounded,  perhaps  because — as  he  afterward  declared — he  could 
not  overcome  his  love  for  her.  "Now,"  he  resumed,  "I  under- 
stand your  presence  here.  You  come  to  ask  mercy  for  M. 
d'Escorval." 

"Not  mercy,  but  justice.     The  baron  is  innocent." 

Martial  drew  close  to  Marie-Anne,  and  lowering  his  voice: 
"If  the  father  is  innocent,"  he  whispered,  "then  it  is  the  son 
who   is   guilty." 

She  recoiled  in  terror.  What !  he  knew  the  secret  which 
the  judges  could  not,  or  would  not  penetrate ! 

But  seeing  her  anguish,  he  took  pity  on  her.  "Another 
reason,"  said  he,  "for  attempting  to  save  the  baron !  If  his 
blood  were  shed  upon  the  guillotine  there  would  be  an  abyss 
between  you  and  Maurice  which  neither  of  you  could  cross. 
So  I  will  join  my  efforts  to  yours." 

Blushing  and  embarrassed,  Marie-Anne  dared  not  thank  him ; 
for  was  she  not  about  to  requite  his  generosity  by  charging 
him  with  a  complicity  of  which,  as  she  well  knew,  he  was  in- 
nocent. Indeed,  she  would  have  by  far  preferred  to  find  him 
angry  and  revengeful. 

Just  then  a  valet  opened  the  door,  and  the  Due  de  Sairmeuse 
entered.  "Upon  my  word !"  he  exclaimed,  as  he  crossed  the 
threshold,  "I  must  confess  that  Chupin  is  an  admirable  hunter. 
Thanks  to  him — "  He  paused  abruptly:  he  had  not  perceived 
Marie-Anne  until  now.  "What !  Lacheneur's  daughter !"  said 
he,  with  an  air  of  intense  surprise.    "What  does  she  want  here  ?" 

The  decisive  moment  had  come — the  baron's  life  depended 
upon  Marie-Anne's  courage  and  address.  Impressed  by  this 
weighty  responsibility,  she  at  once  recovered  all  her  presence 
of  mind.  "I  have  a  revelation  to  sell  to  you,  sir,"  she  said,  with 
a  resolute  air. 

The  duke  looked  at  her  with  mingled  wonder  and  curiosity; 


442      THE  HONOR  OF  THE  NAME 

then,  laughing  heartily,  he  threw  himself  on  to  the  sofa,  ex- 
claiming: "Sell  it,  my  pretty  one — sell  it!  I  can't  speak  of 
that  until  I  am  alone  with  you." 

At  a  sign  from  his  father,  Martial  left  the  room.  "Now  tell 
me  what  it  is,"  said  the  duke. 

She  did  not  lose  a  moment.  "You  must  have  read  the  circu- 
lar convening  the  conspirators,"  she  began. 

"Certainly ;  I  have  a  dozen  copies  of  it  in  my  pocket." 

"Who  do  you  suppose  wrote  it?" 

"Why,  the  elder  D'Escorval,  or  your  father." 

"You  are  mistaken,  sir ;  that  letter  was  prepared  by  the  Mar- 
quis de  Sairmeuse,  your  son." 

The  duke  sprang  to  his  feet,  his  face  purple  with  anger. 
"Zounds !  girl !  I  advise  you  to  bridle  your  tongue !"  cried  he. 

"There  is  proof  of  what  I  assert;  and  the  lady  who  sends 
me  here,"  interrupted  Marie-Anne,  quite  unabashed,  "has  the 
original  of  this  circular  in  safe  keeping.  It  is  in  the  handwrit- 
ing of  Monsieur  le  Marquis,  and  I  am  obliged  to  tell  you — " 

She  did  not  have  time  to  complete  her  sentence,  for  the  duke 
sprang  to  the  door,  and,  in  a  voice  of  thunder,  called  his  son. 
As  soon  as  Martial  entered  the  room  his  grace  turned  to  Marie- 
Anne:  "Now.  repeat,"  said  he,  "repeat  before  my  son  what  you 
have  just  said  to  me." 

Boldly,  with  head  erect,  and  in  a  clear,  firm  voice,  Marie- 
Anne  repeated  her  charge.  She  expected  an  indignant  denial, 
a  stinging  taunt,  or,  at  least,  an  angry  interruption  from  the 
marquis ;  but  he  listened  with  a  nonchalant  air,  and  she  almost 
believed  she  could  read  in  his  eyes  an  encouragement  to  pro- 
ceed, coupled  with  a  promise  of  protection. 

"Well,  what  do  you  say  to  that?"  imperiously  asked  the  duke, 
when  Marie-Anne  had  finished. 

"First  of  all,"  replied  Martial,  lightly,  "I  should  like  to  see 
this  famous  circular." 

The  duke  handed  him  a  copy.     "Here — read  it,"  said  he. 

Martial  glanced  over  the  paper,  laughed  heartily,  and  ex- 
claimed: "A  clever  trick." 

"What  do  you  say?" 

"I  say  that  this  Chanlouineau  is  a  sly  rascal.  Who  the  devil 
would  have  thought  the  fellow  so  cunning  to  see  his  honest 
face?  Another  lesson  to  teach  one  not  to  trust  in  appear- 
ances." 

In  all  his  life  the  Due  de  Sairmeuse  had  never  received  so 


THE   HONOR   OF   THE    NAME  443 

severe  a  shock.  "So  Chanlouineau  was  not  lying,  then,"  he 
ejaculated,  in  a  choked,  unnatural  voice,  "you  were  one  of  the 
instigators  of  this  rebellion  ?" 

Martial's  brow  bent  as,  in  a  tone  of  marked  disdain,  he  slowly 
replied :  "This  is  the  fourth  time  that  you  have  addressed  that 
question  to  me,  and  for  the  fourth  time  I  answer :  'Xo.'  That 
should  suffice  for  you.  If  the  fancy  had  seized  me  to  take  part 
in  this  movement,  I  should  frankly  confess  it.  What  possible 
reason  could  I  have  for  concealing  anything  from  you?" 

"The  facts!"  interrupted  the  duke,  in  a  frenzy  of  passion; 
"the  facts !" 

"Very  well,"  rejoined  Martial,  in  his  usual  indifferent  tone; 
"the  fact  is  that  the  original  of  this  circular  does  exist,  that 
it  was  written  in  my  best  hand  on  a  very  large  sheet  of  very 
poor  paper.  I  recollect  that  in  trying  to  find  appropriate  ex- 
pressions I  erased  and  re-wrote  several  words.  Did  I  date 
this  writing?     I  think  I  did.  but  I  could  not  swear  to  it." 

"How  do  you  reconcile  this  with  your  denials?"  exclaimed 
M.  de  Sairmeuse. 

"I  can  do  this  easily.  Did  I  not  tell  you  just  now  that 
Chanlouineau  had  made  a  tool  of  me  ?" 

The  duke  no  longer  knew  what  to  believe ;  but  what  exasper- 
ated him  more  than  everything  else  was  his  son's  imperturbable 
coolness.  "You  had  much  better  confess  that  you  were  led 
into  this  by  your  mistress,"  he  retorted,  pointing  at  Marie-Anne. 

"Mademoiselle  Lacheneur  is  not  my  mistress,"  replied  Martial, 
in  an  almost  threatening  tone.  "Though  it  only  rests  with  her 
to  become  the  Marquise  de  Sairmeuse,  if  she  chooses,  to- 
morrow. But  let  us  leave  recriminations  on  one  side,  they  can 
not  further  the  progress  of  our  business." 

It  was  with  difficulty  that  the  duke  checked  another  insulting 
rejoinder.  However,  he  had  not  quite  lost  all  reason.  Trem- 
bling with  suppressed  rage,  he  walked  round  the  room  several 
times,  and  at  last  paused  in  front  of  Marie-Anne,  who  had  re- 
mained standing  in  the  same  place,  as  motionless  as  a  statute. 
"Come,  my  girl,"  said  he,  "give  me  the  writing." 

"It  is  not  in  my  possession,  sir." 

"Where  is  it?" 

"In  the  hands  of  a  person  who  will  only  give  it  to  you  under 
certain  conditions." 

"Who    is   this   person?" 

"I  am  not  at  liberty  to  tell  you." 


444     THE  HONOR  OF  THE  NAME 

There  was  both  admiration  and  jealousy  in  the  look  that 
Martial  fixed  upon  Marie-Anne.  He  was  amazed  by  her  cool- 
ness and  presence  of  mind.  Ah  !  indeed  powerful  must  be  the 
passion  that  imparted  such  a  ringing  clearness  to  her  voice, 
such  brilliancy  to  her  eyes,  and  such  precision  to  her  words ! 

"And  if  I  should  not  accept  the — the  conditions,  what  then?" 
asked  M.  de  Sairmeuse. 

"In  that  case  the  writing  will  be  utilized." 

"What  do  you  mean  by  that?" 

"I  mean,  sir,  that  early  to-morrow  morning  a  trusty  messenger 
will  start  for  Paris,  with  the  view  of  submitting  this  document 
to  certain  persons  who  are  not  exactly  friends  of  yours.  He 
will  show  it  to  M.  Laine,  for  example — or  to  the  Due  de  Rich- 
elieu ;  and  he  will,  of  course,  explain  to  them  its  significance 
and  value.  Will  this  writing  prove  the  Marquis  de  Sairmeuse's 
complicity?  Yes,  or  no?  Have  you,  or  have  you  not,  dared  to 
condemn  to  death  the  unfortunate  men  who  were  only  your 
son's  tools?" 

"Ah,  you  little  wretch,  you  hussy,  you  little  viper!"  inter- 
rupted the  duke  in  a  passionate  rage.  "You  want  to  drive  me 
mad !  Yes,  you  know  that  I  have  enemies  and  rivals  who  would 
gladly  give  anything  for  this  execrable  letter.  And  if  they 
obtain  it  they  will  demand  an  investigation,  and  then  farewell 
to  the  rewards  due  to  my  services.  It  will  be  shouted  from  the 
housetops  that  Chanlouineau,  in  the  presence  of  the  tribunal, 
declared  that  you,  marquis,  were  his  leader  and  his  accomplice. 
You  will  be  obliged  to  submit  to  the  scrutiny  of  physicians,  who, 
finding  a  freshly-healed  wound,  will  require  you  to  state  how 
and  where  you  received  it,  and  why  you  concealed  it.  And 
then,  of  course,  I  shall  be  accused !  It  will  be  said  I  expedited 
matters  in  order  to  silence  the  voices  raised  against  my  son. 
Perhaps  my  enemies  will  even  say  that  I  secretly  favored  the 
insurrection.  I  shall  be  vilified  in  the  newspapers.  And  re- 
member that  it  is  you,  you  alone,  marquis,  who  have  ruined  the 
fortunes  of  our  house,  our  brilliant  prospects,  in  this  foolish 
fashion.  You  pretend  to  believe  in  nothing,  to  doubt  everything 
— you  are  cold,  skeptical,  disdainful.  But  only  let  a  pretty 
woman  make  her  appearance  on  the  scene,  and  you  grow  as 
wild  as  a  schoolboy,  and  you  are  ready  to  commit  any  act  of 
folly.  It  is  you  that  I  am  speaking  to,  marquis.  Don't  you  hear 
me  ?    Speak  !  what  have  you  to  say  ?" 

Martial  had  listened  to  this  tirade  with  unconcealed  scorn, 


THE   HONOR   OF   THE   NAME  445 

and  without  even  attempting  to  interrupt  it.  But  now  he  slowly- 
replied  :  "I  think,  sir,  that  if  Mademoiselle  Lacheneur  had  any 
doubts  of  the  value  of  the  document  she  possesses,  she  certainly 
can  have  them  no  longer." 

This  answer  fell  upon  the  duke's  wrath  like  a  bucket  of  iced 
water.  He  instantly  realized  his  folly;  and  frightened  by  his 
own  words,  stood  literally  stupefied  with  astonishment. 

Without  deigning  to  speak  any  further  to  his  father,  the  mar- 
quis turned  to  Marie-Anne.  "Will  you  be  kind  enough  to 
explain  what  is  required  in  exchange  for  this  letter?"  he  said. 

"The  life  and  liberty  of  M.  d'Escorval." 

The  duke  started  as  if  he  had  received  an  electric  shock. 
"Ah !"  he  exclaimed.  "I  knew  they  would  ask  for  something 
that  is  impossible !"  He  sank  back  into  an  armchair ;  and  his 
despair  now  seemed  as  deep  as  his  frenzy  had  been  violent.  He 
hid  his  face  in  his  hands,  evidently  seeking  for  some  expedient. 
"Why  didn't  you  come  to  me  before  judgment  was  pronounced?" 
he  murmured.  "Then,  I  could  have  done  anything — now,  my 
hands  are  bound.  The  commission  has  spoken,  and  the  sentence 
must  be  executed — "  He  rose,  and  added  in  the  tone  of  a  man 
who  is  utterly  resigned :  "Decidedly,  I  should  risk  more  in  at- 
tempting to  save  the  baron" — in  his  anxiety  he  gave  M.  d'Escor- 
val his  title — "a  thousand  times  more  than  I  have  to  fear  from 
my  enemies.  So,  mademoiselle" — he  no  longer  said,  "my  good 
girl" — "you   can  utilize  your  document." 

Having  spoken,  he  was  about  to  leave  the  room,  when 
Martial  detained  him.  "Think  again  before  you  decide,"  said  the 
marquis.  "Our  situation  is  not  without  a  precedent.  Don't 
you  remember  that  a  few  months  ago  the  Count  de  Lavalette 
was  condemned  to  death?  How  the  king  wished  to  pardon  him, 
but  the  ministers  had  contrary  views.  No  doubt  his  majesty 
was  the  master;  still  what  did  he  do?  He  affected  to  remain 
deaf  to  all  the  supplications  made  on  the  prisoner's  behalf. 
The  scaffold  was  even  erected,  and  yet  Lavalette  was  saved! 
And  no  one  was  compromised — yes,  a  jailer  lost  his  position; 
but  he  is  living  on  his  pension  now." 

Marie-Anne  caught  eagerly  at  the  idea  which  Martial  had 
so  cleverly  presented.  "Yes,"  she  exclaimed,  "the  Count  de 
Lavalette  was  favored  by  royal  connivance,  and  succeeded  in 
making  his  escape." 

The  simplicity  of  the  expedient,  and  the  authority  of  the 
example,  seemed  to  make  a  vivid  impression  on  the  duke.    He 


446     THE  HONOR  OF  THE  NAME 

remained  silent  for  a  moment,  but  Marie-Anne  fancied  she 
could  detect  an  expression  of  relief  steal  over  his  face.  "Such 
an  attempt  would  be  very  hazardous,"  he  murmured;  "yet, 
with  care,  and  if  one  were  sure  that  it  would  remain  a  secret — " 

"Oh !  the  secret  will  be  religiously  kept,  sir,"  interrupted 
Marie-Anne. 

With  a  glance  Martial  recommended  her  to  remain  silent, 
then  turning  to  his  father,  he  said:  "We  can  always  consider 
this  expedient,  and  calculate  the  consequences — that  won't  bind 
us.     When  is  this  sentence  to  be  carried  into  effect?" 

"To-morrow,"  replied  the  duke.  Terrible  as  this  curt  an- 
swer seemed,  it  did  not  alarm  Marie-Anne.  She  had  perceived 
by  the  duke's  acute  anxiety  that  she  had  good  grounds  for 
hope  and  she  was  now  aware  that  Martial  would  favor  her 
designs. 

"We  have,  then,  only  the  night  before  us,"  resumed  the  mar- 
quis. "Fortunately,  it  is  only  half-past  seven,  and  until  ten 
o'clock  my  father  can  visit  the  citadel  without  exciting  suspi- 
cion." He  paused  and  seemed  embarrassed.  The  fact  was,  he 
had  just  realized  the  existence  of  a  difficulty  which  might  thwart 
all  his  plans.  "Have  we  any  intelligent  men  in  the  citadel?"  he 
murmured.  "A  jailer  or  a  soldier's  assistance  is  indispensable." 
Turning  to  his  father,  he  abruptly  asked  him:  "Have  you  any 
man  whom  one  can  trust?" 

"I  have  three  or  four  spies — they  can  be  bought — " 

"No !  the  wretch  who  betrays  his  comrade  for  a  few  sous 
would  betray  you  for  a  few  louis.  We  must  have  an  honest 
man  who  sympathizes  with  Baron  d'Escorval's  opinions — an 
old  soldier  who  fought  under  Napoleon,  if  possible." 

"I  know  the  man  you  require !"  exclaimed  Marie-Anne  with 
sudden  inspiration,  and  noticing  Martial's  surprise.  "Yes,  a 
man  at  the  citadel." 

"Take  care,"  observed  the  marquis.  "Remember  he  will  have 
a  great  deal  to  risk,  for  should  this  be  discovered  the  accom- 
plices must  be  sacrificed." 

"The  man  I  speak  of  is  the  one  you  need.  I  will  be  re- 
sponsible for  him.  His  name  is  Bavois,  and  he  is  a  corporal  in 
the  first  company  of  grenadiers." 

"Bavois,"  repeated  Martial,  as  if  to  fix  the  name  in  his 
memory;  "Bavois.  Very  well,  I  will  confer  with  him.  My 
father  will  find  some  pretext  for  having  him  summoned  here." 

"It  is  easy  to  find  a  pretext,"  rejoined  Marie- Anne.     "He 


THE   HONOR   OF   THE    NAME  447 

was  left  on  guard  at  Escorval  after  the  searching  party  left 
the  house." 

"That's  capital,"  said  Martial,  walking  toward  his  father's 
chair.  "I  suppose,"  he  continued,  addressing  the  duke,  "that 
the  baron  has  been  separated  from  the  other  prisoners." 

"Yes,  he  is  alone,  in  a  large,  comfortable  room,  on  the  second 
floor  of  the  corner  tower." 

"The  corner  tower !"  said  Martial,  "is  that  the  very  tall  one, 
built  on  the  edge  of  the  cliff,  where  the  rock  rises  almost 
perpendicularly  ?" 

"Precisely,"  answered  M.  de  Sairmeuse,  whose  promptness 
plainly  implied  that  he  was  ready  to  risk  a  good  deal  to  enable 
the  prisoner  to  escape. 

"What  kind  of  a  window  is  there  in  the  baron's  room?" 
inquired  Martial. 

"Oh,  a  tolerably  large  one,  with  a  double  row  of  iron  bars, 
securely  riveted  into  the  stone  walls.  It  overlooks  the  prec- 
lpice. 

"The  deuce !  The  bars  can  easily  be  cut  through,  but  that 
precipice  is  a  serious  difficulty,  and  yet,  in  one  respect,  it  is 
an  advantage,  for  no  sentinels  are  stationed  there,  are  they?" 

"No,  never.  Between  the  walls  and  the  citadel  and  the  edge 
of  the  rock  there  is  barely  standing  room.  The  soldiers  don't 
venture  there  even  in  the  day  time." 

"There  is  one  more  important  question.  What  is  the  distance 
from  M.  d'Escorval's  window  to  the  ground?" 

"I  should  say  it  is  about  forty  feet  from  the  base  of  the  tower." 

"Good  !  And  from  the  base  of  the  tower  to  the  foot  of  the 
cliff— how  far  is  that?" 

"I  really  scarcely  know.  However,  I  should  think  fully 
sixty  feet." 

"Ah,  that's  terribly  high;  but  fortunately  the  baron  is  still 
pretty  vigorous." 

The  duke  was  growing  impatient.  "Now,"  said  he  to  his 
son,  "will  you  be  so  kind  as  to  explain  your  plan?" 

"My  plan  is  simplicity  itself,"  replied  Martial.  "Sixty  and 
forty  are  one  hundred;  so  it  is  necessary  to  procure  a  hundred 
feet  of  strong  rope.  It  will  make  a  very  large  bundle ;  but  no 
matter.  I  will  twist  it  round  me,  wrap  myself  up  in  a  large 
cloak,  and  accompany  you  to  the  citadel.  You  will  send  for 
Corporal  Bavois,  leave  me  alone  with  him  in  a  quiet  place; 
and  I  will  explain  our  wishes  to  him." 

9 — Vol.  II — Gab. 


448 


THE  HONOR  OF  THE  NAME 


The  Due  de  Sairmeuse  shrugged  his  shrulders.  "And  hovr 
will  you  procure  a  hundred  feet  of  rope  at  this  hour  in  Mon- 
taignac?  Will  you  go  about  from  shop  to  shop?  You  might 
as  well  trumpet  your  project  all  over  France  at  once." 

"I  shall  attempt  nothing  of  the  kind.  What  I  can't  do,  the 
friends  of  the  D'Escorval  family  will  do."  Then  seeing  that 
the  duke  was  about  to  offer  some  fresh  objections,  Martial 
earnestly  added:  "Pray  don't  forget  the  danger  that  threatens 
us,  nor  the  little  time  that  is  left  us.  I  have  made  a  blunder, 
let  me  repair  it."  And  turning  to  Marie- Anne:  "You  may 
consider  the  baron  saved,"  he  pursued;  "but  it  is  necessary  for 
me  to  confer  with  one  of  his  friends.  Return  at  once  to  the 
Hotel  de  France  and  tell  the  cure  to  meet  me  on  the  Place 
d'Armes,  where  I  shall  go  at  once  and  wait  for  him." 


"p\IRECTLY  the  Baron  d'Escorval  was  arrested,  although 
*-*  he  was  unarmed  and  although  he  had  taken  no  part  in  the 
insurrection,  he  fully  realized  the  fact  that  he  was  a  lost  man. 
He  knew  how  hateful  he  was  to  the  royalist  party,  and  having 
made  up  his  mind  that  he  would  have  to  die,  he  turned  all  his 
attention  to  the  danger  threatening  his  son.  The  unfortunate 
blunder  he  made  in  contradicting  Chupin's  evidence  was  due 
to  his  preoccupation,  and  he  did  not  breathe  freely  until  he 
saw  Maurice  led  from  the  hall  by  the  Abbe  Midon  and  the 
friendly  officers;  for  he  feared  that  his  son  would  be  unable  to 
restrain  himself,  that  he  would  declare  his  guilt  all  to  no  purpose 
since  the  commission  in  its  blind  hate  would  never  forgive  the 
father,  but  rather  satisfy  its  rancor  by  ordering  the  execution  of 
the  son  as  well.  When  Maurice  was  eventually  got  away,  the 
baron  became  more  composed,  and  with  head  erect,  and  stead- 
fast eye,  he  listened  to  his  sentence.  In  the  confusion  that 
ensued  in  removing  the  prisoners  from  the  hall  M.  d'Escorval 
found  himself  beside  Chanlouineau,  who  had  begun  his  noisy 
lamentations.  "Courage,  my  boy,"  he  said  indignantly  at  such 
apparent  cowardice. 


THE   HONOR   OF   THE    NAME  449 

"Ah !  it  is  easy  to  talk,"  whined  the  young  farmer,  who,  see- 
ing that  he  was  momentarily  unobserved,  leaned  toward  the 
baron,  and  whispered :  "It  is  for  you  that  I  am  working.  Save 
all  your  strength  for  to-night." 

Chanlouineau's  words  and  his  burning  glance  surprised  M. 
d'Escorval,  but  he  attributed  both  to  fear.  When  the  guards 
took  him  back  to  his  cell,  he  threw  himself  on  to  his  pallet, 
and  became  absorbed  in  that  vision  of  the  last  hour,  which  is 
at  once  the  hope  and  despair  of  those  who  are  about  to  die. 
He  knew  the  terrible  laws  that  govern  a  military  commission. 
The  next  day — in  a  few  hours — at  dawn,  perhaps,  he  would  be 
taken  from  his  cell,  and  placed  in  front  of  a  squad  of  soldiers, 
an  officer  would  lift  his  sword,  and  then  all  would  be  over. 
All  over !  ay,  but  what  would  become  of  his  wife  and  son  ? 
His  agony  on  thinking  of  those  he  loved  was  terrible.  He 
was  alone;  he  wept.  But  suddenly  he  started  up,  ashamed  of 
his  weakness.  He  must  not  allow  these  thoughts  to  unnerve 
him.  Had  he  not  already  determined  to  meet  death  without 
flinching?  Resolved  to  shake  off  this  fit  of  melancholy,  he 
walked  round  and  round  his  cell,  forcing  his  mind  to  occupy 
itself  with  material  objects. 

The  room  which  had  been  allotted  to  him  was  very  large.  It 
had  once  communicated  with  an  adjoining  apartment,  but  the 
door  had  long  since  been  walled  up.  The  cement  which  held 
the  stone  together  had  crumbled  away,  leaving  crevices  through 
which  one  might  look  from  one  room  into  the  other.  M. 
d'Escorval  mechanically  applied  his  eye  to  one  of  these  crevices. 
Perhaps  he  had  a  friend  for  a  neighbor,  some  wretched  man 
who  was  to  share  his  fate.  No.  He  could  not  see  any  one. 
He  called,  first  in  a  whisper,  and  then  louder;  but  no  voice 
replied.  "If  I  could  only  tear  down  this  thin  partition,"  he 
thought.  He  trembled,  then  shrugged  his  shoulders.  And  if 
he  did,  what  then?  He  would  only  find  himself  in  another 
apartment  similar  to  his  own,  and  communicating  like  his  with 
a  corridor  full  of  guards,  whose  monotonous  tramp  he  could 
plainly  hear  as  they  passed  to  and  fro.  What  folly  to  think 
of  escape !  He  knew  that  every  possible  precaution  must  have 
been  taken  to  guard  against  it.  Yes,  he  knew  this,  and  yet  he 
could  not  refrain  from  examining  his  window.  Two  rows  of 
iron  bars  protected  it.  These  were  placed  in  such  a  way  that 
it  was  impossible  for  him  to  protrude  his  head  and  see  how 
far  he  was  above  the  ground.     The  height,  however,  must  be 


450     THE  HONOR  OF  THE  NAME 

considerable,  judging  from  the  extent  of  the  view.  The  sun 
was  setting;  and  through  the  violet  haze  the  baron  could  dis- 
cern an  undulating  line  of  hills,  the  culminating  point  of  which 
must  be  the  waste  land  of  La  Reche.  The  dark  mass  of  foliage 
that  he  saw  on  the  right  was  probably  the  forest  of  Sairmeuse. 
On  the  left,  he  divined  rather  than  saw,  nestling  between  the 
hills,  the  valley  of  the  Oiselle  and  Escorval.  Escorval,  that 
lovely  retreat  where  he  had  known  such  happiness,  where  he 
had  hoped  to  die  in  peace.  And  remembering  past  times,  and 
thinking  of  his  vanished  dreams,  his  eyes  once  more  filled  with 
tears.  But  he  quickly  dried  them  as  he  heard  some  one  draw 
back  the  bolts  securing  the  door  of  his  room. 

Two  soldiers  entered,  one  of  whom  carried  a  torch,  while 
the  other  had  with  him  one  of  those  long  baskets  divided  into 
compartments  which  are  used  in  carrying  meals  to  officers  on 
guard.  These  men  were  evidently  deeply  moved,  and  yet, 
obeying  a  sentiment  of  instinctive  delicacy,  they  affected  a 
semblance  of  gaiety.  "Here  is  your  dinner,  sir,"  said  one  sol- 
dier, "it  ought  to  be  good,  since  it  comes  from  the  commander's 
kitchen." 

M.  d'Escorval  smiled  sadly.  Some  attentions  have  a  sinister 
significance  coming  from  your  jailer.  Still,  when  he  seated 
himself  before  the  little  table  prepared  for  him,  he  found  that 
he  was  really  hungry.  He  ate  with  a  relish,  and  was  soon 
chatting  quite  cheerfully  with  the  soldiers.  "Always  hope  for 
the  best,  sir,"  said  one  of  these  worthy  fellows.  "Who  knows? 
Stranger  things  have  happened !" 

When  the  baron  had  finished  his  meal,  he  asked  for  pen,  ink, 
and  paper,  which  were  almost  immediately  brought  to  him.  He 
found  himself  again  alone ;  but  his  conversation  with  the  sol- 
diers had  been  01  service,  for  his  weakness  had  passed  away, 
his  self-possession  had  returned,  and  he  could  now  reflect.  He 
was  surprised  that  he  had  heard  nothing  from  his  wife  or  son. 
Had  they  been  refused  admittance  to  the  prison  ?  No,  that 
could  not  be;  he  could  not  imagine  his  judges  sufficiently  cruel 
to  prevent  him  from  pressing  his  wife  and  son  to  his  heart,  in 
a  last  embrace.  Yet,  how  was  it  that  neither  the  baroness  nor 
Maurice  had  made  an  attempt  to  see  him!  Something  must 
have  prevented  them  from  doing  so.  What  could  it  be  ?  He 
imagined  the  worst  misfortunes.  He  saw  his  wife  writhing  in 
agony,  perhaps  dead.  He  pictured  Maurice,  wild  with  grief, 
on  his  knees  at  his  mother's  bedside.    Still  they  might  come  yet, 


THE   HONOR   OF   THE    NAME  451 

for  on  consulting  his  watch,  he  found  that  it  was  only  seven 
o'clock.     But  alas,  he  waited  in  vain.     No  one  came.     At  last, 
he  took  up  his  pen,  and  was  about  to  write,  when  he  heard  a 
bustle  in  the  corridor  outside.     The  clink  of  spurs  resounded 
over  the  flagstones,  and  he  heard  the  sharp  clink  of  a  musket 
as  the  sentinel  presented  arms.     Trembling  in  spite  of  himself, 
the  baron  sprang  up.    "They  have  come  at  last !"  he  exclaimed. 
But  he  was  mistaken ;  the   footsteps  died  away  in  the  dis- 
tance, and  he  reflected  that  this  must  have  been  some  round 
of   inspection.     At   the   same   moment,   however,   two   objects, 
thrown  through  the  little   grated  opening  in  the  door  of  his 
cell,  fell  on  to  the  floor  in  the  middle  of  the  room.    M.  d'Escor- 
val  caught  them  up.     Somebody  had  thrown  him  two  files.    His 
first  feeling  was  one  of  distrust.     He  knew  that  there  were 
jailers  who  left  no  means  untried  to  dishonor  their  prisoners 
before  delivering  them  over  to  the  executioner.     Who  had  sent 
him  these  instruments  of  deliverance,  a  friend  or  an  enemy? 
Chanlouineau's  last  words  and  the  look  that  accompanied  them 
recurred   to   his    mind,   perplexing   him    still    more.      He    was 
standing  with  knitted  brows,  turning  and  returning  the   files 
in  his  hands,  when  he  suddenly  noticed  on  the  floor  a  scrap  of 
paper  which  at  first  had  escaped  his  attention.     He  picked  it 
up,  unfolded  it,  and  read :  "Your  friends  are  at  work.     Every- 
thing is  prepared  for  your  escape.     Make  haste  and  saw  the 
bars  of  your  window.     Maurice  and  his  mother  embrace  you. 
Hope,  courage !" 

Beneath  these  few  lines  was  the  letter  M. 
But  the  baron  did  not  need  this  initial  to  feel  assured,  for 
he  had  at  once  recognized  the  Abbe  Midon's  handwriting. 
"Ah !  he  is  a  true  friend,"  he  murmured.  "And  this  explains 
why  neither  my  wife  nor  son  come  to  visit  me ;  and  yet  I 
doubted  their  energy — and  was  complaining  of  their  neglect !" 
Intense  joy  filled  his  heart,  he  raised  the  letter  that  promised 
him  life  and  liberty  to  his  lips,  and  enthusiastically  exclaimed: 
"To  work  !  to  work  !" 

He  had  chosen  the  finest  of  the  two  files,  which  were  both 
well  tempered,  and  was  about  to  attack  the  bars,  when  he  fan- 
cied he  heard  some  one  open  the  door  of  the  next  room.  Some 
one  had  opened  it,  certainly,  and  had  closed  it  again,  but  with- 
out locking  it.  The  baron  could  hear  this  person  moving  cau- 
tiously about.  What  did  it  all  mean?  Were  they  incarcerat- 
ing some  fresh  prisoner,  or  were  they  stationing  a  spy  there? 


452      THE  HONOR  OF  THE  NAME 

Holding  his  breath  and  listening  with  the  greatest  attention, 
the  baron  now  heard  a  singular  sound,  the  cause  of  which  it 
was  quite  impossible  to  explain.  He  stealthily  advanced  to  the 
door  that  had  been  walled  up,  knelt  down  and  peered  through 
one  of  the  crevices  in  the  masonry.  The  sight  that  met  his 
eyes  amazed  him.  A  man  was  standing  in  a  corner  of  the 
room,  and  the  baron  could  see  the  lower  part  of  his  body  by  the 
light  of  a  large  lantern  which  he  had  deposited  on  the  floor 
at  his  feet.  He  was  turning  quickly  round  and  round,  thus 
unwinding  a  long  rope  which  had  been  twined  round  his  body 
as  thread  is  wound  about  a  bobbin.  M.  d'Escorval  rubbed  his 
eyes  as  if  to  assure  himself  that  he  was  not  dreaming.  Evi- 
dently this  rope  was  intended  for  him.  It  was  to  be  attached 
to  the  broken  bars.  But  how  had  this  man  succeeded  in  gain- 
ing admission  to  this  room?  Who  could  it  be  that  enjoyed 
such  liberty  in  the  prison  ?  He  was  not  a  soldier — or,  at  least, 
he  did  not  wear  a  uniform.  Unfortunately,  the  highest  crevice 
was  so  situated  that  the  baron  could  not  see  the  upper  part  of 
the  man's  body ;  and  despite  all  his  efforts,  he  failed  to  distin- 
guish the  features  of  this  friend — he  judged  him  to  be  such — 
whose  boldness  verged  on  folly.  Unable  to  resist  his  intense 
curiosity,  M.  d'Escorval  was  on  the  point  of  rapping  against  the 
wall  to  question  him,  when  the  door  of  the  room  where  this 
man  stood  was  impetuously  thrown  open.  Another  man  en- 
tered, but  his  lineaments  also  were  beyond  the  baron's  range 
of  vision.  However,  his  voice  could  be  heard  quite  plainly,  and 
M.  d'Escorval  was  seized  with  despair  when  this  newcomer 
ejaculated  in  a  tone  of  intense  astonishment:  "Good  heavens! 
what  are  you  about  ?" 

"All  is  discovered !"  thought  the  baron,  growing  sick  at 
heart ;  while  to  his  increased  surprise  the  man  he  believed  to 
be  his  friend  calmly  continued  unwinding  the  rope,  and  quietly 
replied :  'As  you  see,  I  am  freeing  myself  from  this  burden, 
which  I  find  extremely  uncomfortable.  There  are  at  least  sixty 
yards  of  it,  I  should  think — and  what  a  bundle  it  makes !  I 
feared  they  would  discover  it  under  my  cloak." 

"And  what  are  you  going  to  do  with  all  this  rope?"  inquired 
the  newcomer. 

"I  am  going  to  hand  it  to  the  Baron  d'Escorval,  to  whom 
I  have  already  given  a  file.  He  must  make  his  escape  to- 
night." 

The  scene  was  so  improbable  that  the  baron  could  not  ba- 


THE   HONOR   OF   THE    NAME  453 

Heve  his  own  ears.  "I  can't  be  awake;  I  must  be  dreaming," 
he  thought. 

But  the  newcomer  uttered  a  terrible  oath,  and,  in  an  almost 
threatening  tone,  exclaimed :  "We  will  see  about  that !  If  you 
have  gone  mad,  thank  God  I  still  possess  my  reason  !  I  will 
not  permit — " 

"Excuse  me  !"  interrupted  the  other,  coldly,  "you  will  per- 
mit it.  This  is  merely  the  result  of  your  own — credulity.  The 
time  to  say,  'I  won't  permit  it,'  was  when  Chanlouineau  asked 
you  to  allow  him  to  receive  a  visit  from  Mademoiselle  Lache- 
neur.  Do  you  know  what  that  cunning  fellow  wanted  ?  Simply 
to  give  Mademoiselle  Lacheneur  a  letter  of  mine,  so  compro- 
mising in  its  nature  that  if  it  ever  reaches  the  hands  of  a 
certain  person  of  my  acquaintance,  my  father  and  I  will  be 
obliged  to  reside  in  London  for  the  future.  Then  good-by  to 
all  our  projects  of  an  alliance  between  our  two  families!"  The 
newcomer  heaved  a  mighty  sigh,  followed  by  a  half  angry,  half 
sorrowful  exclamation;  but  the  man  with  the  rope,  without  giv- 
ing him  any  opportunity  to  reply,  resumed:  "You  yourself, 
marquis,  would  no  doubt  be  compromised.  Were  you  not  a 
chamberlain  during  Bonaparte's  reign  ?  Ah,  marquis !  how 
could  a  man  of  your  experience,  so  subtle,  penetrating,  and 
acute,  allow  himself  to  be  duped  by  a  low,  ignorant  peasant?" 

Now  M.  d'Escorval  understood  everything.  He  was  not 
dreaming;  it  was  the  Marqui?.  de  Courtornieu  and  Martial  de 
Sairmeuse  who  were  talking  on  the  other  side  of  the  wall.  The 
former  had  been  so  crushed  by  Martial's  revelation  that  he 
made  no  effort  to  oppose  him.  "And  this  terrible  letter?"  he 
groaned. 

"Marie-Anne  Lacheneur  gave  it  to  the  Abbe  Midon,  who 
came  to  me  and  said:  'Either  the  baron  will  escape,  or  this 
letter  will  be  taken  to  the  Due  de  Richelieu.'  I  voted  for  the 
baron's  escape,  I  assure  you.  The  abbe  procured  all  that  was 
necessary;  he  met  me  at  a  rendezvous  I  appointed  in  a  quiet 
place;  he  coiled  all  this  rope  round  my  body,  and  here  I  am." 

"Then  you  think  that  if  the  baron  escapes  they  will  give 
you  back  your  letter?" 

"Most  assuredly  I  do." 

"You  deluded  man !  Why,  as  soon  as  the  baron  is  safe, 
they  will  demand  the  life  of  another  prisoner,  with  the  same 
threats." 

"By  no  means." 


454  THE   HONOR   OF   THE    NAME 

"You  will  see." 

"I  shall  see  nothing  of  the  kind,  for  a  very  simple  reason. 
I  have  the  letter  now  in  my  pocket.  The  abbe  gave  it  to  me 
in  exchange  for  my  word  of  honor." 

M.  de  Courtornieu  uttered  an  ejaculation  which  showed  that 
he  considered  the  abbe  to  be  an  egregious  fool.  "What !"  he 
exclaimed.  "You  hold  the  proof,  and —  But  this  is  madness! 
Burn  this  wretched  letter  in  your  lantern,  and  let  the  baron 
go  where  his  slumbers  will  be  undisturbed." 

Martial's  silence  betrayed  something  like  stupefaction.  "Ah ! 
so  that's  what  you  would  do?"  he  asked  at  last. 

"Certainly — and  without  the  slightest  hesitation." 

"Ah,  well !     I  can't  say  that  I  quite  congratulate  you." 

The  sneer  was  so  apparent  that  M.  de  Courtornieu  was  sorely 
tempted  to  make  an  angry  reply.  But  he  was  not  a  man  to 
yield  to  his  first  impulse — this  ex-imperial  chamberlain,  now 
a  grand  prevot  under  his  Majesty  King  Louis  XVIII.  He  re- 
flected. Should  he,  on  account  of  a  sharp  word,  quarrel  with 
Martial — with  the  only  suitor  who  had  ever  pleased  his  daugh- 
ter? A  quarrel  and  he  would  be  left  without  any  prospect  of 
a  son-in-law!  When  would  heaven  send  him  such  another? 
And  how  furious  Blanche  would  be!  He  concluded  to  swal- 
low the  bitter  pill ;  and  it  was  in  a  tone  of  paternal  indulgence 
that  he  remarked:  "I  see  that  you  are  very  young,  my  dear 
Martial." 

The  baron  was  still  kneeling  beside  the  partition,  holding 
his  breath  in  an  agony  of  suspense,  and  with  his  right  ear 
against  one  of  the  crevices. 

"You  are  only  twenty,  my  dear  Martial,"  pursued  the  Mar- 
quis de  Courtornieu;  "you  are  imbued  with  all  the  enthusiasm 
and  generosity  of  youth.  Complete  your  undertaking;  I  shall 
not  oppose  you ;  but  remember  that  all  may  be  discovered — 
and  then — " 

"Have  no  fear,  sir,  on  that  score,"  interrupted  the  young 
marquis;  "I  have  taken  every  precaution.  Did  you  see  a 
single  soldier  in  the  corridor  just  now?  No.  That  is  be- 
cause my  father,  at  my  request,  has  just  assembled  all  the 
officers  and  guards  together  under  pretext  of  ordering  excep- 
tional precautions.  He  is  talking  to  them  now.  This  gave  me 
an  opportunity  to  come  here  unobserved.  No  one  will  see  me 
when  I  go  out.  Who,  then,  will  dare  suspect  me  of  having 
any  hand  in  the  baron's  escape?" 


THE   HONOR   OF   THE    NAME  455 

"If  the  baron  escapes,  justice  will  require  to  know  who  aided 
him." 

Martial  laughed.  "If  justice  seeks  to  know,  she  will  find  a 
culprit  of  my  providing.  Go  now ;  I  have  told  you  everything. 
I  had  but  one  person  to  fear — yourself.  A  trusty  messenger 
requested  you  to  join  me  here.  You  came;  you  know  all,  you 
have  agreed  to  remain  neutral.  I  am  at  ease,  and  the  baron 
will  be  safe  in  Piedmont  when  the  sun  rises."  He  picked  up 
his  lantern,  and  added,  gaily:  "But  let  us  go — my  father  can't 
harangue  those  soldiers  forever." 

"But  you  have  not  told  me — "  insisted  M.  de  Courtornieu. 

"I  will  tell  you  everything,  but  not  here.     Come,  come !" 

They  went  out,  locking  the  door  behind  them;  and  then  the 
baron  rose  from  his  knees.  All  sorts  of  contradictory  ideas, 
doubts,  and  conjectures  filled  his  mind.  What  could  this  letter 
have  contained?  Why  had  not  Chanlouineau  used  it  to  pro- 
cure his  own  salvation?  Who  would  have  believed  that  Mar- 
tial would  be  so  faithful  to  a  promise  wrested  from  him  by 
threats?  But  this  was  a  time  for  action,  not  for  reflection. 
The  bars  were  heavy,  and  there  were  two  rows  of  them.  M. 
d'Escorval  set  to  work.  He  had  supposed  that  the  task  would 
be  difficult,  but,  as  he  almost  immediately  discovered,  it  proved 
a  thousand  times  more  arduous  than  he  had  expected.  It  was 
the  first  time  that  he  had  ever  worked  with  a  file,  and  he  did 
not  know  how  to  use  it.  His  progress  was  despairingly  slow. 
Nor  was  that  all.  Though  he  worked  as  cautiously  as  possible, 
each  movement  of  the  instrument  across  the  iron  caused  a 
harsh,  grating  sound  which  made  him  tremble.  What  if  some 
one  overheard  this  noise?  And  it  seemed  to  him  impossible 
for  it  to  escape  notice,  since  he  could  plainly  distinguish  the 
measured  tread  of  the  guards,  who  had  resumed  their  watch 
in  the  corridor.  So  slight  was  the  result  of  his  labors  that  at 
the  end  of  twenty  minutes  he  experienced  a  feeling  of  pro- 
found discouragement.  At  this  rate,  it  would  be  impossible  for 
him  to  sever  the  first  bar  before  daybreak.  What,  then,  was 
the  use  of  spending  his  time  in  fruitless  labor?  Why  mar  the 
dignity  of  death  by  the  disgrace  of  an  unsuccessful  effort  to 
escape  ? 

He  was  hesitating  when  footsteps  approached  his  cell.  At 
once  he  left  the  window  and  seated  himself  at  the  table.  Al- 
most directly  afterward  the  door  opened  and  a  soldier  entered* 
an  officer  who  did  not  cross  the  threshold,  remarking  at  the 


466     THE  HONOR  OF  THE  NAME 

same  moment:  "You  have  your  instructions,  corporal,  keep  a 
close  watch.     If  the  prisoner  needs  anything,  call." 

M.  d'Escorval's  heart  throbbed  almost  to  bursting.  What 
was  coming  now?  Had  M.  de  Courtornieu's  advice  carried  the 
day,  or  had  Martial  sent  some  one  to  assist  him?  But  the  door 
was  scarcely  closed  when  the  corporal  whispered:  "We  must 
not  be  dawdling  here." 

M.  d'Escorval  sprang  from  his  chair.  This  man  was  a  friend. 
Here  was  help  and  life. 

"I  am  Bavois,"  continued  the  corporal.  "Some  one  said  to 
me  just  now:  'One  of  the  emperor's  friends  is  in  danger;  are 
you  willing  to  lend  him  a  helping  hand?'  I  replied:  'Present,' 
and  here  I  am." 

This  certainly  was  a  brave  fellow.  The  baron  held  out  his 
hand,  and  in  a  voice  trembling  with  emotion:  "Thanks,"  said 
he;  "thanks.  What,  you  don't  even  know  me,  and  yet  you 
expose  yourself  to  the  greatest  danger  for  my  sake." 

Bavois  shrugged  his  shoulders  disdainfully.  "Positively  my 
old  hide  is  no  more  precious  than  yours.  If  we  don't  succeed 
they  will  chop  off  our  heads  with  the  same  ax.  But  we  shall 
succeed.     Now,  let's  stop  talking  and  proceed  to  business." 

As  he  spoke  he  drew  from  under  his  long  overcoat  a  strong 
iron  crowbar  and  a  small  vial  of  brandy,  both  of  which  he  laid 
upon  the  bed.  He  then  took  the  candle  and  passed  it  five  or 
six  times  before  the  window. 

"What  are  you  doing?"  inquired  the  baron  in  suspense. 

"I  am  signaling  to  your  friends  that  everything  is  progress- 
ing favorably.  They  are  down  there  waiting  for  us;  and  see, 
they  are  now  answering."  The  baron  looked,  and  three  times 
they  both  perceived  a  little  flash  of  flame,  such  as  is  produced 
by  burning  a  pinch  of  gunpowder. 

"Now,"  said  the  corporal,  "we  are  all  right.  Let  us  see 
what  progress  you  have  made  with  the  bars." 

"I  have  scarcely  begun,"  murmured  M.  d'Escorval. 

The  corporal  inspected  the  work.  "You  may  indeed  say  that 
you  have  made  no  progress,"  said  he;  "but  never  mind,  I  was 
'prenticed  to  a  locksmith  once,  and  I  know  how  to  handle  a 
file."  Then  drawing  the  cork  from  the  vial  of  brandy,  he  fas- 
tened it  to  the  end  of  one  of  the  files,  and  swathed  the  handle 
of  the  tool  with  a  piece  of  damp  linen.  "That's  what  they  call 
putting  a  stop  on  the  instrument,"  he  remarked,  by  way  of  ex- 
planation.   Immediately  afterward  he  made  an  energetic  attack 


THE   HONOR   OF   THE    NAME  457 

on  the  bars,  and  it  was  at  once  evident  that  he  had  by  no 
means  exaggerated  either  his  knowledge  of  the  task,  or  the 
efficacy  of  his  precautions  for  deadening  the  sound.  The  harsh 
grating  which  had  so  alarmed  the  baron  was  no  longer  heard, 
and  Bavois,  finding  he  had  nothing  more  to  dread  from  the 
keenest  ears,  now  made  preparations  to  shelter  himself  from 
observation.  Suspicion  would  be  at  once  aroused  if  the  grat- 
ings in  the  door  were  covered  over,  so  the  corporal  hit  upon 
another  expedient.  Moving  the  little  table  to  another  part  of 
the  room,  he  stood  the  candlestick  on  it  in  such  a  position  that 
the  window  remained  entirely  in  shadow.  Then  he  ordered  the 
baron  to  sit  down,  and  handing  him  a  paper,  said :  "Now  read 
aloud,  without  pausing  for  a  minute,  until  you  see  me  stop 
work." 

By  this  method  they  might  reasonably  hope  to  deceive  the 
guards  outside  in  the  corridor;  some  of  whom,  indeed,  did 
come  to  the  door  and  look  in ;  but  after  a  brief  glance  they 
walked  away,  and  remarked  to  their  companions :  "We  have 
just  taken  a  look  at  the  prisoner.  He  is  very  pale,  and  his 
eyes  are  glistening  feverishly.  He  is  reading  aloud  to  divert 
his  mind.  Corporal  Bavois  is  looking  out  of  the  window.  It 
must  be  dull  music  for  him." 

They  little  suspected  why  the  baron's  eyes  glistened  in  this 
feverish  fashion;  and  had  no  idea  that  if  he  read  aloud  it  was 
with  the  view  of  overpowering  any  suspicious  sound  which 
might  result  from  Corporal  Bavois's  labor.  The  time  passed 
on,  and  while  the  latter  worked  M.  d'Escorval  continued  read- 
ing. He  had  completed  the  perusal  of  the  entire  paper,  and 
was  about  to  begin  it  again,  when  the  old  soldier,  leaving  the 
window,  motioned  him  to  stop. 

"Half  the  task  is  completed,"  he  said  in  a  whisper.  "The 
lower  bars  are  cut." 

"Ah  !  how  can  I  ever  repay  you  for  your  devotion  !"'  mur- 
mured the  baron. 

"Hush  !  not  a  word !"  interrupted  Bavois.  "If  I  escape  with 
you,  I  can  never  return  here;  and  I  shan't  know  where  to  go, 
for  the  regiment,  you  see,  is  my  only  family.  Ah,  well !  if 
you  give  me  a  home  with  you  I  shall  be  very  well  content." 
Thereupon  he  swallowed  some  of  the  brandy,  and  set  to  work 
again  with  renewed  ardor. 

He  had  cut  one  of  the  bars  of  the  second  row,  when  he  was 
interrupted  by  M.  d'Escorval,  who,  without  pausing  in  his  re- 


458     THE  HONOR  OF  THE  NAME 

newed  perusal,  was  pulling  him  by  the  ccat  tails  to  attract 
attention.  The  corporal  turned  round  at  once.  "What's  up?" 
said  he. 

"I  heard  a  singular  noise  just  now  in  the  adjoining  room 
where  the  ropes  are." 

Honest  Bavois  muttered  a  terrible  oath.  "Do  they  intend 
to  betray  us?"  he  asked.  "I  risked  my  life,  and  they  promised 
me  fair  play."  He  placed  his  ear  against  a  crevice  in  the  par- 
tition, and  listened  for  a  long  while.  Nothing,  not  the  slightest 
sound  could  be  detected.  "It  must  have  been  some  rat  that 
you  heard,"  he  said  at  last.  "Go  on  with  your  reading."  And 
he  turned  to  his  work  again. 

This  was  the  only  interruption,  and  a  little  before  four  o'clock 
everything  was  ready.  The  bars  were  cut,  and  the  ropes, 
which  had  been  drawn  through  an  opening  in  the  wall,  were 
coiled  under  the  window.  The  decisive  moment  had  come. 
Bavois  took  the  counterpane  from  the  bed,  fastened  it  over 
the  opening  in  the  door,  and  filled  up  the  keyhole.  "Now," 
said  he,  in  the  same  measured  tone  he  would  have  used  in 
instructing  a  recruit,  "attention !  sir,  and  obey  the  word  of 
command." 

Then  he  calmly  explained  that  the  escape  would  consist  of 
two  distinct  operations ;  first,  one  would  have  to  gain  the  nar- 
row platform  at  the  base  of  the  tower ;  next  one  must  descend 
to  the  foot  of  the  precipitous  rock.  The  abbe,  who  understood 
this,  had  brought  Martial  two  ropes;  the  one  to  be  used  in  the 
descent  of  the  precipice  being  considerably  longer  than  the 
other.  "I  will  fasten  the  shortest  rope  under  your  arms,"  said 
Bavois  to  the  baron,  "and  I  will  let  you  down  to  the  base  of 
the  tower.  When  you  have  reached  it  I  will  pass  you  the 
longer  rope  and  the  crowbar.  Don't  miss  them.  If  we  find  our- 
selves without  them  on  that  narrow  ledge  of  rock  we  shall 
either  be  compelled  to  deliver  ourselves  up,  or  throw  ourselves 
down  the  precipice.  I  shan't  be  long  in  joining  you.  Are  you 
ready?" 

In  reply  M.  d'Escorval  lifted  his  arms,  the  rope  was  fastened 
securely  about  him,  and  he  crawled  through  the  window. 

From  above  the  height  seemed  immense.  Below,  on  the  bar- 
ren fields  surrounding  the  citadel,  eight  persons  were  waiting, 
silent,  anxious,  breathless  with  suspense.  They  were  Madame 
d'Escorval  and  Maurice,  Marie-Anne,  the  Abbe  Midon,  and 
four  retired  officers.     There  was  no  moon,  but  the  night  was 


THE   HONOR   OF   THE    NAME 


459 


very  clear,  and  they  could  see  the  tower  plainly.  Soon  after 
four  o'clock  struck  from  the  church  steeples,  they  perceived 
a  dark  object  glide  slowly  down  the  side  of  the  tower — this  was 
the  baron.  A  short  interval  and  then  another  form  followed 
rapidly — this  was  Bavois.  Half  of  the  perilous  journey  was 
accomplished.  The  watchers  below  could  see  the  two  figures 
moving  about  on  the  narrow  platform.  The  corporal  and  the 
baron  were  exerting  all  their  strength  to  fix  the  crowbar  securely 
in  a  crevice  of  the  rock.  Suddenly  one  of  the  figures  stepped 
forward  and  glided  gently  down  the  side  of  the  precipice.  It 
could  be  none  other  than  M.  d'Escorval.  Transported  with 
happiness,  his  wife  sprang  forward  with  open  arms  to  receive 
him.  Alas !  at  that  same  moment  a  terrible  cry  rent  the  still 
night  air. 

M.  d'Escorval  was  falling  from  a  height  of  fifty  feet ;  he  was 
being  hurled  to  the  foot  of  the  precipice.  The  rope  had 
parted.  Had  it  broken  naturally  ?  Maurice  examined  it ;  and 
then  with  a  vow  of  vengeance  exclaimed  that  they  had  been 
betrayed — that  their  enemy  had  arranged  to  deliver  only  a  dead 
body  into  their  hands — that  the  rope  had  been  foully  tampered 
with,  intentionally  cut  with  a  knife  beforehand ! 


RATHER  CHUPIN,  the  false  witness  and  the  crafty  spy, 
*■  had  refrained  from  sleeping  and  almost  from  drinking  ever 
since  that  unfortunate  morning  when  the  Due  de  Sairmeuse 
affixed  to  the  walls  of  Montaignac  the  decree  in  which  he 
promised  twenty  thousand  francs  to  the  person  who  delivered 
up  Lacheneur,  dead  or  alive.  "Twenty  thousand  francs,"  mut- 
tered the  old  rascal  gloomily ;  "twenty  sacks  with  a  hundred 
golden  pistoles  in  each !  Ah !  if  I  could  only  discover  this 
Lacheneur,  even  if  he  were  dead  and  buried  a  hundred  feet 
under  ground,  I  should  gain  the  reward." 

He  cared  nothing  for  the  shame  which  such  a  feat  would 
entail.  His  sole  thought  was  the  reward — the  blood-money. 
Unfortunately  for  his  greed  he  had  nothing  whatever  to  guide 


460     THE  HONOR  OF  THE  NAME 

him  in  his  researches;  no  clue,  however  vpgue.  All  that  was 
known  in  Montaignac  was  that  Lacheneur's  horse  had  been 
killed  at  the  Croix  d'Arcy.  But  no  one  could  say  whether 
Lacheneur  himself  had  been  wounded,  or  whether  he  had  es- 
caped from  the  fray  uninjured.  Had  he  gained  the  frontier? 
Or  had  he  found  an  asylum  in  some  friend's  house?  Chupin 
was  thus  hungering  for  the  price  of  blood,  when,  on  the  day 
of  the  baron's  trial,  as  he  was  returning  from  the  citadel,  after 
giving  his  evidence,  he  chanced  to  enter  a  wine-shop.  He  was 
indulging  in  a  strong  potation  when  he  suddenly  heard  a  peas- 
ant near  him  mention  Lacheneur's  name  in  a  low  voice.  This 
peasant  was  an  old  man,  who  sat  at  an  adjoining  table,  empty- 
ing a  bottle  of  wine  in  a  friend's  company,  and  he  was  telling 
the  latter  that  he  had  come  to  Montaignac  on  purpose  to  give 
Mademoiselle  Lacheneur  some  news  of  her  father.  He  said 
that  his  son-in-law  had  met  the  chief  conspirator  in  the  moun- 
tains which  separate  the  arrondissement  of  Montaignac  from 
Savoy,  and  he  even  mentioned  the  exact  place  of  meeting, 
which  was  near  Saint  Pavin-des-Grottes,  a  tiny  village  of  only 
a  few  houses.  Certainly  the  worthy  fellow  did  not  think  he 
was  committing  a  dangerous  indiscretion,  for  in  his  opinion 
Lacheneur  had  already  crossed  the  frontier,  and  put  himself 
out  of  danger.  But  in  this  surmise  he  was  grievously  mistaken. 
The  frontier  bordering  on  Savoy  was  guarded  by  soldiers, 
who  had  received  orders  to  prevent  any  of  the  conspirators 
passing  into  Italian  territory.  And  even  if  Piedmont  was 
gained,  it  seemed  likely  that  the  Italian  authorities  would  them- 
selves arrest  the  fugitive  rebels,  and  hand  them  over  to  their 
judges.  Chupin  was  aware  of  all  this,  and  resolved  to  act  at 
once.  He  threw  a  coin  on  the  counter,  and  without  waiting 
for  his  change,  rushed  back  to  the  citadel,  and  asked  a  sergeant 
at  the  gate  for  pen  and  paper.  Writing  was  for  him  usually 
a  most  laborious  task,  but  to-day  it  only  took  him  a  moment 
to  pen  these  lines: 

"I  know  Lacheneur's  retreat,  and  beg  monseigneur  to  order 
some  mounted  soldiers  to  accompany  me,  so  that  we  may  cap- 
ture him.  Chupin." 

This  letter  was  given  to  one  of  the  guards,  with  a  request 
to  take  it  to  the  Due  de  Sairmeuse,  who  was  then  presiding 
over  the  military  commission.     Five  minutes  later  the  soldier 


THE   HONOR   OF   THE    NAME  461 

returned  with  the  same  note,  on  the  margin  of  which  the  duke 
had  written  an  order,  placing  a  lieutenant  and  eight  men  of 
the  Montaignac  chasseurs,  who  could  be  relied  upon,  at  Chu- 
pin's  disposal.  The  old  spy  also  asked  the  loan  of  a  horse  for 
his  own  use,  and  this  was  granted  him ;  and  the  party  then 
started  off  at  once  in  the  direction  of  St.  Pavin. 

When,  at  the  finish  of  the  final  stand  made  by  the  insur- 
gents at  the  Croix  d'Arcy,  Lacheneur's  horse  received  a  bay- 
onet wound  in  the  chest,  and  reared  and  fell,  burying  its  rider 
underneath,  the  latter  lost  consciousness,  and  it  was  not  till 
some  hours  later  that,  restored  by  the  fresh  morning  air,  he 
regained  his  senses  and  was  able  to  look  about  him.  All  he 
perceived  was  a  couple  of  dead  bodies  lying  some  little  distance 
off.  It  was  a  terrible  moment,  and  in  his  soul  he  cursed  the 
fate  which  had  left  him  still  alive.  Had  he  been  armed,  he 
would  no  doubt  have  put  an  end  to  the  mental  tortures  he 
was  suffering  by  suicide — but  then  he  had  no  weapon.  So  he 
must  resign  himself  to  life.  Perhaps,  too,  the  voice  of  honor 
whispered  that  it  was  cowardice  to  strive  to  escape  responsi- 
bility by  self-inflicted  death.  At  last  he  endeavored  to  draw 
himself  from  under  his  horse,  which  proved  no  easy  task,  as 
his  foot  was  still  in  the  stirrup,  and  his  limbs  were  so  cramped 
that  he  could  scarcely  move  them.  Finally,  however,  he  suc- 
ceeded in  freeing  himself,  and,  on  examination,  discovered  that 
he  had  only  one  wound,  inflicted  by  a  bayonet  thrust,  in  the 
left  leg.  It  caused  him  considerable  pain,  and  he  was  trying 
to  bandage  it  with  his  handkerchief  when  he  heard  the  sound 
of  approaching  footsteps.  He  had  no  time  for  reflection :  but 
at  once  darted  into  the  forest  that  lies  to  the  left  of  the  Croix 
dArcy.  The  troops  were  returning  to  Montaignac  after  pur- 
suing the  rebels  for  more  than  three  miles.  There  were  some 
two  hundred  soldiers,  who  were  bringing  back  a  score  of  peas- 
ants as  prisoners.  Crouching  behind  an  oak  tree  scarcely  fif- 
teen paces  from  the  road,  Lacheneur  recognized  several  of  the 
captives  in  the  gray  light  of  dawn.  It  was  only  by  the  merest 
chance  that  he  escaped  discovery:  and  he  fully  realized  how 
difficult  it  would  be  for  him  to  gain  the  frontier  without  fall- 
ing into  the  hands  of  the  many  detachments  of  soldiery,  who 
were  doubtless  scouring  the  country  in  every  direction. 

Still  he  did  not  despair.  The  mountains  lay  only  two  leagues 
away:  and  he  firmly  believed  that  he  would  be  able  to  success- 
fully elude  his  pursuers  could  he  only  gain  the  shelter  of  the 


462  THE   HONOR   OF   THE    NAME 

hills.  He  began  his  journey  courageously,  but  soon  he  was 
obliged  to  admit  that  he  had  greatly  overestimated  his  strength, 
which  was  well-nigh  quite  exhausted  by  the  excessive  labor  and 
excitement  of  the  past  few  days,  coupled  with  the  loss  of  blood 
occasioned  by  his  wound.  He  tore  up  a  stake  in  an  adjacent 
vineyard,  and  using  it  as  a  staff,  slowly  dragged  himself  along, 
keeping  in  the  shelter  of  the  woods  as  much  as  possible,  and 
creeping  beside  the  hedges  and  in  the  ditches  whenever  he  was 
obliged  to  cross  an  open  space.  Physical  suffering  and  mental 
anguish  were  soon  supplemented  by  the  agony  of  hunger.  He 
had  eaten  nothing  for  thirty  hours,  and  felt  terribly  weak  from 
lack  of  nourishment.  Soon  the  craving  for  food  became  so 
intolerable  that  he  was  willing  to  brave  anything  to  appease  it. 
At  last  he  perceived  the  thatched  roofs  of  a  little  hamlet.  He 
was  going  forward,  decided  to  enter  the  first  house  and  ask  for 
food;  the  outskirts  of  the  village  were  reached,  and  a  cottage 
stood  within  a  few  yards,  when  suddenly  he  heard  the  rolling 
of  a  drum.  Surmising  that  a  party  of  troops  was  near  at  hand, 
he  instinctively  hid  himself  behind  a  wall.  But  the  drum 
proved  to  be  that  of  a  public  crier,  summoning  the  village  folk 
together;  and  soon  he  could  hear  a  clear,  penetrating  voice 
reciting  the  following  words:  "This  is  to  give  notice  that  the 
authorities  of  Montaignac  promise  a  reward  of  twenty  thou- 
sand francs  to  whosoever  delivers  up  the  man  known  as  Lache- 
neur,  dead  or  alive.  Dead  or  alive !  Understand,  that  if  he 
be  dead,  the  compensation  will  be  the  same ;  twenty  thousand 
francs !  to  be  paid  in  gold.     God  save  the  king." 

Then  came  another  roll  of  the  drum.  But  with  a  bound, 
Lacheneur  had  already  risen ;  and  though  he  had  believed  him- 
self utterly  exhausted,  he  now  found  superhuman  strength  to 
fly.  A  price  had  been  set  upon  his  head ;  and  the  circumstance 
awakened  in  his  breast  the  frenzy  that  renders  a  hunted  beast 
so  dangerous.  In  all  the  villages  around  him  he  fancied  he 
could  hear  the  rolling  of  drums,  and  the  voices  of  criers  pro- 
claiming him  an  outlaw.  Go  where  he  would  now,  he  was  a 
tempting  bait  offered  to  treason  and  cupidity.  Whom  could  he 
dare  confide  in?  Whom  could  he  ask  for  shelter?  And  even 
if  he  were  dead,  he  would  still  be  worth  a  fortune.  Though 
he  might  die  from  lack  of  nourishment  and  exhaustion  under 
a  bush  by  the  wayside,  yet  his  emaciated  body  would  still  be 
worth  twenty  thousand  francs.  And  the  man  who  found  his 
corpse  would  not  give  it  burial.    He  would  place  it  on  his  cart 


THE   HONOR   OF   THE   NAME  463 

and  convey  it  to  Montaignac,  present  it  to  the  authorities,  and 
say:  "Here  is  Lacheneur's  body — give  me  the  reward." 

How  long  and  by  what  paths  he  pursued  his  flight  he  could 
not  tell.  But  several  hours  afterward,  while  he  w'as  wander- 
ing through  the  wooded  hills  of  Charves,  he  espied  two  men, 
who  sprang  up  and  fled  at  his  approach.  In  a  terrible  voice 
he  called  after  them :  "Eh  !  you  fellows !  do  you  each  want  to 
earn  a  thousand  pistoles?    I  am  Lacheneur." 

They  paused  when  they  recognized  him,  and  Lacheneur  saw 
that  they  were  two  of  his  former  followers,  both  of  them  well- 
to-do  farmers,  whom  it  had  been  difficult  to  induce  to  join  in 
the  revolt.  They  happened  to  have  with  them  some  bread  and 
a  little  brandy,  and  they  gave  both  to  the  famished  man.  They 
sat  down  beside  him  on  the  grass,  and  while  he  was  eating 
they  related  their  misfortunes.  Their  connection  with  the  con- 
spiracy had  been  discovered,  and  soldiers  were  hunting  for 
them,  but  they  hoped  to  reach  Italy  with  the  help  of  a  guide 
who  was  waiting  for  them  at  an  appointed  place. 

Lacheneur  held  out  his  hand.  "Then  I  am  saved,"  said  he. 
"Weak  and  wounded  as  I  am,  I  should  have  perished  all  alone." 

But  the  two  farmers  did  not  take  the  hand  he  offered.  "We 
ought  to  leave  you,"  said  the  younger  man  gloomily,  "for  you 
are  the  cause  of  our  misfortunes.  You  deceived  us,  Monsieur 
Lacheneur." 

The  leader  of  the  revolt  dared  not  protest :  the  reproach  was 
so  well  deserved.  However,  the  other  farmer  gave  his  com- 
panion a  peculiar  glance  and  suggested  that  they  might  let 
Lacheneur  accompany  them  all  the  same.  So  they  walked  on 
all  three  together,  and  that  same  evening,  after  nine  hours' 
journey  through  the  mountains,  they  crossed  the  frontier.  But, 
in  the  mean  while,  many  and  bitter  had  been  the  reproaclies 
they  had  exchanged.  On  being  closely  questioned  by  his  com- 
panions, Lacheneur,  exhausted  both  in  mind  and  body,  finally 
admitted  the  insincerity  of  his  promises,  by  means  of  which 
he  had  inflamed  his  followers'  zeal.  He  acknowledged  that  he 
had  spread  the  report  that  Marie-Louise  and  the  young  king 
of  Rome  were  concealed  in  Montaignac,  and  that  it  was  a  gross 
falsehood.  He  confessed  that  he  had  given  the  signal  for  the 
revolt  without  any  chance  of  success,  and  without  any  precise 
means  of  action,  leaving  everything  to  chance.  In  short,  he 
confessed  that  nothing  was  real  except  the  hatred,  the  bitter 
hatred  he  felt  against  the  Sairmeuse  family.     A  dozen  times 


464     THE  HONOR  OF  THE  NAME 

at  least  during  this  terrible  confession  the  peasants  who  accom- 
panied him  were  on  the  point  of  hurling  aim  over  the  preci- 
pice by  the  banks  of  which  they  walked.  "So  it  was  to  gratify 
his  own  spite,"  they  thought,  quivering  with  rage,  "that  he  set 
every  one  fighting  and  killing  each  other — that  he  has  ruined 
us  and  driven  us  into  exile.  We'll  see  if  he  is  to  escape 
unpunished." 

After  crossing  the  frontier  the  fugitives  repaired  to  the  first 
hostelry  they  could  find,  a  lonely  inn,  a  league  or  so  from  the 
little  village  of  Saint-Jean-de-Coche,  and  kept  by  a  man  named 
Balstain.  It  was  past  midnight  when  they  rapped,  but,  despite 
the  lateness  of  the  hour,  they  were  admitted,  and  ordered  sup- 
per. Lacheneur,  weak  from  loss  of  blood,  and  exhausted  by 
his  long  tramp,  went  off  to  bed,  however,  without  eating.  He 
threw  himself  on  to  a  pallet  in  an  adjoining  room  and  soon  fell 
asleep.  For  the  first  time  since  meeting  him,  the  two  farmers 
now  found  an  opportunity  to  talk  in  private.  The  same  idea 
had  occurred  to  both  of  them.  They  believed  that  by  delivering 
Lacheneur  up  to  the  authorities,  they  might  secure  pardon  for 
themselves.  Neither  of  them  would  have  consented  to  receive 
a  single  sou  of  the  blood-money,  but  they  did  not  consider  there 
would  be  any  disgrace  in  exchanging  their  own  lives  and  lib- 
erty for  Lacheneur's,  especially  as  he  had  so  deceived  them. 
Eventually  they  decided  to  go  to  Saint-Jean-de-Coche  directly 
supper  was  over  and  inform  the  Piedmontese  guards. 

But  they  reckoned  without  their  host.  They  had  spoken  loud 
enough  to  be  overheard  by  Balstain,  the  innkeeper,  who  dur- 
ing the  day  had  been  told  of  the  magnificent  reward  promised 
for  Lacheneur's  capture.  On  learning  that  the  exhausted  man, 
now  quietly  sleeping  under  his  roof,  was  the  famous  conspirator, 
he  was  seized  with  a  sudden  thirst  for  gold,  and  whispering  a 
word  to  his  wife  he  darted  through  the  window  of  a  back  room 
to  run  and  fetch  the  carabineers,  as  the  Italian  gendarmes  are 
termed.  He  had  been  gone  half  an  hour  or  so  when  the  two 
peasants  left  the  house,  for  they  had  drunk  heavily  with  the 
view  of  mustering  sufficient  courage  to  carry  their  purpose  into 
effect.  They  closed  the  door  so  violently  on  going  out  that 
Lacheneur  woke  up.  He  rose  from  his  bed  and  came  into  the 
front  room,  where  he  found  the  innkeeper's  wife  alone.  "Where 
are  my  friends?"  he  asked  anxiously.  "And  where  is  your 
husband  ?" 

Moved  by  sympathy,  the  woman  tried  to  falter  some  excuse, 


THE    HONOR   OF   THE    NAME  465 

but  finding  none,  she  threw  herself  at  his  feet,  exclaiming: 
"Fly,  save  yourself — you  are  betrayed !" 

Lacheneur  rushed  back  into  his  bedroom,  trying  to  find  a 
weapon  with  which  to  defend  himself,  or  a  mode  of  egress 
by  which  he  could  escape  unperceived.  He  had  thought  they 
might  abandon  him,  but  betray  him — no,  never !  "Who  has  sold 
me  ?"  he  asked  in  an  agitated  voice. 

"Your  friends — the  two  men  who  supped  at  that  table." 

"That's  impossible !"  he  retorted :  for  he  ignored  his  com- 
rades' designs  and  hopes ;  and  could  not,  would  not,  believe  them 
capable  of  betraying  him  for  lucre. 

"But,"  pleaded  the  innkeeper's  wife,  still  on  her  knees  before 
him,  "they  have  just  started  for  Saint- Jean-de-Coche,  where 
they  mean  to  denounce  you.  I  heard  them  say  that  your  life 
would  purchase  theirs.  They  certainly  mean  to  fetch  the  cara- 
bineers ;  and,  alas,  must  I  also  say  that  my  own  husband  has 
gone  to  betray  you." 

Lacheneur  understood  everything  now!  And  this  supreme 
misfortune,  after  all  the  misery  he  had  endured,  quite  pros- 
trated him.  Tears  gushed  from  his  eyes,  and,  sinking  on  to  a 
chair,  he  murmured :  "Let  them  come ;  I  am  ready  for  them. 
No,  I  will  not  stir  from  here !  My  miserable  life  is  not  worth 
such  a  struggle." 

But  the  landlady  rose,  and  grasping  at  his  clothing,  shook 
and  dragged  him  to  the  door — she  would  have  carried  him  had 
she  possessed  sufficient  strength.  "You  shall  not  be  taken  here ; 
it  will  bring  misfortune  on  our  house !" 

Bewildered  by  this  violent  appeal,  and  urged  on  by  the  in- 
stinct of  self-preservation,  so  powerful  in  every  human  heart, 
Lacheneur  advanced  to  the  threshold.  The  night  was  very  dark, 
and  a  chilly  fog  intensified  the  gloom. 

"See,  madame,"  said  he  in  a  gentle  voice,  "how  can  I  find 
my  way  through  these  mountains,  which  I  do  not  know,  where 
there  are  no  roads — where  the  footpaths  are  scarcely  traced?" 

But  Balstain's  wife  would  not  argue  :  oushing  him  forward  and 
turning  him  as  one  does  a  blind  man  to  set  him  on  the  right 
track.  "Walk  straight  before  you,"  said  she.  "always  against 
the  wind.     God  will  protect  you.    Farewell !" 

He  turned  to  ask  further  directions,  but  she  had  reentered 
the  house  and  closed  the  door.  Upheld  by  a  feverish  excite- 
ment, he  walked  on  during  long  hours.  Soon  he  lost  his  way. 
and  wandered  among  the  mountains,  benumbed  with  cold,  stum- 


466  THE   HONOR   OF   THE    NAME 

bling  over  the  rocks,  at  times  falling  to  the  ground.  It  was  a 
wonder  that  he  was  not  precipitated  over  the  brink  of  some 
precipice.  He  had  lost  all  idea  of  his  whereabouts,  and  the 
sun  was  already  high  in  the  heavens  when  at  last  he  met  some 
one  of  whom  he  could  ask  his  way.  This  was  a  little  shepherd 
boy,  who  was  looking  for  some  stray  goats,  but  the  lad,  fright- 
ened by  the  stranger's  wild  and  haggard  aspect,  at  first  refused 
to  approach.  At  last  the  offer  of  a  piece  of  money  induced 
him  to  come  a  little  nearer.  "You  are  just  on  the  frontier  line," 
said  he.     "Here  is  France,  and  there  is  Savoy." 

"And  which  is  the  nearest  village  ?" 

"On  the  Savoy  side,  Saint-Jean-de-Coche :  on  the  French  side, 
Saint-Pavin." 

So  after  all  his  terrible  exertions,  Lacheneur  was  not  a  league 
from  the  inn.  Appalled  by  this  discovery,  he  remained  for  a 
moment  undecided  which  course  to  pursue.  Still,  after  all  what 
did  it  matter?  Was  he  not  doomed,  and  would  not  every  road 
lead  him  to  death  ?  However,  at  last  he  remembered  the  cara- 
bineers the  innkeeper's  wife  had  warned  him  against,  and 
slowly  crawled  down  the  steep  mountainside  leading  back  into 
France.  He  was  near  Saint-Pavin.  when  he  espied  a  cottage 
standing  alone,  and  in  front  of  it  a  young  peasant  woman  spin- 
ning in  the  sunshine.  He  dragged  himself  toward  her,  and  in 
a  weak  voice  begged  her  hospitality. 

The  woman  rose,  surprised  and  somewhat  alarmed  by  the 
aspect  of  this  stranger,  whose  face  was  ghastly  pale,  and  whose 
clothes  were  torn  and  soiled  with  dust  and  blood.  She  looked 
at  him  more  closely,  and  then  perceived  that  his  age,  stature, 
and  features  corresponded  with  the  descriptions  of  Lacheneur, 
which  had  been  distributed  round  about  the  frontier.  "Why, 
you  are  the  conspirator  they  are  hunting  for,  and  for  whom 
they  promise  a  reward  of  twenty  thousand  francs,"  she  said. 

Lacheneur  trembled.  "Yes,"  he  replied  after  a  moment's 
hesitation,  "I  am  Lacheneur.  Betray  me  if  you  will,  but  in 
charity's  name  give  me  a  morsel  of  bread  and  allow  me  to  rest 
a  little." 

"We  betray  you,  sir !"  said  she.  "Ah !  you  don't  know  the 
Antoines !  Come  into  our  house,  and  lie  down  on  the  bed  while 
I  prepare  some  refreshment  for  you.  When  my  husband  comes 
home,  we  will  see  what  can  be  done." 

It  was  nearly  sunset  when  the  master  of  the  house,  a  sturdy 
mountaineer,  with  a  frank  face,  entered  the  cottage.     On  per- 


THE   HONOR   OF   THE   NAME  467 

ceiving  the  stranger  seated  at  his  fireside  he  turned  frightfully 
pale.  "Unfortunate  woman  !"  he  murmured  to  his  wife,  "don't 
you  know  that  any  one  who  shelters  this  fugitive  will  be  shot, 
and  his  house  leveled  to  the  ground?" 

Lacheneur  overheard  these  words ;  he  rose  with  a  shudder. 
He  knew  that  a  price  had  been  set  upon  his  head,  but  until 
now  he  had  not  realized  the  danger  to  which  his  presence 
exposed  these  worthy  people.  "I  will  go  at  once,"  said  he, 
gently. 

But  the  peasant  laid  his  broad  hand  kindly  on  the  outlaw's 
shoulder  and  forced  him  to  resume  his  seat.  "It  was  not  to 
drive  you  away  that  I  said  that,"  he  remarked.  "You  are  at 
home,  and  you  shall  remain  here  until  I  can  find  some  means 
of  insuring  your  safety." 

The  woman  flung  her  arms  round  her  husband's  neck,  and, 
in  a  loving  voice,  exclaimed :  "Ah !  you  are  a  noble  man, 
Antoine." 

He  smiled,  tenderly  kissed  her,  then,  pointing  to  the  open 
door:  "Watch!"  said  he,  and  turning  to  Lacheneur:  "It  won't 
be  easy  to  save  you,  for  the  promise  of  that  big  reward  has 
set  a  number  of  evil-minded  people  on  the  alert.  They  know 
that  you  are  in  the  neighborhood,  and  a  rascally  innkeeper  has 
crossed  the  frontier  for  the  express  purpose  of  betraying  your 
whereabouts  to  the  French  gendarmes." 

"Balstain?" 

"Yes,  Balstain  ;  and  he  is  hunting  for  you  now.  But  that's 
not  everything;  as  I  passed  through  Saint-Pavin,  coming  back 
a  little  while  ago,  I  saw  eight  mounted  soldiers,  with  a  peas- 
ant guide,  who  was  also  on  horseback.  They  declared  that 
they  knew  you  were  concealed  in  the  village,  and  were  going 
to  search  each  house  in  turn." 

These  soldiers  were  the  Montaignac  chasseurs,  placed  at 
Chupin's  disposal  by  the  Due  de  Sairmeuse.  The  task  was  cer- 
tainly not  at  all  to  their  taste,  but  they  were  closely  watched 
by  the  lieutenant  in  command,  who  hoped  to  receive  some  sub- 
stantial reward  if  the  expedition  was  crowned  with  success. 

But  to  return  to  Lacheneur.  "Wounded  and  exhausted  as 
you  are,"  continued  Antoine,  "you  can't  possibly  make  a  long 
march  for  a  fortnight  hence,  and  till  then  you  must  conceal 
yourself.  Fortunately,  I  know  a  safe  retreat  in  the  mountain, 
not  far  from  here.  I  will  take  you  there  to-night,  with  provi- 
sions enough  to  last  you  for  a  week." 


468     THE  HONOR  OF  THE  NAME 

Tust  then  he  was  interrupted  by  a  stifled  cry  from  his  wife. 
He  turned,  and  saw  her  fall  almost  fainting  against  the  door, 
her  face  white  as  her  linen  cap,  her  finger  pointing  to  the 
path  that  led  from  Saint-Pavin  to  the  cottage.  "The  soldiers — 
they  are  coming!"  she  gasped. 

Quicker  than  thought,  Lacheneur  and  the  peasant  sprang 
to  the  door  to  see  for  themselves.  The  young  woman  had 
spoken  the  truth;  for  here  came  the  Montaignac  chasseurs, 
slowly  climbing  the  steep  footpath.  Chupin  walked  in  advance, 
urging  them  on  with  voice,  gesture,  and  example.  An  im- 
prudent word  from  the  little  shepherd  boy  had  decided  the 
fugitive's  fate;  for  on  returning  to  Saint-Pavin,  and  hearing 
that  the  soldiers  were  searching  for  the  chief  conspirator,  the 
lad  had  chanced  to  say :  "I  met  a  man  just  now  on  the  moun- 
tain who  asked  me  where  he  was;  and  I  saw  him  go  down  the 
footpath  leading  to  Antoine's  cottage."  And  in  proof  of  his 
words,  he  proudly  displayed  the  piece  of  silver  which  Lacheneur 
had  given  him. 

"One  more  bold  stroke  and  we  have  our  man !"  exclaimed 
Chupin.  "Come,  comrades !"  And  now  the  party  were  not 
more  than  two  hundred  feet  from  the  house  in  which  the 
outlaw  had  found  an  asylum. 

Antoine  and  his  wife  looked  at  each  other  with  anguish  in 
their  eyes.     They  saw  that  their  visitor  was  lost. 

"We  must  save  him !  we  must  save  him !"  cried  the  woman. 

"Yes,  we  must  save  him!"  repeated  the  husband  gloomily. 
"They  shall  kill  me  before  I  betray  a  man  in  my  own  house." 

"If  he  could  hide  in  the  stable  behind  the  bundles  of  straw — " 

"Oh,  they  would  find  him !  These  soldiers  are  worse  than 
tigers,  and  the  wretch  who  leads  them  on  must  have  a  blood- 
hound's scent."  He  turned  quickly  to  Lacheneur.  "Come,  sir," 
said  he,  "let  us  leap  from  the  back  window  and  fly  to  the  moun- 
tains. They  will  see  us,  but  no  matter!  These  horsemen  are 
always  clumsy  runners.  If  you  can't  run,  I'll  carry  you.  They 
will  probably  fire  at  us,  but  miss  their  aim." 

"And  your  wife?"  asked  Lacheneur. 

The  honest  mountaineer  shuddered ;  still  he  simply  said : 
"She  will  join  us." 

Lacheneur  grasped  his  protector's  hand.  "Ah !  you  are  a 
noble  people,"  he  exclaimed,  "and  God  will  reward  you  for  your 
kindness  to  a  poor  fugitive.  But  you  have  done  too  much 
already.     I  should  be  the  basest  of  men  if  I  exposed  you  to 


THE   HONOR   OF   THE    NAME  469 

useless  danger.  I  can  bear  this  life  no  longer;  I  have  no  wish 
to  escape."  Then  drawing  the  sobbing  woman  to  him  and 
kissing  her  on  the  forehead,  "I  have  a  daughter,  young  and 
beautiful  like  yourself,"  he  added.  "Poor  Marie-Anne !  And 
I  pitilessly  sacrificed  her  to  my  hatred  !  I  must  not  complain ; 
come  what  may,  I  have  deserved  my  fate  " 

The  sound  of  the  approaching  footsteps  became  more  and 
more  distinct.  Lacheneur  straightened  himself  up,  and  seemed 
to  be  gathering  all  his  energy  for  the  decisive  moment.  "Re- 
main inside,"  he  said  imperiously,  to  Antoine  and  his  wife. 
"I  am  going  out;  they  must  not  arrest  me  in  your  house." 
And  as  he  spoke,  he  crossed  the  threshold  with  a  firm  tread. 
The  soldiers  were  but  a  few  paces  off.  "Halt !"  he  exclaimed, 
in  a  loud,  ringing  voice.  "Are  you  not  seeking  for  Lacheneur? 
I  am  he !     I  surrender  myself." 

His  manner  was  so  dignified,  his  tone  so  impressive,  that 
the  soldiers  involuntarily  paused.  This  man  before  them  was 
doomed;  they  knew  the  fete  awaiting  him,  and  seemed  as  awed 
as  if  they  had  been  in  the  presence  of  death  itself.  One  there 
was  among  the  searching  party  whom  Lacheneur's  ringing 
words  had  literally  terrified,  and  this  was  Chupin.  Remorse 
filled  his  cowardly  heart,  and  pale  and  trembling,  he  sought 
to  hide  himself  behind  the  soldiers. 

But  Lacheneur  walked  straight  toward  him.  "So  it  is  you 
who  have  sold  my  life,  Chupin?"  he  said  scornfully.  "You 
have  not  forgotten,  I  perceive,  how  often  my  daughter  filled 
your  empty  larder — so  now  you  take  your  revenge." 

The  old  scoundrel  seemed  crushed  by  these  words.  Xow  that 
he  had  done  this  foul  deed,  he  knew  what  betrayal  really  was. 
"So  be  it,"  resumed  Lacheneur.  "You  will  receive  the  price 
of  my  blood ;  but  it  will  not  bring  you  good  fortune — traitor !" 

Chupin,  however,  indignant  with  his  own  weakness,  was 
already  making  a  vigorous  effort  to  recover  a  semblance  of  self- 
composure.  "You  have  conspired  against  the  king,"  he  stam- 
mered. "I  only  did  my  duty  in  denouncing  you."  And  turning 
to  the  soldiers,  he  added:  "As  for  you,  comrades,  you  may  be 
sure  the  Due  de  Sairmeuse  will  remember  your  services." 

Lacheneur's  hands  were  bound,  and  the  party  was  about  to 
descend  the  slope,  when  a  man.  roughly  clad,  bareheaded, 
covered  with  perspiration,  and  panting  for  breath,  suddenly 
made  his  appearance.  The  twilight  was  falling,  but  Lacheneur 
recognized  Balstain.    "Ah!  you  have  him!"  exclaimed  the  inn- 


470     THE  HONOR  OF  THE  NAME 

keeper,  pointing  to  the  prisoner,  as  soon  as  he  was  within 
speaking  distance.  "The  reward  belongs  to  me — I  denounced 
him  first  on  the  other  side  of  the  frontier,  as  the  carabineers  at 
Saint-Jean-de-Coche  will  testify.  He  would  have  been  captured 
last  night  in  my  house  if  he  hadn't  managed  to  run  away  in 
my  absence.  I've  been  following  the  bandit  for  sixteen  hours." 
He  spoke  with  extraordinary  vehemence,  being  full  of  fear  lest 
he  might  lose  his  reward,  and  only  reap  disgrace  and  obloquy 
in  recompense  for  his  treason. 

"If  you  have  any  right  to  the  money,  you  must  prove  it 
before  the  proper  authorities,"  said  the  officer  in  command. 

"If  I  have  any  right !"  interrupted  Balstain ;  "who  contests 
my  right,  then?"  He  looked  threateningly  around  him,  and 
casting  his  eyes  on  Chupin,  "Is  it  you?"  he  asked.  "Do  you 
dare  to  assert  that  you  discovered  the  brigand?" 

"Yes,  it  was  I  who  discovered  his  hiding-place." 

"You  lie,  you  impostor!"  vociferated  the  innkeeper;  "you 
lie !"  The  soldiers  did  not  budge.  This  scene  repaid  them  for 
the  disgust  they  had  experienced  during  the  afternoon.  "But," 
continued  Balstain,  "what  else  could  one  expect  from  such  a 
knave  as  Chupin?  Every  one  knows  that  he's  been  obliged  to 
fly  from  France  over  and  over  again  on  account  of  his  crimes. 
Where  did  you  take  refuge  when  you  crossed  the  frontier, 
Chupin?  In  my  house,  in  Balstain's  inn.  You  were  fed  and 
protected  there.  How  many  times  haven't  I  saved  you  from 
the  gendarmes  and  the  galleys?  More  times  than  I  can  count. 
And  to  reward  me  you  steal  my  property;  you  steal  this  man 
who  was  mine — " 

"The  fellow's  insane!"  ejeculated  the  terrified  Chupin,  "he's 
mad !" 

"At  least  you  will  be  reasonable,"  exclaimed  the  innkeeper, 
suddenly  changing  his  tactics.  "Let's  see,  Chupin,  what  you'll 
do  for  an  old  friend?  Divide,  won't  you?  No,  you  say  no? 
How  much  will  you  give  me,  comrade?  A  third?  Is  that  too 
much  ?    A  quarter,  then — " 

Chupin  felt  that  the  soldiers  were  enjoying  his  humiliation. 
They  were  indeed,  sneering  at  him,  and  only  an  instant  before 
they  had,  with  instinctive  loathing,  avoided  coming  in  contact 
with  him.  The  old  knave's  blood  was  boiling,  and  pushing 
Balstain  aside,  he  cried  to  the  chasseurs :  "Come — are  we  going 
to  spend  the  night  here?" 

On   hearing  these  words,   Balstain's  eyes  sparkled   with  re- 


THE   HONOR   OF   THE    NAME 


471 


vengeful  fury,  and  suddenly  drawing  his  knife  from  his  pocket 
and  making  the  sign  of  the  cross  in  the  air:  "Saint-Jean-de- 
Coche,"  he  exclaimed,  in  a  ringing  voice,  "and  you,  Holy 
Virgin,  hear  my  vow.  May  my  soul  burn  in  hell  if  I  ever  use 
a  knife  at  meals  until  I  have  plunged  the  one  I  now  hold  into 
the  heart  of  the  scoundrel  who  has  defrauded  me  I"  With 
these  words  he  hurried  away  into  the  woods,  and  the  soldiers 
took  up  their  line  of  march. 

But  Chupin  was  no  longer  the  same.  His  impudence  had 
left  him  and  he  walked  along  with  hanging  head,  his  mind  full 
of  sinister  presentiments.  He  felt  sure  that  such  an  oath  as 
Balstain's,  and  uttered  by  such  a  man,  was  equivalent  to  a 
death  warrant,  or  at  least  to  a  speedy  prospect  of  assassination. 
The  thought  tormented  him  so  much  indeed,  that  he  would 
not  allow  the  detachment  to  spend  the  night  at  Saint-Pavin,  as 
had  been  agreed  upon.  He  was  impatient  to  leave  the  neigh- 
borhood. So  after  supper  he  procured  a  cart;  the  prisoner 
was  placed  in  it,  securely  bound,  and  the  party  started  for 
Montaignac.  The  great  bell  was  tolling  two  in  the  morning 
when  Lacheneur  was  conducted  into  the  citadel ;  and  at  that 
very  moment  M.  d'Escorval  and  Corporal  Bavois  were  making 
their  final  preparations  for  escape. 


/*\  N  being  left  alone  in  his  cell  after  Marie- Anne's  departure, 
^-^  Chanlouineau  gave  himself  up  to  despair.  He  loved  Marie- 
Anne  most  passionately,  and  the  idea  that  he  would  never  see 
her  again  on  earth  proved  heart-rending.  Some  little  comfort 
he  certainly  derived  from  the  thought  that  he  had  done  his 
duty,  that  he  had  sacrificed  his  own  life  to  secure  her  happiness, 
but  then  this  result  had  only  been  obtained  by  simulating  the 
most  abject  cowardice,  which  must  disgrace  him  forever  in 
the  eyes  of  his  fellow  prisoners,  and  the  guards.  Had  he  not 
offered  to  sell  Lacheneur's  life  for  his  own,  moreover?  True 
it  was  but  a  ruse,  and  yet  those  who  knew  nothing  of  his  secret 
would  always  brand  him  as  a  traitor  and  a  coward.    To  a  man 

10 — Vol.  II— Gab 


472      THE  HONOR  OF  THE  NAME 

of  his  true,  valiant  heart  such  a  prospect  was  particularly  dis- 
tressing, and  he  was  still  brooding  over  the  idea  when  the  Mar- 
quis de  Courtornieu  entered  his  cell  to  ascertain  the  result  of 
Marie-Anne's  visit.  "Well,  my  good  fellow — "  began  the  old 
nobleman,  in  his  most  condescending  manner;  but  Chanlouineau 
did  not  allow  him  time  to  finish.  "Leave,"  he  cried,  in  a  fit 
of  rage.     "Leave  or — " 

Without  waiting  to  hear  the  end  of  the  sentence  the  marquis 
made  his  escape,  greatly  surprised  and  not  a  little  dismayed 
by  this  sudden  change  in  the  prisoner's  manner.  "What  a 
dangerous,  bloodthirsty  rascal !"  he  remarked  to  the  guard.  "It 
would,  perhaps,  be  advisable  to  put  him  into  a  strait-jacket!" 

But  there  was  no  necessity  for  that ;  for  scarcely  had  the 
marquis  left,  than  the  young  farmer  threw  himself  on  to  his 
pallet,  oppressed  with  feverish  anxiety.  Would  Marie-Anne 
know  how  to  make  the  best  use  of  the  weapon  he  had  placed 
in  her  hands?  He  hoped  so,  for  she  would  have  the  Abbe 
Midon's  assistance,  and  besides  he  considered  that  the  pos- 
session of  this  letter  would  frighten  the  Marquis  de  Sairmeuse 
into  any  concessions.  In  this  last  surmise  Chanlouineau  was 
entirely  mistaken.  The  fear  which  Martial  seemingly  evinced 
during  the  interview  with  Marie-Anne  and  his  father  was 
all  affected.  He  pretended  to  be  alarmed,  in  order  to  frighten 
the  duke,  for  he  really  wished  to  assist  the  girl  he  so  passion- 
ately loved,  and  besides  the  idea  of  saving  an  enemy's  life,  of 
wresting  him  from  the  executioner  on  the  very  steps  of  the 
scaffold,  was  very  pleasing  to  his  mind  which  at  times  took 
a  decidedly  chivalrous  turn.  Poor  Chanlouineau,  however,  was 
ignorant  of  all  this,  and  consequently  his  anxiety  was  perfectly 
natural.  Throughout  the  afternoon  he  remained  in  anxious 
suspense,  and  when  the  night  fell,  stationed  himself  at  the 
window  of  his  cell  gazing  on  to  the  plain  below,  and  trusting 
that  if  the  baron  succeeded  in  escaping,  some  sign  would  warn 
him  of  the  fact.  Marie-Anne  had  visited  him,  she  knew  the 
cell  he  occupied  and  surely  she  would  find  some  means  of  letting 
him  know  that  his  sacrifice  had  not  been  in  vain.  Shortly  after 
two  o'clock  in  the  morning  he  was  alarmed  by  a  great  bustle 
in  the  corridor  outside.  Doors  were  thrown  open,  and  then 
slammed  to;  there  was  a  loud  rattle  of  keys;  guards  hurried 
to  and  fro,  calling  each  other;  the  passage  was  lighted  up, 
and  then  as  Chanlouineau  peered  through  the  grating  in  the 
door  of  his  cell  he  suddenly  perceived  Lacheneur  as  pale  as  a 


THE   HONOR   OF   THE    NAME  473 

ghost  walk  by  conducted  by  some  soldiers.  The  young  farmer 
almost  doubted  his  eyesight ;  for  he  really  believed  his  former 
leader  had  escaped.  Another  hour,  and  another  hour  passed 
by  and  yet  did  he  prolong  his  anxious  vigil.  Not  a  sound,  save 
the  tramp  of  the  guards  in  the  corridor,  and  the  faint  echo  of 
some  distant  challenge  as  sentinels  were  relieved  outside.  At 
last,  however,  there  abruptly  came  a  despairing  cry.  What 
was  it?  He  listened;  but  it  was  not  repeated.  After  all,  the 
occurrence  was  not  so  surprising.  There  were  twenty  men  in 
that  citadel  under  sentence  of  death,  and  the  agony  of  that, 
their  last  night,  might  well  call  forth  a  lamentation.  At  length 
the  gray  light  of  dawn  stole  through  the  window  bars,  the 
sun  rose  rapidly  and  Chanlouineau,  hopeful  for  some  sign,  till 
then  murmured  in  despair,  that  the  letter  must  have  been  use- 
less. Poor  generous  peasant !  His  heart  would  have  leaped 
with  joy  if  as  he  spoke  those  words  he  could  only  have  cast 
a  glance  on  the  courtyard  of  the  citadel. 

An  hour  after  the  reveille  had  sounded,  two  countrywomen, 
carrying  butter  and  eggs  to  market,  presented  themselves  at 
the  fortress  gate,  and  declared  that  while  passing  through  the 
fields  below  the  cliff  on  which  the  citadel  was  built,  they  had 
perceived  a  rope  dangling  from  the  side  of  the  rock.  A  rope! 
Then  one  of  the  condemned  prisoners  must  have  escaped. 
The  guards  hastened  from  cell  to  cell  and  soon  discovered 
that  the  Baron  d'Escorval's  room  was  empty.  And  not  merely 
had  the  baron  fled,  but  he  had  taken  with  him  the  man  who 
had  been  left  to  guard  him — Corporal  Bavois,  of  the  grenadiers. 
Every  one's  amazement  was  intense,  but  their  fright  was  still 
greater.  There  was  not  a  single  officer  who  did  not  tremble 
on  thinking  of  his  responsibility ;  not  one  who  did  not  see  his 
hopes  of  advancement  forever  blighted.  What  should  be  said 
to  the  formidable  Due  de  Sairmeuse  and  to  the  Marquis  de 
Courtornieu,  who  in  spite  of  his  calm  polished  manners,  was 
almost  as  much  to  be  feared?  It  was  necessary  to  warn  them, 
however,  and  so  a  sergeant  was  despatched  with  the  news. 
Soon  they  made  their  appearance,  accompanied  by  Martial ; 
and  to  look  at  all  three  it  would  have  been  said  that  they 
were  boiling  over  with  anger  and  indignation.  The  Due  de 
Sairmeuse's  rage  was  especially  conspicuous.  He  swore  at 
everybody,  accused  everybody,  and  threatened  everybody.  He 
began  by  consigning  all  the  keepers  and  guards  to  prison, 
and  even  talked  of  demanding  the  dismissal  of  all  the  officers. 


474     THE  HONOR  OF  THE  NAME 

"As  for  that  miserable  Bavois."  he  exclaimed — "as  for  that 
cowardly  deserter,  he  shall  be  shot  as  soo_i  as  we  capture  him, 
and  we  will  capture  him,  you  may  depend  upon  it !" 

The  officials  had  hoped  to  appease  the  duke's  wrath  a  little 
by  informing  him  of  Lacheneur's  arrest ;  but  he  knew  of  this 
already,  for  Chupin  had  ventured  to  wake  him  up  in  the 
middle  of  the  night  to  tell  him  the  great  news.  The  baron's 
escape  afforded  his  grace  an  opportunity  to  exalt  Chupin's 
merits.  "The  man  who  discovered  Lacheneur  will  know  how 
to  find  this  traitor  D'Escorval,"  he  remarked. 

As  for  M.  de  Courtornieu,  he  took  what  he  called  "measures 
for  restoring  this  great  culprit  to  the  hands  of  justice."  That 
is  to  say,  he  despatched  couriers  in  every  direction,  with 
orders  to  make  close  inquiries  throughout  the  neighborhood. 
His  commands  were  brief,  but  to  the  point ;  they  were  to  watch 
the  frontier,  to  submit  all  travelers  to  a  rigorous  examination, 
to  search  the  houses  and  sow  the  description  of  D'Escorval's 
appearance  broadcast  through  the  land.  But  first  of  all  he  issued 
instructions  for  the  arrest  of  the  Abbe  Midon  and  Maurice 
d'Escorval. 

Among  the  officers  present  there  was  an  old  lieutenant, 
who  had  felt  deeply  wounded  by  some  of  the  imputations  which 
the  Due  de  Sairmeuse  had  cast  right  and  left  in  his  affected 
wrath.  This  lieutenant  heard  the  Marquis  de  Courtornieu 
give  his  orders,  and  then  stepped  forward  with  a  gloomy  air, 
remarking  that  these  measures  were  doubtless  all  very  well, 
but  at  the  same  time  it  was  urgent  that  an  investigation  should 
take  place  at  once,  so  as  to  learn  for  certain  how  the  baron 
had  escaped  and  who  were  his  accomplices  if  he  had  any.  At 
the  mention  of  this  word  "investigation,"  both  the  Due  de 
Sairmeuse  and  the  Marquis  de  Courtornieu  shuddered.  They 
could  not  ignore  the  fact  that  their  reputations  were  at  stake, 
and  that  the  merest  trifle  might  disclose  the  truth.  A  neglected 
precaution,  any  insignificant  detail,  an  imprudent  word  or 
gesture  might  ruin  their  ambitious  hopes  forever.  They  trem- 
bled to  think  that  this  officer  might  be  a  man  of  unusual 
shrewdness,  who  "had  suspected  their  complicity,  and  was  im- 
patient to  verify  his  presumptions.  In  point  of  fact,  they 
were  unnecessarily  alarmed,  for  the  old  lieutenant  had  not 
the  slightest  suspicion  of  the  truth.  He  had  spoken  on  the 
impulse  of  the  moment,  merely  to  give  vent  to  his  displeasure. 
He  was  not  even  keen  enough  to  remark  a  rapid  glance  which 


THE   HONOR   OF   THE   NAME  475 

the  duke  and  the  marquis  exchanged.  Martial  noticed  this 
look,  however,  and  with  studied  politeness,  remarked:  "Yes, 
we  must  institute  an  investigation;  that  suggestion  is  as  shrewd 
as  it  is  opportune." 

The  old  lieutenant  turned  away  with  a  muttered  oath.  "That 
coxcomb  is  poking  fun  at  me,"  he  thought;  "and  he  and  his 
father  and  that  prig  the  marquis  deserve  a  box  on  the  ears." 

In  reality,  however,  Martial  was  not  poking  fun  at  him. 
Bold  as  was  his  remark  it  was  made  advisedly.  To  silence  all 
future  suspicions  it  was  absolutely  necessary  that  an  investi- 
gation should  take  place  immediately.  But  then  it  would,  by 
reason  of  their  position  and  functions,  naturally  devolve  on 
the  duke  and  the  marquis,  who  would  know  just  how  much 
to  conceal,  and  how  much  to  disclose.  They  began  their  task 
immediately,  with  a  haste  which  could  not  fail  to  dispel  all 
doubts,  if  indeed  any  existed  in  the  minds  of  their  subordinates. 

Martial  thought  he  knew  the  details  of  the  escape  as  well  as 
the  fugitives  themselves,  ior  even  if  they  had  been  the  actors, 
he  was  at  any  rate  the  author  of  the  drama  played  that  night. 
However,  he  was  soon  obliged  to  admit  that  he  was  mistaken 
in  his  opinion ;  for  the  investigation  revealed  several  incompre- 
hensible particulars.  It  had  been  determined  beforehand  that 
the  baron  and  the  corporal  would  have  to  make  two  successive 
descents.  Hence  the  necessity  of  having  two  ropes.  These 
ropes  had  been  provided,  and  the  prisoners  must  have  used 
them.  And  yet  only  one  rope  could  be  found — the  one  which 
the  peasant  woman  had  perceived  hanging  from  the  rocky 
platform  at  the  base  of  the  citadel  where  it  was  made  fast  to 
an  iron  crowbar.  From  the  window  of  the  cell,  to  the  platform, 
there  was  no  rope,  however.  "This  is  most  extraordinary !" 
murmured  Martial,  thoughtfully. 

"Very  strange !"  approved  M.  de  Courtornieu. 

"How  the  devil  could  they  have  reached  the  base  of  the 
tower  ?" 

"That  is  what  I  can't  understand." 

But  Martial  soon  found  other  causes  for  surprise.  On  ex- 
amining the  rope  that  remained — the  one  which  had  been  used 
in  making  the  descent  of  the  cliff — he  discovered  that  it  was 
not  of  a  single  piece.  Two  pieces  had  been  knotted  together. 
The  longest  piece  had  evidently  been  too  short  How  did  this 
happen?  Could  the  duke  have  made  a  mistake  in  the  height 
of  the  cliff?  or  had  the  abbe  measured  the  rope   incorrectly? 


476     THE  HONOR  OF  THE  NAME 

But  Martial  had  also  measured  it  with  his  eye,  while  it  was 
wound  round  him,  and  it  had  then  seen,  ^d  to  him  that  the 
rope  was  much  longer,  fully  a  third  longer,  than  it  now 
appeared. 

"There  must  have  been  some  accident,"  he  remarked  to  his 
father  and  the  marquis;  "what  I  can't  say." 

"Well,  what  does  it  matter?"  replied  M.  de  Courtornieu, 
"you  have  the  compromising  letter,  haven't  you?" 

But  Martial's  mind  was  one  of  these  that  never  rest  until 
they  have  solved  the  problem  before  them.  Accordingly,  he 
insisted  on  going  to  inspect  the  rocks  at  the  foot  of  the  preci- 
pice. Here  they  discovered  several  stains,  formed  of  coagu- 
lated blood.  "One  of  the  fugitives  must  have  fallen,"  said 
Martial,  quickly,  "and  been  dangerously  wounded!" 

"Upon  my  word !"  exclaimed  the  Due  de  Sairmeuse,  "if  it 
is  the  Baron  d'Escorval  who  has  broken  his  neck,  I  shall  be 
delighted  I" 

Martial  turned  crimson,  and  looked  searchingly  at  his  father. 
"I  suppose,  sir,  that  you  do  not  mean  one  word  of  what  you 
are  saying,"  he  observed,  coldly.  "We  pledged  ourselves  upon 
the  honor  of  our  name  to  save  the  baron.  If  he  has  been 
killed  it  will  be  a  great  misfortune  for  us,  a  very  great 
misfortune." 

When  his  son  addressed  him  in  this  haughty,  freezing  tone 
of  his,  the  duke  never  knew  how  to  reply.  He  was  indignant, 
but  his  son's  was  the  stronger  nature. 

"Nonsense!"  exclaimed  M.  de  Courtornieu;  "if  the  rascal 
had  merely  been  wounded  we  should  have  known  it." 

Such  also  was  Chupin's  opinion.  He  had  been  sent  for  by 
the  duke,  and  had  just  made  his  appearance.  But  the  old 
scoundrel,  usually  so  loquacious  and  officious,  now  replied  in 
the  briefest  fashion;  and,  strange  to  say,  he  did  not  offer  his 
services.  His  habitual  assurance  and  impudence,  and  his  cus- 
tomary cunning  smile,  had  quite  forsaken  him;  and  in  lieu 
thereof  his  brow  was  overcast,  and  his  manners  strangely  per- 
turbed. So  marked  was  the  change  that  even  the  Due  de 
Sairmeuse  observed  it.  "What  misfortune  have  you  had,  Mas- 
ter Chupin?"  he  asked. 

"Why,  while  I  was  coming  here,"  replied  the  old  knave  in 
a  sullen  tone,  "a  band  of  ragamuffins  pelted  me  with  mud  and 
stones,  and  ran  after  me,  shouting :  'Traitor !  traitor !'  as  loud 
as  they  could."    He  clenched  his  fists  as  he  spoke,  as  if  he  were 


THE   HONOR   OF   THE   NAME  477 

meditating  vengeance;  then  suddenly  he  added:  "The  people 
of  Montaignac  are  quite  pleased  this  morning.  They  know 
that  the  baron  has  escaped,  and  they  are  rejoicing." 

Alas !  the  joy  which  Chupin  spoke  of  was  destined  to  be  of 
short  duration,  for  the  execution  of  the  conspirators  sentenced 
on  the  preceding  afternoon  was  to  take  place  that  very  day. 
At  noon  the  gate  of  the  citadel  was  closed,  and  the  drums  rolled 
loudly  as  a  preface  to  the  coming  tragedy.  Consternation  spread 
through  the  town.  Doors  were  carefully  secured,  shutters 
closed,  and  window-blinds  pulled  down.  The  streets  became 
deserted,  and  a  death-like  silence  prevailed.  At  last,  just  as 
three  o'clock  was  striking,  the  gate  of  the  fortress  was  reopened, 
and  under  the  lofty  archway  came  fourteen  doomed  men,  each 
with  a  priest  by  his  side.  One-and-twenty  had  been  condemned 
to  death,  but  the  Baron  d'Escorval  had  eluded  the  executioner, 
and  remorse  or  fear  had  tempered  the  Due  de  Sairmeuse's 
thirst  for  blood.  He  and  M.  de  Courtornieu  had  granted  re- 
prieves to  six  of  the  prisoners,  and  at  that  very  moment  a 
courier  was  starting  for  Paris  \.ith  six  petitions  for  pardon, 
signed  by  the  military  commission. 

Chanlouineau  was  not  among  those  for  whom  royal  clem- 
ency was  solicited.  When  he  left  his  cell,  without  knowing 
whether  his  plan  for  saving  the  Baron  d'Escorval  had  proved 
of  any  use  or  not,  he  counted  and  examined  his  thirteen  com- 
rades with  keen  anxiety.  His  eyes  betrayed  such  an  agony  of 
anguish  that  the  priest  who  accompanied  him  asked  him  in  a 
whisper:  "Whom  are  you  looking  for,  my  son?" 

"For  the  Baron  d'Escorval." 

"He  escaped  last  night." 

"Ah  !  now  I  shall  die  content !"  exclaimed  the  heroic  peasant. 
And  he  died  as  he  had  sworn  he  would — without  even  changing 
color — calm  and  proud,  the  name  of  Marie-Anne  upon  his  lips. 

There  was  one  woman,  a  fair  young  girl,  who  was  not  in  the 
least  degree  affected  by  the  tragic  incidents  attending  the  re- 
pression of  the  Montaignac  revolt.  This  was  Blanche  de  Cour- 
tornieu, who  smiled  as  brightly  as  ever,  and  who,  although  her 
father  exercised  almost  dictatorial  power  in  conjunction  with 
the  Due  de  Sairmeuse,  did  not  raise  as  much  as  her  little  finger 
to  save  any  one  of  the  condemned  prisoners  from  execution. 
These  rebels  had  dared  to  stop  her  carriage  on  the  public  road, 
and  this  was  an  offense  which  she  could  neither  forgive  nor 
forget.     She  also  knew  that  she  had  only  owed  her  liberty  to 


478     THE  HONOR  OF  THE  NAME 

Marie-Anne's  intercession,  and  to  a  woman  of  such  jealous 
pride  this  knowledge  was  galling  in  the  extreme.  Hence  it  was 
with  bitter  resentment  that,  on  the  morning  following  her  arri- 
val in  Montaignac,  she  denounced  to  her  father  what  she  styled 
that  Lacheneur  girl's  inconceivable  arrogance,  and  the  peas- 
antry's frightful  brutality.  And  when  the  Marquis  de  Courtor- 
nieu  asked  her  if  she  would  consent  to  give  evidence  against 
the  Baron  d'Escorval,  she  coldly  replied  that  she  considered  it 
was  her  duty  to  do  so.  She  was  fully  aware  that  her  testimony 
would  send  the  baron  to  the  scaffold,  and  yet  she  did  not 
hesitate  a  moment.  True,  she  carefully  concealed  her  personal 
:pite,  and  declared  she  was  only  influenced  by  the  interests  of 
justice.  Impartiality  compels  us  to  add,  moreover,  that  she 
really  believed  the  Baron  d'Escorval  to  be  a  leader  of  the 
rebels.  Chanlouineau  had  pronounced  the  name  in  her  pres- 
ence, and  her  error  was  all  the  more  excusable  as  Maurice  was 
usually  known  in  the  neighborhood  by  his  Christian  name. 
Had  the  young  farmer  called  to  "Monsieur  Maurice"  for  in- 
structions, Blanche  would  have  understood  the  situation,  but 
he  had  exclaimed,  "M.  d'Escorval,"  and  hence  her  mistake. 

After  she  had  delivered  to  her  father  her  written  statement 
of  what  occurred  on  the  highroad  on  the  night  of  the  revolt, 
the  heiress  assumed  an  attitude  of  seeming  indifference,  and 
when  any  of  her  friends  chanced  to  speak  of  the  rising,  she 
alluded  to  the  plebeian  conspirators  in  tones  of  proud  disdain. 
In  her  heart,  however,  she  blessed  this  timely  outbreak,  which 
had  removed  her  rival  from  her  path.  "For  now,"  thought  she, 
"the  marquis  will  return  to  me,  and  I  will  make  him  forget  the 
bold  creature  who  bewitched  him !"  In  this  she  was  somewhat 
mistaken.  True,  Martial  returned  and  paid  his  court,  but  he 
no  longer  loved  her.  He  had  detected  the  calculating  ambition 
she  had  sought  to  hide  under  a  mask  of  seeming  simplicity. 
He  had  realized  how  vain  and  selfish  she  was,  and  his  former 
admiration  was  now  well-nigh  transformed  into  repugnance; 
for  he  could  but  contrast  her  character  with  the  noble  nature 
of  Marie-Anne,  now  lost  to  him  forever.  It  was  mainly  the 
knowledge  that  Lacheneur's  daughter  could  never  be  his  which 
prompted  him  to  a  seeming  reconciliation  with  Blanche.  He 
said  to  himself  that  the  duke,  his  father,  and  the  Marquis  de 
Courtornieu  had  exchanged  a  solemn  pledge ;  that  he,  too,  had 
given  his  word,  and  that  after  all  Blanche  was  his  promised 
wife.      Was  it  worth  while  to  break  off  the  engagement  ?     Would 


THE   HONOR   OF   THE    NAME  479 

he  not  be  compelled  to  marry  some  day  or  another?  His  rank 
and  name  required  him  to  do  so,  and  such  being  the  case  what 
did  it  matter  whom  he  married,  since  the  only  woman  he  had 
ever  truly  loved — the  only  woman  he  ever  could  love — was 
never  to  be  his?  To  a  man  of  Martial's  education  it  was  no 
very  difficult  task  to  pay  proper  court  to  the  jealous  Blanche, 
to  surround  her  with  every  attention,  and  to  affect  a  love  he 
did  not  really  feel ;  and,  indeed,  so  perfectly  did  he  play  his 
part  that  Mademoiselle  de  Courtornieu  might  well  flatter  her- 
self with  the  thought  that  she  reigned  supreme  in  his  affections. 

While  Martial  seemed  wholly  occupied  with  thoughts  of  his 
approaching  marriage,  he  was  really  tortured  with  anxiety  as 
to  the  fate  which  had  overtaken  the  Baron  d'Escorval  and  the 
other  fugitives.  The  three  members  of  the  D'Escorval  family, 
the  abbe,  Marie- Anne,  Corporal  Bavois,  and  four  half-pay 
officers  had  all  disappeared,  leaving  no  trace  behind  them. 
This  was  very  remarkable,  as  the  search  prescribed  by  MM. 
de  Sairmeuse  and  Courtornieu  had  been  conducted  with  feverish 
activity,  greatly  to  the  terror  of  its  promoters.  Still  what  could 
they  do?  They  had  imprudently  excited  the  zeal  of  their  sub- 
ordinates, and  now  they  were  unable  to  allay  it.  Fortunately, 
however,  all  the  efforts  to  discover  the  fugitives  proved  unsuc- 
cessful ;  and  the  only  information  that  could  be  obtained  came 
from  a  peasant,  who  declared  that  on  the  morning  of  the  escape, 
just  before  daybreak,  he  had  met  a  party  of  a  dozen  persons, 
men  and  women,  who  seemed  to  be  carrying  a  dead  body.  This 
circumstance,  taken  in  connection  with  the  broken  rope  and 
the  stains  of  blood  at  the  bottom  of  the  cliff,  made  Martial 
tremble.  He  was  also  strongly  impressed  by  another  circum- 
stance, which  came  to  light  when  the  soldiers  on  guard  the 
night  of  the  escape  were  questioned  as  to  what  transpired.  "I 
was  on  guard  in  the  corridor  communicating  with  the  pris- 
oner's quarters  in  the  tower,"  said  one  of  these  soldiers,  "when 
at  about  half-past  two  o'clock,  just  after  Lacheneur  had  been 
placed  in  his  cell,  I  saw  an  officer  approaching  me.  I  challenged 
him ;  he  gave  me  the  countersign,  and,  naturally,  I  let  him  pass. 
He  went  down  the  passage,  and  entered  the  empty  room  next 
to  M.  d'Escorval's.     He  remained  there  about  five  minutes." 

"Did  you  recognize  this  officer?"  asked  Martial  eagerly. 

"No,"  answered  the  soldier.  "He  wore  a  large  cloak,  the 
collar  of  which  was  turned  up  so  high  that  it  hid  his  face  to 
the  very  eyes." 


480     THE  HONOR  OF  THE  NAME 

"Whom  could  this  mysterious  officer  have  been?"  thought 
Martial,  racking  his  brains.  "What  was  he  doing  in  the  room 
where  I  left  the  ropes?" 

The  Marquis  de  Courtornieu,  present  at  the  examination, 
seemed  much  disturbed.  Turning  to  the  witness,  he  asked  him 
angrily:  "How  could  you  be  ignorant  that  there  were  so  many 
sympathizers  with  this  movement  among  the  garrison?  You 
might  have  known  that  this  visitor,  who  concealed  his  face  so 
carefully,  was  an  accomplice  warned  by  Bavois,  who  had  come 
to  see  if  he  needed  a  helping  hand." 

This  seemed  a  plausible  explanation,  but  it  did  not  satisfy 
Martial.  "It  is  very  strange,"  he  thought,  "that  M.  d'Escorval 
has  not  even  deigned  to  let  me  know  he  is  in  safety.  The 
service  I  rendered  him  deserves  that  acknowledgment,  at 
least." 

Such  was  the  young  marquis's  anxiety  that,  despite  his  re- 
pugnance for  Chupin,  the  spy,  he  resolved  to  seek  that  arch- 
traitor's  assistance,  with  the  view  of  discovering  what  had 
become  of  the  fugitives.  It  was  no  longer  easy,  however,  to 
secure  the  old  rascal's  services,  for  since  he  had  received  the 
price  of  Lacheneur's  blood — these  twenty  thousand  francs  which 
had  so  fascinated  him — he  had  deserted  the  Due  de  Sair- 
meuse's  house,  and  taken  up  his  quarters  in  a  small  inn  at  the 
outskirts  of  the  town;  where  he  spent  his  days  alone  in  a  large 
room  on  the  second  floor.  At  night-time  he  barricaded  the 
door,  and  drank,  drank,  drank ;  and  till  daybreak  he  might  be 
heard  cursing  and  singing,  or  struggling  against  imaginary  ene- 
mies. Still  he  dared  not  disobey  the  summons  which  a  soldier 
brought  him  to  hapten  to  the  Hotel  de  Sairmeuse  at  once. 

"I  wish  to  discover  what  has  become  of  the  Baron  d'Escor- 
val," said  Martial  when  the  old  spy  arrived. 

Chupin  trembled,  and  a  fleeting  color  dyed  his  cheeks.  "The 
Montaignac  police  are  at  your  disposal,"  he  answered  sulkily. 
"They,  perhaps,  can  satisfy  your  curiosity,  Monsieur  le  Mar- 
quis, but  I  don't  belong  to  the  police." 

Was  he  in  earnest,  or  was  he  merely  simulating  a  refusal 
with  the  view  of  obtaining  a  high  price  for  his  services?  Mar- 
tial inclined  to  the  latter  opinion.  "You  shall  have  no  reason  to 
complain  of  my  generosity,"  said  he.    "I  will  pay  you  well." 

That  word  "pay"  would  have  made  Chupin's  eyes  gleam 
with  delight  a  week  before,  but  on  hearing  it  now  he  at  once 
flew  into  a  furious  passion.     "So  it  was  to  tempt  me  again 


THE   HONOR   OF   THE    NAME  481 

that  you  summoned  me  here!"  he  exclaimed.     "You  would  do 
much  better  to  leave  me  quietly  at  my  inn." 

"What  do  you  mean,  you  fool?" 

But  Chupin  did  not  even  hear  the  interruption.  "People 
told  me,"  quoth  he,  with  increasing  fury,  "that,  by  betraying 
Lacheneur,  I  should  be  doing  my  duty  and  serving  the  king. 
I  betrayed  him,  and  now  I  am  treated  as  if  I  had  committed 
the  worst  of  crimes.  Formerly,  when  I  lived  by  stealing  and 
poaching,  folks  despised  me,  perhaps ;  but  they  didn't  shun  me 
as  they  do  the  pestilence.  They  called  me  rascal,  robber,  and 
the  like ;  but  they  would  drink  with  me  all  the  same.  To-day 
I've  twenty  thousand  francs  in  my  pocket,  and  yet  I'm  treated 
as  if  I  were  a  venomous  beast.  If  I  approach  any  one  he  draws 
back,  and  if  I  enter  a  room,  those  who  are  there  hasten  out  of 
it."  At  the  recollection  of  the  insults  heaped  upon  him  since 
Lacheneur's  capture,  the  old  rascal's  rage  reached  a  climax. 
"Was  what  I  did  so  abominable?"  he  pursued.  "Then  why  did 
your  father  propose  it?  The  shame  should  fall  on  him.  He 
shouldn't  have  tempted  a  poor  man  with  wealth  like  that.  If, 
on  the  contrary,  I  did  my  duty,  let  them  make  laws  to  pro- 
tect me." 

Martial  perceived  the  necessity  of  reassuring  this  troubled 
mind.  "Chupin.  my  boy,"  said  he,  "I  don't  ask  you  to  discover 
M.  d'Escorval  in  order  to  denounce  him ;  far  from  it — I  only 
want  you  to  ascertain  if  any  one  at  Saint-Pavin,  or  at  Saint- 
Jean-de-Coche.  knows  of  his  having  crossed  the  frontier." 

The  mention  of  Saint-Jean-de-Coche  made  Chupin  shudder. 
"Do  you  want  me  to  be  murdered  ?"  he  exclaimed,  remembering 
Balstain's  vow.  "I  must  let  you  know  that  I  value  my  life  now 
that  I'm  rich."  And  seized  with  a  sort  of  panic  he  fled 
precipitately. 

Martial  was  stupefied  with  astonishment.  "One  might  really 
suppose  that  the  rascal  was  sorry  for  what  he  had  done," 
thought  he. 

If  that  were  really  the  case.  Chupin  was  not  the  only  person 
afflicted  with  qualms  of  conscience,  for  both  M.  de  Courtornieu 
and  the  Due  de  Sairmeuse  were  secretly  blaming  themselves 
for  the  exaggeration  of  their  first  reports,  and  the  manner  in 
which  they  had  magnified  the  proportions  of  the  rebellion. 
They  accused  each  other  of  undue  haste,  of  neglecting  the 
proper  forms  of  process,  and  had  to  admit  in  their  hearts  that 
the  sentences  were  most  uniust.     They  each  tried  to  make  the 


482     THE  HONOR  OF  THE  NAME 

other  responsible  for  the  blood  which  had  been  spilled ;  and 
were  certainly  doing  all  that  they  could  to  obtain  a  pardon  for 
the  six  prisoners  who  had  been  reprieved.  But  their  efforts 
did  not  succeed ;  for  one  night  a  courier  arrived  at  Montaignac, 
bearing  the  following  laconic  despatch:  "The  twenty-one  con- 
victed prisoners  must  all  be  executed."  That  is  to  say,  the  Due 
de  Richelieu  and  M.  Decazes,  with  their  colleagues  of  the 
council  of  ministers,  had  decided  that  the  petitions  for  clemency 
must  be  refused. 

This  despatch  was  a  terrible  blow  for  the  Due  de  Sairmeuse 
and  M.  de  Courtornieu.  They  knew,  better  than  any  one  else, 
how  little  these  poor  fellows  were  deserving  of  death.  They 
knew  it  would  soon  be  publicly  proved  that  two  of  these  six 
men  had  taken  no  part  whatever  in  the  conspiracy.  What  was 
to  be  done?  Martial  wished  his  father  to  resign  his  authority; 
but  the  duke  had  not  the  strength  of  mind  to  do  so.  Besides, 
M.  de  Courtornieu  encouraged  him  to  retain  his  functions,  re- 
marking that  no  doubt  all  this  was  very  unfortunate,  but,  since 
the  wine  was  drawn,  it  was  necessary  to  drink  it;  indeed,  his 
grace  could  not  now  draw  back  without  causing  a  terrible 
scandal. 

Accordingly,  the  next  day  a  dismal  roll  of  drums  was  heard 
again,  and  the  six  doomed  men,  two  of  whom  were  known  to  be 
innocent,  were  led  outside  the  walls  of  the  citadel  and  shot, 
on  the  same  spot  where,  only  a  week  before,  fourteen  of  their 
comrades  had  fallen. 

The  prime  mover  in  the  conspiracy  had  not,  however,  yet 
been  tried.  He  had  fallen  into  a  state  of  gloomy  despondency, 
which  lasted  during  his  whole  term  of  imprisonment.  He 
was  terribly  broken,  both  in  body  and  mind.  Once  only  did 
the  blood  mount  to  his  pallid  cheeks,  and  that  was  on  the 
morning  when  the  Due  de  Sairmeuse  entered  the  cell  to  ex- 
amine him.  "It  was  you  who  drove  me  to  do  what  I  did," 
exclaimed  Lacheneur.     "God  sees  us  and  judges  us  both  !" 

Unhappy  man!  his  faults  had  been  great:  his  chastisement 
was  terrible.  He  had  sacrificed  his  children  on  the  altar  of  his 
wounded  pride ;  and  did  not  even  have  the  consolation  of  press- 
ing them  to  his  heart  and  of  asking  their  forgiveness  before  he 
died.  Alone  in  his  cell,  he  could  not  turn  his  mind  from  his  son 
and  daughter;  but  such  was  the  terrible  situation  in  which  he 
had  placed  himself  that  he  dared  not  ask  what  had  become  of 
them.     Through  a  compassionate  keeper,  however,  he  learned 


THE   HONOR   OF   THE    NAME 


4*3 


that  nothing  had  been  heard  of  Jean,  and  that  it  was  supposed 
Marie-Anne  had  escaped  to  some  foreign  country  with  the 
D'Escorval  family.  When  summoned  before  the  court  for  trial, 
Lacheneur  was  calm  and  dignified  in  manner.  He  made  no  at- 
tempt at  defense,  but  answered  every  question  with  perfect 
frankness.  He  took  all  the  blame  upon  himself,  and  would  not 
give  the  name  of  any  one  accomplice.  Condemned  to  be  be- 
headed, he  was  executed  on  the  following  day,  walking  to  the 
scaffold  and  mounting  to  the  platform  with  a  firm  step.  A  few 
seconds  later  the  blade  of  the  guillotine  fell  with  a  loud  whir, 
and  the  rebellion  of  the  fourth  of  March  counted  its  twenty- 
first  victim. 

That  same  evening  the  townsfolk  of  Montaignac  were  busy 
talking  of  the  magnificent  rewards  which  were  to  be  bestowed 
on  the  Due  de  Sairmeuse  and  the  Marquis  de  Courtornieu  for 
their  services  to  the  royal  cause,  and  a  report  was  flying  abroad 
to  the  effect  that  Martial  and  Mademoiselle  Blanche  were  now 
to  be  married  with  great  pomp,  and  with  as  little  delay  as 
possible. 


AFTER  Lacheneur  had  been  executed,  the  codictators,  re- 
**■  gretting,  as  we  have  already  said,  the  precipitation  with 
which  they  had  sentenced  many  of  the  minor  partizans  of  the 
revolt,  sought  to  propitiate  public  opinion  by  treating  the  re- 
maining prisoners  with  unexpected  clemency.  Out  of  a  hun- 
dred peasants  still  confined  in  the  citadel,  only  eighteen  or 
twenty  were  tried,  and  the  sentences  pronounced  upon  them 
were  light  in  the  extreme;  all  the  others  were  released.  Major 
Carini,  the  leader  of  the  military  conspirators  in  Montaignac, 
had  expected  to  lose  his  head,  but  to  his  own  astonishment  he 
was  only  sentenced  to  two  years'  imprisonment.  This  tardy 
indulgence  did  not,  however,  efface  popular  recollections  of 
previous  severity,  and  the  townsfolk  of  Montaignac  openly  de- 
clared that  if  MM.  de  Sairmeuse  and  De  Courtornieu  were 
clement,  it  was  only  because  they  were  afraid  of  the  conse- 


484     THE  HONOR  OF  THE  NAME 

quences  that  might  await  continued  tyranny.  So  thus  it  came 
to  pass  that  people  execrated  them  for  their  past  cruelty,  and 
despised  them  for  their  subsequent  cowardice.  However,  both 
the  duke  and  the  marquis  were  ignorant  of  the  true  current 
of  public  opinion,  and  hurried  on  with  their  preparations  for 
their  children's  wedding.  It  was  arranged  that  the  ceremony 
should  take  place  on  the  17th  of  April,  at  the  village  church  of 
Sairmeuse,  and  that  a  grand  entertainment  should  be  given  to 
the  guests  in  the  duke's  chateau,  which  was  indeed  transformed 
into  a  fairy  palace  for  the  occasion. 

A  new  priest,  who  had  taken  the  Abbe  Midon's  place,  cele- 
brated the  nuptial  mass,  and  then  addressed  the  newly-wedded 
pair  in  congratulatory  terms.  "You  will  be,  you  must  be 
happy !"  he  exclaimed  in  conclusion,  fully  believing  for  the 
moment  that  he  spoke  the  words  of  prophecy.  And  who  would 
not  have  believed  as  he  did?  Where  could  two  young  people 
be  found  more  richly  dowered  with  all  the  attributes  of  worldly 
happiness? — youth,  health,  opulence,  and  rank.  And  yet,  al- 
though the  new  marquise's  eyes  sparkled  joyfully,  the  bride- 
groom seemed  strangely  preoccupied.  Blanche  was  before  him 
radiant  with  beauty,  proud  with  success;  but  his  mind,  despite 
all  efforts,  wandered  back  to  Marie-Anne — to  the  Marie-Anne 
he  had  lost,  who  had  disappeared,  whom  he  might  never  behold 
again.  "Ah  !  if  she  had  but  loved  him,"  thought  Martial,  "what 
happiness  would  have  been  his.  But  now  he  was  bound  for  life 
to  a  woman  whom  he  did  not  love." 

At  dinner,  however,  he  succeeded  in  shaking  off  his  sadness, 
thanks,  perhaps,  to  the  exhilarating  influence  of  several  glasses 
of  champagne,  and  when  the  guests  rose  from  table  he  had 
almost  forgotten  his  forebodings.  He  was  rising  in  his  turn, 
when  a  servant  approached  him  and  whispered :  "There  is  a 
young  peasant  in  the  hall  who  wishes  to  speak  with  Monsieur 
le  Marquis.    He  would  not  give  me  his  name." 

"Wouldn't  give  his  name?"  ejaculated  Martial.  "Ah,  well, 
on  one's  wedding-day  one  must  grant  an  audience  to  every- 
body." And  with  a  smile  he  descended  the  staircase.  Beside 
the  fragrant  flowering  plants  with  which  the  vestibule  was 
lined  he  found  a  young  man  with  a  pale  face,  whose  eyes  glit- 
tered with  feverish  brilliancy.  On  recognizing  him  Martial 
could  not  restrain  an  exclamation  of  surprise.  "Jean  Lache- 
neur!"  he  exclaimed;  "you  imprudent  fellow!" 

Young  Lacheneur  stepped  forward.    "You  thought  you  were 


THE   HONOR   OF   THE    NAME  485 

rid  of  me,"  he  said,  bitterly.  "But  you  see  you  were  mistaken. 
However,  you  can  order  your  people  to  arrest  me  if  you 
choose." 

Martial's  brow  lowered  on  hearing  these  insulting  words. 
"What  do  you  want?"  he  asked  coldly. 

"I  am  to  give  you  this  on  behalf  of  Maurice  d'Escorval," 
replied  Jean,  drawing  a  letter  from  his  pocket. 

With  an  eager  hand.  Martial  broke  the  seal ;  but  scarcely  had 
he  glanced  at  the  contents  than  he  turned  as  pale  as  death  and 
staggered  back,  exclaiming:  "Infamous!" 

"What  am  I  to  say  to  Maurice?"  insisted  Jean.  "What  do 
you  intend  to  do?" 

"Come — you  shall  see,"  replied  the  young  marquis,  seizing 
Jean  by  the  arm  and  dragging  him  up  the  staircase.  The  ex- 
pression of  Martial's  features  had  so  changed  during  his  brief 
absence  that  the  wedding  guests  looked  at  him  with  astonish- 
ment when  he  reentered  the  grand  saloon  holding  an  open 
letter  in  one  hand,  and  leading  with  the  other  a  young  peasant 
whom  no  one  recognized.  "Where  is  my  father?"  he  asked,  in 
a  husky  voice;  'where  is  the  Marquis  de  Courtornieu?" 

The  duke  and  the  marquis  were  with  Blanche  in  a  little 
drawing-room  leading  out  of  the  main  hall.  Martial  hastened 
there,  followed  by  a  crowd  of  wondering  guests,  who,  foresee- 
ing a  stormy  scene,  were  determined  to  witness  it.  He  walked 
straight  toward  M.  de  Courtornieu,  who  was  standing  by  the 
fireplace,  and  handing  him  the  letter:  "Read!"  said  he,  in  a 
threatening  voice. 

M.  de  Courtornieu  mechanically  obeyed  the  injunction;  but 
suddenly  he  turned  livid ;  the  paper  trembled  in  his  hands :  he 
averted  his  glance,  and  was  obliged  to  lean  against  the  mantel- 
piece for  support.  "I  don't  understand,"  he  stammered :  "no, 
I  don't  understand." 

The  duke  and  Blanche  had  both  sprung  forward.  "What  is 
the  matter?"  they  both  asked  in  one  breath;  "what  has  hap- 
pened ?" 

Martial's  reply  was  to  tear  the  letter  from  the  Marquis  de 
Courtornieu's  hands,  and  to  turn  to  his  father  with  these  words: 
"Listen  to  this  note  I  have  just  received." 

Three  hundred  people  were  assembled  in  the  room,  or  clus- 
tering round  the  doorway,  but  the  silence  was  so  perfect  that 
Martial's  voice  reached  the  farthest  extremity  of  the  grand  hall 
as  he  read: 


486     THE  HONOR  OF  THE  NAME 

"Monsieur  le  Marquis — Upon  the  honor  of  your  name, 
and  in  exchange  for  a  dozen  lines  that  hreatened  you  with 
ruin,  you  promised  us  the  Baron  d'Escorval's  life.  You  did, 
indeed,  bring  the  ropes  by  which  he  was  to  make  his  escape, 
but  they  had  been  previously  cut,  and  my  father  was  pre- 
cipitated on  to  the  rocks  below.  You  have  forfeited  your 
honor,  sir.  You  have  soiled  your  name  with  opprobrium,  and 
while  a  drop  of  blood  remains  in  my  veins,  I  will  leave  no 
means  untried  to  punish  you  for  your  cowardice  and  treason. 
By  killing  me  you  would,  it  is  true,  escape  the  chastisement  I 
am  reserving  for  you.  I  challenge  you  to  fight  with  me.  Shall 
I  wait  for  you  to-morrow  on  La  Reche  ?  At  what  hour  ?  With 
what  weapons  ?  If  you  are  the  vilest  of  men,  you  can  appoint 
a  meeting,  and  then  send  your  gendarmes  to  arrest  me.  That 
would  be  an  act  worthy  of  you.  Maurice  d'Escorval; 


)» 


On  hearing  these  words  the  Due  de  Sairmeuse  was  seized 
with  despair.  He  saw  the  secret  of  the  baron's  flight  made 
public,  and  his  own  political  prospects  ruined.  "Hush !"  he 
hurriedly  exclaimed  in  a  low  voice;  "hush,  wretched  fellow, 
you  will  ruin  us !" 

But  Martial  did  not  even  seem  to  hear  him.  He  finished  his 
perusal,  and  then  looking  the  Marquis  de  Courtornieu  full  in  the 
face:  "Now,  what  do  you  think?"  he  asked. 

"I  am  still  unable  to  comprehend,"  replied  the  old  nobleman, 
coldly. 

Martial  raised  his  hand;  and  every  one  present  believed  that 
he  was  about  to  strike  his  father-in-law.  "You  don't  compre- 
hend," he  exclaimed  sarcastically.  "Ah,  well,  if  you  don't,  / 
do.  I  know  who  that  officer  was  who  entered  the  room  where 
I  deposited  the  ropes — and  I  know  what  took  him  there."  He 
paused,  crumpled  the  letter  between  his  hands,  and  threw  it 
in  M.  de  Courtornieu's  face,  with  these  last  words:  "Here,  take 
your  reward,  you  cowardly  traitor !" 

Overwhelmed  by  this  denouement  the  marquis  sank  back 
into  an  armchair,  and  Martial,  still  holding  Jean  Lacheneur  by 
the  arm,  was  on  the  point  of  leaving  the  room,  when  his  young 
wife,  wild  with  despair,  tried  to  detain  him.  "You  shall  not 
go!"  she  exclaimed,  "you  can  not!  Where  are  you  going? 
That  young  fellow  with  you  is  Jean  Lacheneur.  I  recognize 
him.     You  want  to  join  his  sister — your  mistress  !" 

Martial  indignantly  pushed  his  wife  aside.     "How  dare  you 


THE   HONOR   OF   THE    NAME 


487 


insult  the  noblest  and  purest  of  women/'  he  exclaimed.  "Ah, 
well — yes — I  am  going  to  find  Marie-Anne.  Farewell !"  And 
with  these  words  he  left  the  chateau. 


•TpHE  ledge  of  rock  on  which  the  Baron  d'Escorval  and  Cor- 
*  poral  Bavois  rested  on  descending  from  the  tower  was  not 
more  than  a  yard  and  a  half  across  its  widest  part.  It  sloped 
down  toward  the  edge  of  the  precipice,  and  its  surface  was  so 
rugged  and  uneven  that  it  was  considered  very  imprudent  to 
stand  there,  even  in  the  daytime.  Thus  it  will  be  understood 
that  the  task  of  lowering  a  man  from  this  ledge,  at  dead  of 
night,  was  perilous  in  the  extreme.  Before  allowing  the  baron 
to  descend,  Bavois  took  every  possible  precaution  to  save  him- 
self from  being  dragged  over  the  verge  of  the  precipice  by  his 
companion's  weight.  He  fixed  his  crowbar  firmly  in  a  crevice 
of  the  rock,  seated  himself,  braced  his  feet  against  the  bar, 
threw  his  shoulders  well  back,  and  then,  feeling  that  his  posi- 
tion was  secure,  he  bid  the  baron  let  himself  down.  The  sud- 
den parting  of  the  rope  hurled  the  corporal  against  the  tower 
wall,  and  then  he  rebounded  forward  on  his  knees.  For  an 
instant  he  hung  suspended  over  the  abyss,  his  hands  clutching 
at  the  empty  air.  A  nasty  movement,  and  he  would  have  fallen. 
But  he  possessed  a  marvelous  power  of  will,  and  had  faced 
danger  so  often  in  his  life  that  he  was  able  to  restrain  himself. 
Prudently,  but  with  determined  energy,  he  screwed  his  feet  and 
knees  into  the  crevices  of  the  rock,  feeling  with  his  hands  for 
some  point  of  support ;  then  gradually  sinking  on  to  one  side, 
he  at  last  succeeded  in  dragging  himself  from  the  verge  of  the 
precipice. 

The  effort  had  been  a  terrible  one,  his  limbs  were  quite 
cramped,  and  he  was  obliged  to  sit  down  and  rest  himself. 
He  fully  believed  that  the  baron  had  been  killed  by  his  fall, 
but  this  catastrophe  did  not  produce  much  effect  upon  the  old 
soldier,  who  had  seen  so  many  comrades  fall  by  his  side  on 
fields  of  battle.    What  did  amaze  him,  however,  was  the  break- 


488     THE  HONOR  OF  THE  NAME 

ing  of  the  rope — a  rope  so  thick  that  one  would  have  supposed  it 
capable  of  sustaining  the  weight  of  ten  men  like  the  baron. 
It  was  too  dark  to  examine  the  fragment  remaining  in  his  pos- 
session, but  on  feeling  it  at  the  lower  end  with  his  finger,  the 
corporal  was  surprised  to  find  it  quite  smooth  and  even,  not 
rough  and  ragged  as  is  usual  after  a  break.  "It  must  have  been 
cut — yes,  cut  nearly  through,"  exclaimed  Bavois  with  an  oath. 
And  at  the  same  time  a  previous  incident  recurred  to  his  mind. 
"This,"  thought  he,  "explains  the  noise  which  the  poor  baron 
heard  in  the  next  room !  And  I  said  to  him :  'Nonsense !  it 
is  a  rat !'  " 

With  the  view  of  verifying  his  conjectures,  Bavois  passed 
the  cord  round  about  the  crowbar  and  pulled  at  it  with  all  his 
strength.  It  parted  in  three  places.  The  discovery  appalled 
him.  A  part  of  the  rope  had  fallen  with  the  baron,  and  it  was 
evident  that  the  remaining  fragments,  even  if  tied  together, 
would  not  be  long  enough  to  reach  the  base  of  the  rock.  What 
was  to  be  done?  How  could  he  escape?  If  he  could  not  de- 
scend the  precipice  he  must  remain  on  the  ledge  from  which 
there  was  no  other  mode  of  escape.  "It's  all  up,  corporal,"  he 
murmured  to  himself.  "At  daybreak  they  will  find  the  baron's 
cell  empty.  They  will  poke  their  heads  out  of  the  window,  and 
see  you  here  perched  like  a  stone  saint  on  his  pedestal.  Of 
course  you'll  be  captured,  tried,  and  condemned,  and  have  to 
take  your  turn  in  the  ditches.  Ready  !  Aim  !  Fire  !  That'll 
be  the  end  of  your  story." 

He  stopped  short,  for  a  vague  idea  had  just  entered  his 
mind,  which  he  felt  might  lead  to  salvation.  It  had  come  to 
him  in  touching  the  rope  which  he  and  the  baron  had  used  in 
their  descent  from  the  latter's  cell  to  the  rocky  ledge,  and  which, 
firmly  attached  to  the  bars  above,  hung  down  the  side  of  the 
tower.  "If  you  had  that  rope  which  hangs  there,  corporal," 
said  he,  you  could  tie  it  to  these  bits,  and  then  the  cord  would 
be  long  enough  to  take  you  down  the  precipice.  But  how  can 
one  obtain  it?  If  one  goes  back  after  it,  one  can't  bring  it 
down  and  come  down  again  one's  self  at  the  same  time.  He 
pondered  for  a  moment  and  then  began  talking  to  himself  again. 
"Attention,  corporal,"  said  he.  "You  are  going  to  knot  the 
five  pieces  of  rope  you've  got  here  together,  and  you're  going 
to  fasten  them  to  your  waist;  next  you're  going  to  climb  up 
to  that  window,  hand  over  hand.  Not  an  easy  matter !  A 
staircase  would  be  preferable.     But  no  matter,  you  mustn't  be 


THE   HONOR   OF   THE   NAME  489 

finical,  corporal.  So  you  will  climb  up  and  find  yourself  in  the 
cell  again.  What  are  you  going  to  do  there?  A  mere  nothing. 
You  will  unfasten  the  cord  secured  to  the  window  bars,  you 
will  tie  it  to  this  one  and  that  will  give  you  eighty  feet  of  good 
strong  rope.  Then  you  will  pass  the  rope  about  one  of  the 
bars  that  remain  intact,  you  will  tie  the  two  ends  together,  and 
then  the  rope  will  be  doubled.  Next  you  must  let  yourself  down 
here  again,  and  when  you  are  here,  you  will  only  have  to  untie 
one  of  the  knots,  and  the  rope  will  be  at  your  service.  Do  you 
understand,  corporal  ?" 

The  corporal  did  understand  so  well  that  in  less  than  twenty 
minutes  he  was  back  again  upon  the  narrow  shelf  of  rock,  hav- 
ing successfully  accomplished  the  dangerous  feat  which  he  had 
planned.  Not  without  a  terrible  effort,  however,  not  without 
torn  and  bleeding  hands  and  knees.  Still  he  had  succeeded  in 
obtaining  the  rope,  and  now  he  was  certain  that  he  could  make 
his  escape  from  his  dangerous  position.  He  was  chuckling 
gleefully  at  the  prospect  when  suddenly  he  bethought  himself 
of  M.  d'Escorval.  whom  he  had  forgotten  first  in  his  anxiety, 
and  then  in  his  joy.  "Poor  baron,"  murmured  the  corporal 
remorsefully.  "I  shall  succeed  in  saving  my  miserable  life,  for 
which  no  one  cares,  but  I  was  unable  to  save  his.  No  doubt 
by  this  time  his  friends  have  carried  him  away." 

As  he  uttered  these  words  he  leaned  forward,  and  to  his  in- 
tense amazement  perceived  a  faint  light  moving  here  and  there 
in  the  depths  below.  What  could  have  happened?  Something 
extraordinary,  that  was  evident ;  or  else  intelligent  men  like 
the  baron's  friends  would  never  have  displayed  this  light,  which, 
if  noticed  from  the  citadel,  would  betray  their  presence  and 
ruin  them.  However,  the  corporal's  time  was  too  precious  to 
be  wasted  in  idle  conjectures.  "Better  go  down  on  the  double- 
quick,"  he  said  aloud,  as  if  to  spur  on  his  courage.  "Come, 
my  friend,  spit  on  your  hands  and  be  off!" 

As  he  spoke  the  old  soldier  threw  himself  flat  on  his  belly 
and  crawled  slowly  backward  to  the  verge  of  the  precipice. 
The  spirit  was  strong,  but  the  flesh  shuddered.  To  march 
upon  a  battery  had  been  a  mere  pastime  for  him  in  days  of 
imperial  glory,  but  to  face  an  unknown  peril,  to  suspend  one's 
life  upon  a  cord,  was  a  very  different  matter.  Great  drops  of 
perspiration,  caused  by  the  horror  of  his  situation,  stood  out 
upon  his  brow  when  he  felt  that  half  his  body  had  passed  over 
the   edge    of   the   precipice,    and   that   the   slightest   movement 


490     THE  HONOR  OF  THE  NAME 

would  now  launch  him  into  space.  Still  he  did  not  hesitate, 
but  allowed  himself  to  glide  on,  murmuiing,  "If  there  is  a 
God  who  watches  over  honest  people,  let  Him  open  His  eyes 
this  instant!" 

Providence  was  watching;  and  Bavois  arrived  at  the  end  of 
his  dangerous  journey  alive  and  safe.  He  fell  like  a  mass  of 
rock ;  and  groaned  aloud  when  at  last,  after  a  swift  flight 
through  space,  he  sank  heavily  on  to  the  rugged  soil  below. 
For  a  minute  he  lay  stunned  and  dizzy  on  the  ground.  He 
was  rising  when  he  felt  himself  seized  by  either  arm.  "No 
foolishness,"  he  cried  quickly.     "It  is  I,  Bavois." 

But  his  captors  did  not  loosen  their  hold.  "How  does  it 
happen,"  asked  one  of  them  in  a  threatening  tone,  "that  the 
Baron  d'Escorval  is  precipitated  half-way  down  the  cliff  and 
that  you  alight  in  safety  a  few  moments  later?" 

The  old  soldier  was  too  shrewd  not  to  understand  the  import 
of  this  insinuation ;  and  the  indignation  he  felt  gave  him  suffi- 
cient strength  to  free  himself  with  a  violent  jerk  from  his 
captor's  hand.  "A  thousand  thunderclaps !"  he  cried ;  "so  I 
pass  for  a  traitor,  do  I?  No,  it  is  impossible;  well,  just  listen 
to  me."  Then  rapidly,  but  with  great  clearness,  he  recounted 
all  the  phases  of  his  escape,  his  despair,  his  perilous  situation, 
and  the  almost  insurmountable  obstacles  which  he  had  over- 
come. His  tone  was  so  sincere,  the  details  he  gave  so  cir- 
cumstantial, that  his  questioners — two  of  the  retired  officers 
who  had  been  waiting  for  the  baron — at  once  held  out  their 
hands,  sorry  that  they  had  wounded  the  feelings  of  a  man  so 
worthy  of  their  respect  and  gratitude.  "Forgive  us,  corporal," 
said  one  of  them  sadly.  "Misery  makes  men  suspicious  and 
unjust,  and  we  are  very  unhappy." 

"No  offense,"  he  growled.  "If  I  had  trusted  poor  M.  d'Es- 
corval, he  would  be  alive  now." 

"The  baron  still  breathes,"  observed  one  of  the  officers. 

This  was  such  astounding  news  that  for  a  moment  Bavois 
was  utterly  confounded.  "Ah !  I  will  give  my  right  hand,  if 
necessary,  to  save  him !"  he  exclaimed  at  last. 

"If  it  is  possible  to  save  him,  he  will  be  saved,  my  friend. 
That  worthy  priest  whom  you  see  there  is  an  excellent  physi- 
cian. He  is  examining  M.  d'Escorval's  wounds  at  this  moment. 
It  was  by  his  order  that  we  procured  and  lighted  that  candle, 
which  may  bring  our  enemies  upon  us  at  any  moment ;  but  this 
is  not  a  time  for  hesitation." 


THE  HONOR   OF  THE   NAME  491 

Bavois  looked  with  all  his  eyes,  but  from  where  he  was 
standing  he  could  only  distinguish  a  confused  group  of  mov- 
ing figures.  On  stepping  forward,  however,  he  perceived  that 
Marie-Anne  was  holding  a  candle  over  the  baron,  who  lay 
stretched  upon  the  ground,  his  head  reclining  on  his  wife's 
knees.  His  face  was  not  disfigured ;  but  he  was  extremely 
pale,  and  his  eyes  were  closed  at  intervals.  He  shuddered, 
and  then  the  blood  would  trickle  from  his  mouth.  His  cloth- 
ing was  hacked — literally  hacked  to  pieces ;  and  it  was  easy  to 
see  that  he  had  been  frightfully  mauled  and  wounded.  Kneel- 
ing beside  the  unconscious  man,  the  Abbe  Midon  was  dexter- 
ously stanching  the  blood  and  applying  bandages,  torn  from 
the  linen  of  those  present.  Maurice  and  one  of  the  officers 
were  assisting  him.  "Ah !  if  I  had  my  hands  on  the  scoundrel 
who  cut  the  rope,"  cried  the  corporal  with  passionate  indigna- 
tion ;  "but  patience.    I  shall  have  him  yet." 

"Do  you  know  who  it  was?" 

"Only  too  well !"  He  said  no  more.  The  abbe  had  done 
all  it  was  possible  to  do,  and  was  now  lifting  the  wounded 
man  a  little  higher  on  Madame  d'Escorval's  knees.  This  change 
of  position  elicited  a  moan  which  betrayed  the  baron's  intense 
sufferings.  He  opened  his  eyes  and  faltered  a  few  words — the 
first  he  had  uttered.  "Firmin!"  he  murmured,  "Firmin!"  This 
was  the  name  of  his  former  secretary,  a  devoted  helpmate  who 
had  been  dead  for  several  years.  It  was  evident  that  the  baron's 
mind  was  wandering.  Still  he  had  some  vague  idea  of  his 
terrible  situation,  for  in  a  stifled,  almost  inaudible,  voice,  he 
added :  "Oh !  how  I  suffer !  Firmin,  I  will  not  fall  into  the 
hands  of  the  Marquis  de  Courtornieu  alive.  I  would  rather 
kill  myself." 

This  was  all ;  his  eyes  closed  again,  and  his  head  fell  back 
a  dead  weight.  The  officers  clustering  round  believed  that  he 
had  expired,  and  it  was  with  poignant  anxiety  that  they  drew 
the  abbe  aside.  "Is  it  all  over?"  they  asked.  "Is  there  any 
hope?" 

The  priest  shook  his  head  sadly,  and  pointing  to  heaven :  "My 
hope  is  in  God !"  he  said  reverently. 

The  hour,  the  place,  the  catastrophe,  the  present  danger,  the 
threatening  future,  all  combined  to  impart  solemnity  to  the 
priest's  few  words;  and  so  profound  was  the  impression  that 
for  a  moment  these  men,  familiar  with  death  and  peril,  stood 
in  awed  silence.     Maurice,  who  approached,  followed  by  Cor- 


492      THE  HONOR  OF  THE  NAME 

poral  Bavois,  brought  them  back  to  the  exigencies  of  the  situa- 
tion. ''Ought  we  not  to  make  haste  and  cany  my  father  away?" 
he  asked.    "Mustn't  we  be  in  Piedmont  before  evening?" 

"Yes!"  exclaimed  one  of  the. officers;  "let  us  start  at  once." 

But  the  priest  did  not  move,  and  it  was  in  a  despondent  voice 
that  he  remarked:  "Any  attempt  to  carry  M.  d'Escorval  across 
the  frontier  in  his  present  condition  would  cost  him  his  life." 

This  seemed  so  inevitably  a  death-warrant  for  them  all  that 
they  shuddered.  "My  God !  what  shall  we  do  ?"  faltered  Mau- 
rice.   "What  course  shall  we  adopt?" 

No  one  replied.  It  was  clear  that  they  hoped  for  salvation 
through  the  priest  alone.  He  was  lost  in  thought,  and  it  was 
some  time  before  he  spoke.  "About  an  hour's  walk  from  here," 
he  said  at  last,  "beyond  the  Croix  d'Arcy,  lives  a  peasant  on 
whom  I  can  rely.  His  name  is  Poignot,  and  he  was  formerly 
in  M.  Lacheneur's  employ.  With  the  assistance  of  his  three 
sons,  he  now  tills  quite  a  large  farm.  We  must  procure  a 
litter  and  carry  M.  d'Escorval  to  this  honest  peasant's  house." 

"What  ?"  interrupted  one  of  the  officers,  "you  want  us  to  pro- 
cure a  litter  at  this  hour  of  the  night,  and  in  this  neighborhood?" 

"It  must  be  done." 

"But  won't  it  awake  suspicion?" 

"Most  assuredly." 

"The  Montaignac  police  will  follow  us." 

"I  am  certain  of  it." 

"The  baron  will  be  recaptured?" 

"No."  The  abbe  spoke  in  the  tone  of  a  man  who,  having 
assumed  all  the  responsibility,  feels  that  he  has  a  right  to  be 
obeyed.  "When  the  baron  has  been  conveyed  to  Poignot's 
house,"  he  continued,  "one  of  you  gentlemen  will  take  the 
wounded  man's  place  on  the  litter;  the  others  will  carry  him, 
and  the  party  will  remain  together  until  you  have  reached  Pied- 
montese  territory.  Then  you  must  separate  and  pretend  to 
conceal  yourselves,  but  do  it  in  such  a  way  that  you  are  seen 
everywhere." 

The  priest's  simple  plan  was  readily  understood.  The  royal- 
ist emissaries  must  be  thrown  off  the  track ;  and  at  the  very 
moment  when  it  seemed  to  them  that  the  baron  was  in  the 
mountains,  he  would  be  safe  in  Poignot's  house. 

"One  word  more,"  added  the  cure.  "The  party  which  will 
accompany  the  pretended  baron  must  look  as  much  like  the 
people  one  would  expect  to  find  with  him   as   possible.     So 


THE   HONOR   OF  THE   NAME  493 

Mademoiselle  Lacheneur  will  go  with  you,  and  Maurice  also. 
Again,  people  know  that  I  would  not  leave  the  baron;  and  as 
my  priestly  robe  would  attract  attention,  one  of  you  must 
assume  it.  God  will  forgive  the  deception  on  account  of  its 
worthy  motive." 

It  was  now  necessary  to  procure  the  litter;  and  the  officers 
were  trying  to  decide  where  they  should  go  to  obtain  it  when 
Corporal  Bavois  interrupted  them.  "Give  yourselves  no  un- 
easiness," he  remarked;  "I  know  an  inn  not  far  from  here 
where  I  can  procure  one." 

He  started  off  on  the  run,  and  a  few  minutes  later  returned 
with  a  small  litter,  a  thin  mattress,  and  a  coverlid.  He  had 
thought  of  everything.  The  baron  was  lifted  carefully  from 
the  ground  and  placed  on  the  mattress — a  long  and  difficult 
operation,  which,  in  spite  of  extreme  caution,  provoked  many 
terrible  groans  from  the  wounded  man.  When  everything  was 
ready,  each  officer  took  an  end  of  the  litter,  and  the  little  pro- 
cession, headed  by  the  abbe,  started  on  its  way.  They  were 
obliged  to  proceed  slowly,  as  the  least  jolting  increased  the 
baron's  sufferings.  Still  they  made  some  progress,  and  by 
daybreak  they  were  about  half-way  to  Poignot's  house.  They 
then  chanced  to  meet  some  peasants  going  to  their  daily  toil. 
The  latter  paused  to  look  at  them,  and  when  the  group  had 
passed  by  stood  gazing  curiously  after  these  strange  folks  who 
were  apparently  carrying  a  dead  body.  However,  these  meet- 
ings did  not  at  all  seem  to  worry  the  Abbe  Midon.  At  all 
events  he  made  no  attempt  to  avoid  them.  At  last  they  came 
in  sight  of  Poignot's  cottage.  There  was  a  little  grove  not 
far  from  the  house,  and  here  the  party  halted,  the  priest  bidding 
his  companions  conceal  themselves  while  he  went  forward  to 
reconnoitre  and  confer  with  the  man  upon  whose  decision  the 
safety  of  the  whole  party  depended. 

As  the  priest  approached  the  house,  a  short,  slim  peasant 
with  gray  hair  and  a  sunburnt  face  emerged  from  the  stable. 
This  was  Father  Poignot  himself.  "What !  is  this  you,  Mon- 
sieur le  Cure !"  he  exclaimed  delightedly.  "Heavens !  how 
pleased  my  wife  will  be.  We  have  a  great  favor  to  ask  of 
you — "  And  then,  without  giving  the  abbe  an  opportunity  to 
open  his  lips,  the  farmer  began  to  relate  his  perplexities.  The 
night  of  the  revolt  he  had  given  shelter  to  a  poor  fellow  who 
had  received  an  ugly  swordthrust.  Neither  his  wife  nor  him- 
self knew  how  to  dress  the  wound,  and  he  did  not  dare  to  send 


494     THE  HONOR  OF  THE  NAME 

for  a  doctor.  "And  this  wounded  man,"  he  added,  "is  Jean 
Lacheneur,  my  old  employer's  son." 

This  recital  made  the  priest  feel  very  anxious.  This  peasant 
had  already  given  an  asylum  to  one  wounded  conspirator,  but 
would  he  consent  to  receive  another?  He  could  not  say,  but 
his  voice  trembled  as  he  presented  his  petition.  The  farmer 
turned  very  pale  and  shook  his  head  gravely  more  than  once, 
while  the  priest  was  speaking.  When  the  abbe  had  finished, 
he  coldly  asked :  "Do  you  know,  sir,  that  I  incur  a  great  risk 
by  converting  my  house  into  a  hospital  for  these  rebels?"  The 
abbe  dared  not  answer.  "They  told  me,"  continued  Father 
Poignot,  "that  I  was  a  coward  because  I  would  not  join  in  the 
revolt.  Such  was  not  my  opinion.  Now,  however,  I  choose  to 
shelter  these  wounded  men.  In  my  opinion,  it  requires  quite 
as  much  courage  to  do  that  as  to  go  and  fight." 

"Ah !  you  are  a  brave  fellow !"  cried  the  abbe. 

"Never  mind  about  that,  but  bring  M.  d'Escorval  here. 
There  is  no  one  but  my  wife  and  boys,  and  they  won't 
betray  him !" 

The  offer  was  at  once  accepted,  and  half  an  hour  later  the 
baron  was  lying  in  a  small  loft,  where  Jean  Lacheneur  was 
already  installed.  From  the  window  the  Abbe  Midon  and 
Madame  d'Escorval  watched  the  little  party,  organized  for  the 
purpose  of  deceiving  the  Due  de  Sairmeuse's  spies,  as  it  moved 
rapidly  away.  Corporal  Bavois,  with  his  head  bound  up  with 
blood-stained  linen,  had  taken  the  baron's  place  on  the  litter 
carried  by  the  retired  officers.  These  latter  only  knew  the 
baron  by  name  and  reputation.  But  then  he  was  the  friend 
of  their  former  ruler — the  friend  of  that  great  captain  whom 
they  had  made  their  idol,  and  they  rejoiced  with  all  their  hearts 
when  they  saw  him  reposing  under  Father  Poignot's  roof  in 
comparative  security.  After  this  there  was  the  task  of  mislead- 
ing the  government  emissaries,  and  they  took  various  skilful 
precautions,  not  knowing  that  they  were  quite  unnecessary. 
Public  sentiment  had  declared  itself  in  an  unmistakable  man- 
ner, and  the  police  did  not  ascertain  a  single  detail  of  the 
escape.  They  did  not  even  hear  of  the  little  party  that  trav- 
eled nearly  three  leagues  in  the  full  light  of  day,  bearing  a 
wounded  man  upon  a  litter.  Among  the  two  thousand  peas- 
ants who  believed  that  this  wounded  man  was  the  Baron 
d'Escorval,  there  was  not  one  who  turned  informer  or  made 
an  indiscreet  remark. 


THE   HONOR   OF   THE    NAME  495 

The  fugitives  were  ignorant  of  this  willing  connivance,  and 
on  approaching  the  frontier,  which  they  heard  was  strictly 
guarded,  they  became  extremely  cautious.  They  waited  until 
nightfall  before  presenting  themselves  at  a  lonely  inn,  where 
they  hoped  to  procure  a  guide  to  lead  them  through  the  moun- 
tain passes.  Sad  news  awaited  them  there,  for  the  innkeeper 
informed  them  of  the  executions  that  had  taken  place  that  day 
at  Montaignac,  giving  the  particulars  as  he  had  heard  them 
from  an  eye-witness.  Fortunately,  or  unfortunately,  he  knew 
nothing  of  M.  d'Escorval's  flight  or  of  M.  Lacheneur's  arrest. 
But  he  was  well  acquainted  with  Chanlouineau,  and  was  quite 
inconsolable  concerning  the  death  of  that  "handsome  young 
fellow,  the  best  farmer  in  the  country." 

Finding  this  man's  views  so  favorable,  the  officers,  who  had 
left  the  litter  a  short  distance  from  the  inn,  decided  to  confide 
in  him,  at  least  in  some  degree.  "We  are  carrying  one  of  our 
wounded  comrades,"  they  said.  "Can  you  guide  us  across  the 
frontier  to-night?" 

The  innkeeper  replied  that  he  would  do  so  willingly,  that  he 
could  promise  to  take  them  safely  past  the  military  posts;  but 
that  he  could  not  think  of  starting  before  the  moon  rose.  At 
midnight  the  fugitives  were  on  their  way,  and  at  daybreak  they 
set  foot  on  the  territory  of  Piedmont.  They  had  dismissed  their 
guide  some  time  before.  They  now  proceeded  to  break  the 
litter  to  pieces;  and  handful  by  handful  cast  the  wool  of  the 
mattress  to  the  wind. 

"Our  task  is  accomplished,"  said  one  of  the  officers  to  Mau- 
rice. "We  will  now  return  to  France.  May  God  protect  you ! 
Farewell !" 

It  was  with  tears  in  his  eyes  that  Maurice  parted  from  these 
brave  fellows  who  had  proved  so  instrumental  in  saving  his 
father's  life.  Now  he  was  the  sole  protector  of  Marie-Anne, 
who,  pale  and  overcome  with  fatigue  and  emotion,  trembled 
on  his  arm.  But  no — for  Corporal  Bavois  still  lingered  by  his 
side.  "And  you,  my  friend,"  he  asked  sadly,  "what  are  you 
going  to  do?" 

"Follow  you,"  replied  the  old  soldier.  "I  have  a  right  to  a 
home  with  you ;  that  was  agreed  between  your  father  and  my- 
self !  so  don't  hurry,  for  the  young  lady  does  not  seem  well,  and 
I  can  see  a  village  only  a  short  distance  off." 


11— Vol.  II— Gab. 


496 


THE  HONOR  OF  THE  NAME 


U*  SSENTIALLY  a  woman  in  grace  and  beauty,  as  well  as 
in  devotion  and  tenderness,  Marie-Anne,  as  we  have  shown, 
was  moreover  capable  of  truly  virile  bravery.  Her  energy  and 
coolness  during  those  trying  days  had  been  the  admiration  and 
astonishment  of  all  around  her.  But  human  endurance  has  its 
limits,  and  after  excessive  efforts  there  invariably  comes  a  mo- 
ment when  the  shrinking  flesh  fails  the  firmest  will.  Thus,  when 
Marie-Anne  tried  to  resume  her  journey  she  found  that  her 
strength  was  exhausted ;  her  swollen  feet  and  limbs  scarcely 
supported  her,  her  head  whirled,  and  she  shivered  feverishly. 
Maurice  and  the  old  soldier  were  both  obliged  to  support  her, 
almost  to  carry  her ;  but  fortunately  they  were  not  far  from  a 
village,  as  was  evident  from  an  old  church  tower  just  discern- 
ible through  the  morning  mist. 

Soon,  however,  they  distinguished  several  cottages,  and  with 
the  prospect  of  speedy  rest  before  them  they  were  hastening 
forward,  when  suddenly  Bavois  stopped  short.  "A  thousand 
thunderclaps!"  he  exclaimed;  "why,  I'm  in  uniform  !  It  would 
excite  suspicion  at  once  if  I  went  into  the  village  dressed 
like  this ;  before  we  had  a  chance  to  sit  down,  the  Pied- 
montese  gendarmes  would  arrest  us."  He  reflected  for  a 
moment,  twirling  his  mustache  furiously ;  then,  in  a  tone 
that  would  have  made  a  passer-by  tremble,  he  remarked: 
'All  things  are  fair  in  love  and  war.  The  next  person  who 
passes — " 

"But  I  have  money  with  me,"  interrupted  Maurice,  unbuck- 
ling a  belt  filled  with  gold,  which  he  had  put  on  under  his  cloth- 
ing on  the  night  of  the  revolt. 

"Eh !  then  we  are  fortunate !"  cried  Bavois.  "Give  me  some, 
and  I  will  soon  find  a  shop  where  I  can  purchase  a  change  of 
clothing." 

He  started ;  and  it  was  not  long  before  he  reappeared  clad 
in  peasant's  garb,  his  thin,  weazened  countenance  well-nigh 
hidden  by  a  large,  broad-brimmed  slouch-hat.     "Now,  steady, 


THE   HONOR   OF   THE    NAME  497 

forward,  march !"  he  said  to  Maurice  and  Marie-Anne,  who 
scarcely  recognized  him  in  this  disguise. 

What  they  had  taken  to  be  a  mere  village  proved  to  be  almost 
a  small  town,  called  Saliente,  as  they  almost  immediately  after- 
ward ascertained  from  a  sign-post.  The  fourth  house  they  met 
with  was  a  hostelry,  the  Traveler's  Rest.  They  went  in,  and 
at  once  asked  the  hostess  to  take  the  young  lady  to  a  room, 
and  to  assist  her  in  undressing.  While  these  instructions  were 
being  complied  with,  Maurice  and  the  corporal  proceeded  to 
the  dining-room  and  ordered  something  to  eat.  Refreshments 
were  served  at  once,  but  the  glances  cast  upon  the  new  arrivals 
were  by  no  means  friendly.  They  were  evidently  regarded 
with  suspicion.  A  tall  man,  who  was  apparently  the  landlord, 
hovered  round  them,  and  at  last  embraced  a  favorable  oppor- 
tunity to  ask  their  names.  "My  name  is  Dubois,"  replied  Mau- 
rice without  the  slightest  hesitation.  "I  am  traveling  on  busi- 
ness, and  this  man  with  me  is  a  farmer  of  mine." 

The  landlord  seemed  somewhat  reassured  by  this  reply.  "And 
what  is  your  business?"  he  inquired. 

"I  have  come  into  this  land  of  inquisitive  people  to  buy 
mules,"  laughed  Maurice,  striking  his  belt  of  money. 

On  hearing  the  jingle  of  the  coin  the  landlord  deferentially 
raised  his  cap.  Breeding  mules  was  the  chief  industry  of  the 
district.  This  would-be  purchaser  was  very  young,  but  he  had 
a  well-filled  purse,  and  that  was  enough.  "You  will  excuse 
me,"  resumed  the  landlord  in  quite  a  different  tone.  "You  see, 
we  are  obliged  to  be  very  careful.  There  has  been  some  trouble 
at  Montaignac." 

The  imminence  of  the  peril  and  the  responsibility  devolving 
upon  him  gave  Maurice  unusual  assurance;  and  it  was  in  the 
most  careless,  offhand  manner  possible  that  he  concocted  quite 
a  plausible  story  to  explain  his  early  arrival  on  foot  with  his 
wife,  who  had  been  taken  poorly  on  the  way.  He  congratulated 
himself  upon  his  address,  but  the  old  corporal  was  far  from  sat- 
isfied. "We  are  too  near  the  frontier  to  bivouac  here,"  he 
grumbled.  "As  soon  as  the  young  lady  is  on  her  feet  again 
we  must  hurry  on." 

He  believed,  and  Maurice  hoped,  that  twenty-four  hours'  rest 
would  set  Marie-Anne  right  again.  But  they  were  both  mis- 
taken. She  could  not  move,  but  remained  in  a  state  of  torpor 
from  which  it  was  impossible  to  rouse  her.  When  she  was 
spoken   to   she   made   no    reply,   and   it   seemed   very   doubtful 


498     THE  HONOR  OF  THE  NAME 

whether  she  could  even  hear  and  understand.  Fortunately  the 
landlord's  mother  proved  to  be  a  good,  kina-hearted  old  woman, 
who  would  not  leave  the  so-called  Madame  Dubois's  bedside, 
but  nursed  her  with  the  greatest  care  during  three  long  days, 
while  Marie-Anne  remained  in  this  strange  and  alarming  con- 
dition. When  at  last  she  spoke,  Maurice  could  at  first  scarcely 
understand  the  import  of  her  words.  "Poor  girl !"  she  sighed ; 
"poor,  wretched  girl !"  In  point  of  fact  she  was  alluding  to 
herself.  By  a  phenomenon  which  often  manifests  itself  after  a 
crisis  in  which  reason  has  been  temporarily  imperiled,  it  seemed 
to  her  that  it  was  some  one  else  who  had  been  the  victim  of 
all  these  misfortunes,  the  recollection  of  which  gradually  re- 
turned to  her  like  the  memory  of  a  painful  dream.  What 
strange  and  terrible  events  had  taken  place  since  that  August 
Sunday  when,  on  leaving  church  with  her  father,  she  first  heard 
of  the  Due  de  Sairmeuse's  return  to  France.  And  that  was 
only  nine  months  ago.  What  a  difference  between  the  past — 
when  she  lived  happy  and  envied  in  that  beautiful  Chateau 
de  Sairmeuse,  of  which  she  believed  herself  the  mistress — and 
the  present,  when  she  found  herself  lying  in  the  comfortless 
room  of  a  miserable  country  inn,  attended  by  an  old  woman 
whom  she  did  not  know,  and  with  no  other  protectors  than 
her  proscribed  lover  and  an  old  soldier — a  deserter  whose  life 
was  in  constant  peril.  Hope,  fortune,  and  future  happiness  had 
all  been  wrecked,  and  she  had  not  even  saved  her  honor.  But 
was  she  alone  responsible?  Who  was  it  that  had  forced  her 
to  play  that  odious  part  with  Maurice,  Martial,  and  Chan- 
louineau?  As  this  last  name  darted  through  her  mind,  she 
recalled  with  startling  clearness  all  the  incidents  of  her  last 
meeting  with  the  young  farmer.  She  saw  him  at  her  feet  in 
that  clingy  cell  of  the  citadel  at  Montaignac ;  she  felt  his  first 
and  only  kiss  upon  her  cheek,  and  remembered  that  he  had 
given  her  a  second  letter,  saying  as  he  did  so:  "You  will  read 
this  when  I  am  dead." 

She  might  read  it  now,  for  he  had  already  cruelly  expiated 
his  share  in  her  father's  enterprise.  But  then  what  had  be- 
come of  it?  She  had  not  given  it  a  thought  till  now;  but  at 
present,  raising  herself  up  in  bed,  she  exclaimed  in  an  eager, 
imperious  voice :  "My  dress,  give  me  my  dress." 

The  old  nurse  obeyed  her,  and  Marie-Anne  could  not  restrain 
an  exclamation  of  delight  when,  on  examining  the  pocket,  she 
found  the  letter  there.     She  opened  it  and  read  it  slowly,  then, 


THE   HONOR   OF   THE   NAME  499 

sinking  back  on  her  pillows,  she  burst  into  tears.  Maurice 
hastily  approached  her.  "What  is  the  matter?"  he  inquired 
anxiously.     Her  only  reply  was  to  hand  him  the  missive. 

Chanlouineau,  it  should  be  remembered,  was  only  a  poor 
peasant,  scarcely  possessing  the  rudiments  of  education,  as 
his  letter  (written  on  common  paper  and  closed  with  a  huge 
wafer,  especially  purchased  from  a  grocer  in  Sairmeuse)  evinced 
plainly  enough.  The  heavy,  labored,  distorted  characters  had 
evidently  been  traced  by  a  man  who  was  more  at  home  when 
guiding  a  plow  than  a  pen.  There  was  but  one  straight  line, 
and  every  third  word,  at  least,  was  misspelt.  And  yet  the 
thoughts  expressed  were  noble  and  generous,  well  worthy  of 
the   true   heart   that   had   beat   in   the   young   farmer's   breast. 

"Marie- Anne" — so  the  letter  began.  "The  outbreak  is  at  hand, 
and  whether  it  succeeds  or  fails,  at  all  events,  I  shall  die.  I 
decided  that  on  the  day  when  I  learned  that  you  could  marry 
no  other  man  than  Maurice  d'Escorval.  The  conspiracy  can  not 
succeed ;  and  I  understand  your  father  well  enough  to  know 
that  he  will  not  survive  defeat.  And  if  Maurice  and  your 
brother  should  both  be  killed,  what  would  become  of  you?  Oh, 
my  God,  would  you  not  be  reduced  to  beggary?  The  thought 
has  haunted  me  continually.  I  have  reflected,  and  this  is  my 
last  will :  I  give  and  bequeath  to  you  all  my  property,  every- 
thing that  I  possess :  My  house,  the  Borderie,  with  its  gardens 
and  vineyards,  the  woodland  and  pastures  of  Berarde,  and  five 
lots  of  lands  at  Valrollier.  An  inventory  of  this  property  and 
of  the  other  possessions  I  leave  to  you  is  deposited  with  the 
notary  at  Sairmeuse.  You  can  accept  this  bequest  without  fear, 
for  I  have  no  relatives,  and  am  at  liberty  to  dispose  of  my 
belongings  as  I  please.  If  you  do  not  wish  to  remain  in  France, 
the  property  can  be  sold  for  at  least  forty  thousand  francs. 
But  it  would,  it  seems  to  me,  be  better  for  you  to  remain  in 
your  own  province.  The  house  on  the  Borderie  is  comfortable 
and  convenient,  for  I  have  had  it  thoroughly  repaired.  Up- 
stairs you  will  find  a  room  that  has  been  fitted  up  by  the  best 
upholsterer  in  Montaignac.  I  intended  it  for  you.  Under  the 
hearthstone  in  this  same  room  I  have  deposited  a  box  contain- 
ing three  hundred  and  twenty-seven  louis  d'or  and  one  hundred 
and  forty-six  livres.  If  you  refuse  this  gift,  it  will  be  because 
you  scorn  me  even  after  I  am  dead.  Accept  it,  if  not  for  your 
own  sake,  for  the  sake  of — I  dare  not  finish,  but  you  will  un- 


500     THE  HONOR  OF  THE  NAME 

derstand  my  meaning  only  too  well.  If  Maurice  is  not  killed, 
and  I  shall  try  my  best  to  stand  between  him  and  danger,  he 
will  marry  you.  Then,  perhaps,  you  will  be  obliged  to  ask  his 
consent  in  order  to  accept  my  gift.  I  hope  that  he  will  not 
refuse  his  permission.  One  is  not  jealous  of  the  dead !  Be- 
sides, he  knows  well  enough  that  you  scarcely  ever  vouchsafed 
a  glance  to  the  poor  peasant  who  loved  you  so  much.  Do  not 
be  offended  at  anything  I  have  said,  I  am  in  such  agony  that 
I  can  not  weigh  my  words.  Farewell,  Marie-Anne.  Farewell 
forever.  Chanlouineau." 

Maurice  read  this  letter  carefully,  at  times  pausing  with  sup- 
pressed emotion.  After  finishing  its  perusal  he  remained  silent 
for  a  moment,  and  then  in  a  husky  voice  exclaimed :  "You  can 
not  refuse;  it  would  be  wrong."  Then,  fearing  lest  he  might 
betray  his  feelings,  he  hastily  left  the  room.  Chanlouineau's 
words  had  evidently  made  a  deep  impression  on  his  mind.  This 
noble  peasant  had  saved  their  lives  at  the  Croix  d'Arcy,  he  had 
wrested  the  Baron  d'Escorval  from  the  hands  of  the  execu- 
tioner, and  he  had  never  allowed  either  a  complaint  or  a  re- 
proach to  escape  his  lips.  His  abnegation  had  been  sublime ; 
and  yet,  as  if  what  he  had  done  in  life  were  not  sufficient,  he 
sought  to  protect  the  woman  he  loved  even  after  he  was  dead. 
When  Maurice  recalled  all  that  he  and  Marie-Anne  owed  to 
Chanlouineau,  he  could  not  help  reproaching  himself  with  in- 
feriority and  unworthiness.  But,  good  heavens !  what  if  this 
same  comparison  should  arise  in  Marie-Anne's  mind  as  well? 
How  could  he  compete  with  the  memory  of  such  nobility  of 
soul  and  such  self-sacrifice  ?  Ay,  Chanlouineau  was  mistaken ; 
one  may,  perhaps,  be  jealous  of  the  dead !  However  Maurice 
took  good  care  to  conceal  his  anxiety,  and  when  he  returned  to 
Marie-Anne's  room  his  face  was  calm  and  even  cheerful. 

Although,  as  we  have  seen,  Marie-Anne  had  recovered  the 
full  possession  of  her  mental  faculties,  her  strength  had  not 
yet  returned.  She  was  almost  unable  to  sit  up ;  and  Maurice 
had  to  relinquish  all  thought  of  leaving  Saliente  for  the  pres- 
ent. The  so-called  Madame  Dubois's  persistent  weakness  began 
to  astonish  the  old  nurse,  and  her  faith  in  herbs,  gathered 
by  moonlight,  was  considerably  shaken.  Fortunately,  however, 
Bavois  had  succeeded  in  finding  a  medical  man  in  the  neigh- 
borhood— a  physician  of  great  ability,  who,  after  being  at  one 
time  attached  to  Prince  Eugene  Beauharnais's  viceregal  court 


THE   HONOR   OF   THE    NAME  501 

at  Milan,  had,  for  political  reasons,  been  forced  to  take  refuge 
in  this  secluded  spot.  The  corporal's  discovery  was  a  happy 
one,  for  in  these  days  the  smaller  towns  and  villages  of  Italy 
rarely  possessed  any  other  doctors  than  some  ignorant  barber, 
who  invariably  treated  all  complaints  with  a  lancet  and  a  stock 
of  leeches.  Bavois's  physician  was  at  once  summoned,  and  he 
promptly  made  his  appearance.  He  was  a  man  of  uncertain 
age,  with  a  furrowed  brow  and  a  keen  and  piercing  glance. 
After  visiting  the  sick-room,  he  drew  Maurice  aside.  "Is  this 
young  lady  really  your  wife,  Monsieur — Dubois?"  he  asked, 
hesitating  so  strangely  over  his  name,  Dubois,  that  Maurice's 
face  crimsoned  to  the  roots  of  his  hair. 

"I  do  not  understand  your  question,"  he  retorted  angrily. 

"I  beg  your  pardon,  of  course,  but  you  seem  very  young  for 
a  married  man,  and  your  hands  are  too  soft  for  a  farmer's. 
And  when  I  spoke  to  this  young  lady  about  her  husband,  she 
turned  scarlet.  The  man  who  accompanies  you,  moreover,  has 
terrible  mustaches  for  a  farmer,  and  besides  you  must  re- 
member that  there  have  been  troubles  across  the  frontier  at 
Montaignac." 

From  crimson  Maurice  had  turned  white.  He  felt  that  he 
was  discovered — that  he  was  in  this  man's  power.  What  should 
he  do?  What  was  the  use  of  denial?  At  times  it  is  only  pru- 
dent to  confess,  and  extreme  confidence  often  meets  with  sym- 
pathy and  protection.  He  weighed  these  considerations  in  his 
mind,  and  then  in  an  anxious  voice  replied :  "You  are  not  mis- 
taken, monsieur.  My  friend  and  myself  are  both  fugitives,  un- 
doubtedly condemned  to  death  in  France  by  this  time."  And 
then,  without  giving  the  doctor  an  opportunity  to  respond,  he 
briefly  narrated  the  terrible  events  that  had  recently  happened 
at  Sairmeuse.  He  neither  concealed  his  own  name  nor  Marie- 
Anne's  and  when  his  recital  was  completed,  the  physician,  whom 
his  confidence  had  plainly  touched,  warmly  shook  his  hand. 

"It  is  just  as  I  supposed,"  said  the  medical  man.  "Believe 
me,  Monsieur  Dubois,  you  must  not  tarry  here.  What  I  have 
discovered  others  will  discover  as  well.  And,  above  everything, 
don't  warn  the  hotel-keeper  of  your  departure.  He  has  not 
been  deceived  by  your  explanation.  Self-interest  alone  has  kept 
his  mouth  shut.  He  has  seen  your  money,  and  so  long  as  you 
spend  it  at  his  house  he  will  hold  his  tongue;  but  if  he  discovers 
that  you  are  going  away,  he  will  probably  betray  you." 

"Ah!  sir,  but  how  is  it  possible  for  us  to  leave  this  place?" 


502     THE  HONOR  OF  THE  NAME 

"In  two  days  the  young  lady  will  be  on  her  feet  again,"  in- 
terrupted the  physician.  "And  take  my  advice.  At  the  next 
village,  stop  and  give  your  name  to  Mademoiselle  Lacheneur." 

"Ah !  sir,"  exclaimed  Maurice,  "have  you  considered  the 
advice  you  offer  me?  How  can  I,  a  proscribed  man — a  man 
condemned  to  death  perhaps — how  can  I  obtain,  how  can  I  dis- 
play the  proofs  of  identity  necessary  for  marriage?" 

"Excuse  me,"  observed  the  physician,  shaking  his  head,  "but 
you  are  no  longer  in  France,  Monsieur  d'Escorval;  you  are  in 
Piedmont." 

"Another  difficulty !" 

"No,  because  in  this  country  people  marry,  or  at  least  they 
can  marry,  without  all  the  formalities  that  cause  you  so  much 
anxiety." 

"Is  it  possible?"  exclaimed  Maurice. 

"Yes,  if  you  can  find  a  consenting  priest,  when  he  has  in- 
scribed your  name  on  his  parish  register  and  given  you  a  cer- 
tificate, you  will  be  so  undoubtedly  married,  Mademoiselle  Lache- 
neur and  yourself,  that  the  court  of  Rome  would  never  grant 
you  a  divorce." 

"That  may  be,"  said  Maurice  hesitatingly,  "but  how  could 
I  find  a  priest — " 

The  physician  was  silent,  and  it  might  have  been  supposed 
he  was  blaming  himself  for  meddling  with  matters  that  did 
not  concern  him.  Suddenly,  however,  he  abruptly  said:  "Listen 
to  me  attentively,  Monsieur  d'Escorval.  I  am  about  to  take 
my  leave,  but  before  I  go  I  shall  find  occasion  to  recommend 
your  wife  to  take  as  much  exercise  as  possible — I  will  do  this 
in  the  landlord's  presence.  Consequently,  on  the  day  after  to- 
morrow, Wednesday,  you  must  hire  mules,  and  you,  Mademoi- 
selle Lacheneur,  and  your  old  friend,  the  soldier,  must  start 
from  the  hotel  as  if  you  were  going  on  a  pleasure  excursion. 
You  will  push  on  to  Vigano,  three  leagues  from  here,  where 
I  live.  Then  I  will  take  you  to  a  priest,  one  of  my  friends; 
and  upon  my  recommendation  he  will  perform  the  marriage 
ceremony.     Now,  reflect,  shall  I  expect  you  on  Wednesday?" 

"Oh,  yes,  yes.    How  can  I  ever  thank  you  sufficiently?" 

"By  not  thanking  me  at  all.  See,  here  is  the  innkeeper;  you 
are  M.  Dubois  again." 

Maurice  was  intoxicated  with  joy.  He  understood  the  ir- 
regularity of  such  a  marriage,  but  he  knew  it  would  reassure 
Marie-Anne's  troubled  conscience.     Poor  girl !  she  was  suffer- 


THE   HONOR   OF   THE    NAME  503 

ing  an  agony  of  remorse.  It  was  that  which  was  killing  her. 
However,  he  did  not  speak  to  her  on  the  matter,  fearing  lest 
something  might  occur  to  interfere  with  the  project.  But  the 
old  physician  had  not  spoken  lightly,  and  everything  took  place 
as  he  had  promised.  The  priest  at  Vigano  blessed  the  mar- 
riage of  Maurice  d'Escorval  and  Marie-Anne  Lacheneur,  and, 
after  inscribing  their  names  upon  the  church  register,  he  gave 
them  a  certificate,  which  the  physician  and  Corporal  Bavois 
signed  as  witnesses.  That  same  evening  the  mules  were  sent 
back  to  Saliente,  and  the  fugitives  resumed  their  journey.  The 
Abbe  Midon  had  advised  them  to  reach  Turin  as  quickly  as 
possible.  "It  is  a  large  city,"  he  had  said  when  bidding  them 
good-by  near  Father  Poignot's  house;  "you  will  be  lost  in  the 
crowd.  I  have  several  friends  there,  whose  names  and  addresses 
are  on  this  paper.  Go  to  them,  for  through  them  I  will  try  to 
send  you  news  of  M.  d'Escorval." 

So  it  was  toward  Turin  that  Maurice,  Marie-Anne,  and  Cor- 
poral Bavois  directed  their  steps.  Their  progress  was  slow, 
however,  for  they  were  obliged  to  avoid  the  more  frequented 
roads  and  renounce  all  ordinary  modes  of  transport.  Still  the 
fatigue  of  travel,  instead  of  exhausting  Marie-Anne,  seemed 
to  revive  her,  and  when  five  or  six  days  had  elapsed  the  color 
came  back  to  her  cheeks,  and  her  strength  had  fully  returned. 
"Fate  seems  to  have  abandoned  the  pursuit,"  said  Maurice  one 
day.  "Who  knows  but  what  the  future  may  have  many  com- 
pensations in  store  for  us !" 

But  he  was  mistaken.  Fate  far  from  forgetting  them  had 
merely  granted  them  a  short  respite.  One  April  morning  the 
fugitives  stopped  to  breakfast  at  an  inn  in  the  outskirts  of  a 
large  town.  Maurice  had  finished  eating,  and  was  just  leaving 
the  table  to  settle  with  the  landlady,  when  Marie-Anne  uttered 
a  loud  shriek  and  fell  back  on  her  chair.  She  held  in  her  hand 
a  French  newspaper  about  a  fortnight  old,  which  she  had  found 
lying  on  the  sideboard  where  some  traveler  had  probably  left 
it.  Maurice  seized  the  print  rapidly,  and  read  as  follows: 
"Lacheneur,  the  leader  of  the  revolt  in  Montaignac,  was 
executed  yesterday.  The  miserable  mischief-maker  exhib- 
ited on  the  scaffold  the  audacity  for  which  he  had  always  been 
famous." 

"My  father  has  been  put  to  death !"  cried  Marie-Anne,  "and 
I — his  daughter — was  not  there  to  receive  his  last  farewell !" 
She  rose,  and  in  an  imperious  voice:  "I  will  go  no  farther," 


504 


THE  HONOR  OF  THE  NAME 


she  said ;  "we  must  turn  back  now  without  losing  an  instant. 
I  wish  to  return  to  France." 

To  return  to  France  was  to  expose  themselves  to  frightful 
peril.  What  good  would  it  do?  Was  not  the  misfortune  irrep- 
arable? So  Corporal  Bavois  suggested,  very  tmidily  it  is  true, 
for  the  old  soldier  trembled  at  the  thought  that  they  might 
suspect  him  of  being  afraid.  But  Maurice  would  not  listen. 
He  shuddered.  He  did  not  know  what  had  transpired  since 
their  flight,  but  it  seemed  to  him  that  the  Baron  d'Escorval 
must  have  been  discovered  and  rearrested  at  the  same  time  that 
Lacheneur  was  captured.  Accordingly  they  at  once  procured  a 
vehicle  to  convey  them  to  the  frontier.  One  important  question, 
however,  remained  to  be  decided.  Should  Maurice  and  Marie- 
Anne  make  their  marriage  public?  She  wished  to  do  so,  but 
Maurice  with  tears  in  his  eyes  entreated  her  to  conceal  it.  "Our 
marriage  certificate  will  not  silence  those  who  are  disposed 
against  us,"  said  he.  "Let  us  keep  our  secret  for  the  present. 
Xo  doubt  we  shall  only  remain  in  France  for  a  few  days." 
Unfortunately,  Marie-Anne  yielded.  "Since  you  wish  it,"  said 
she.  "I  will  obey  you.    No  one  shall  know  of  it." 

It  was  the  evening  of  the  17th  of  April,  the  same  day  that 
Martial  was  married  to  Blanche,  when  the  fugitives  at  last 
reached  Father  Poignot's  house.  Maurice  and  Corporal  Bavois 
were  disguised  as  peasants,  and  the  old  soldier  had  made  a 
sacrifice  that  drew  tears  from  his  eyes;  he  had  shaved  off  his 
mustaches. 


TITHEN  the  Abbe  Midon  and  Martial  de  Sairmeuse  held 
their  conference,  to  decide  upon  the  arrangements  for  the 
Baron  d'Escorval's  escape,  a  difficulty  presented  itself  which 
threatened  to  break  off  the  negotiations.  "Return  my  letter," 
said  Martial,  "and  I  will  save  the  baron." 

"Save  the  baron,"  replied  the  abbe,  "and  your  letter  shall 
be  returned." 

The  idea  that  any  one  should  suppose  him  to  be  influenced 


THE   HONOR   OF   THE   NAME  505 

by  danger  when  in  reality  he  was  only  yielding  to  Marie- 
Anne's  tears,  angered  Martial  beyond  endurance.  "These  are 
my  last  words,  sir,"  he  retorted,  emphatically.  "Give  me  the 
letter  now,  and  I  swear  to  you,  by  the  honor  of  my  name,  that 
I  will  do  everything  that  is  possible  for  any  human  being  to  do 
to  save  the  baron.     If  you  distrust  my  word,  good  evening." 

The  situation  was  desperate,  the  danger  imminent,  the  time 
limited,  and  Martial's  tone  betrayed  an  inflexible  determina- 
tion. The  abbe  could  not  hesitate.  He  drew  the  letter  from  his 
pocket  and  handing  it  to  Martial :  "Here  it  is,  sir,"  he  said, 
solemnly,  "remember  that  you  have  pledged  the  honor  of  your 
name." 

"I  will  remember  it,  Monsieur  le  Cure.  Go  and  obtain  the 
ropes." 

Thus  the  abbe's  sorrow  and  amazement  were  intense,  \vhen, 
after  the  baron's  terrible  fall,  Maurice  declared  that  the  cord 
had  been  cut  beforehand.  And  yet  the  priest  could  not  make 
up  his  mind  that  Martial  was  guilty  of  such  execrable  duplicity, 
which  is  rarely  found  in  men  under  twenty-five  years  of  age. 
However,  no  one  suspected  the  abbe's  secret  thoughts.  It  was 
with  perfect  composure  that  he  dressed  the  baron's  wounds  and 
made  arrangements  for  the  flight,  though  not  until  he  saw  M. 
d'Escorval  installed  in  Poignot's  house  did  he  breathe  freely. 
The  fact  that  the  baron  had  been  able  to  endure  the  journey 
proved  that  he  retained  a  power  of  vitality  for  which  the  priest 
had  scarcely  dared  to  hope.  Some  way  must  now  be  discov- 
ered to  procure  the  surgical  instruments  and  pharmaceutical 
remedies  which  the  wounded  man's  condition  would  necessitate. 
But  where  and  how  could  they  be  procured?  The  police  kept 
a  close  watch  over  all  the  medical  men  and  druggists  in  Mon- 
taignac,  in  hopes  of  discovering  the  wounded  conspirators 
through  one  or  the  other  medium.  However,  the  cure  had 
for  ten  years  acted  as  physician  and  surgeon  for  the  poor  of 
his  parish,  and  he  possessed  an  almost  complete  set  of  surgical 
instruments,  and  a  well-filled  medicine  chest.  Accordingly  at 
nightfall  he  put  on  a  long  blue  blouse,  concealed  his  features 
under  a  large  slouch-hat,  and  wended  his  way  toward  Sair- 
meuse.  There  was  not  a  single  light  in  the  parsonage;  Bibiane, 
the  old  housekeeper,  having  gone  out  to  gossip  with  some  of 
the  neighbors.  The  priest  effected  an  entrance  into  the  house 
by  forcing  the  lock  of  the  garden  door;  he  speedily  found  the 
things  he  wanted  and  was  able  to  retire  without  having  been 


506     THE  HONOR  OF  THE  NAME 

perceived.  That  night  the  abbe  hazarded  a  cruel  but  indispen- 
sable operation.  His  heart  trembled,  but  although  he  had 
never  before  attempted  so  difficult  a  task,  the  hand  that  held 
the  knife  was  firm.  "It  is  not  upon  my  weak  powers  that  I 
rely,"  he  murmured,  "I  have  placed  my  trust  in  One  who  is  on 
High." 

His  faith  was  rewarded.  Three  days  later  the  wounded  man, 
after  a  comfortable  night,  seemed  to  regain  consciousness.  His 
first  glance  was  for  his  devoted  wife,  who  was  sitting  by 
the  bedside;  his  first  word  was  for  his  son.  "Maurice?"  he 
asked. 

"Is  in  safety,"  replied  the  abbe.  "He  must  be  on  the  road 
to  Turin." 

M.  d'Escorval's  lips  moved  as  if  he  were  murmuring  a 
prayer;  then,  in  a  feeble  voice:  "We  owe  you  a  debt  of  grati- 
tude which  we  can  never  pay,"  he  murmured,  "for  I  think  I 
shall  pull  through." 

He  did  "pull  through,"  but  not  without  terrible  suffering, 
and  not  without  severe  lapses  that  made  those  around  him 
tremble  with  anxiety.  Jean  Lacheneur  was  more  fortunate, 
for  he  was  on  his  legs  by  the  end  of  the  week. 

On  the  evening  of  the  seventeenth  of  April  the  abbe  was 
seated  in  the  loft  reading  a  newspaper  to  the  baron  when  sud- 
denly the  door  was  quietly  opened,  and  one  of  the  Poignot  boys 
looked  into  the  room.  He  did  not  speak,  however,  but  merely 
gave  the  cure  a  glance,  and  then  quickly  withdrew. 
!  The  priest  finished  the  paragraph  he  was  perusing,  laid  down 
the  paper,  and  went  out  on  to  the  landing.  "What's  the  mat- 
ter?" he  inquired. 

"Ah!"  answered  the  young  fellow,  "M.  Maurice,  Mademoi- 
selle Lacheneur,  and  the  old  corporal  have  just  arrived;  they 
want  to  come  upstairs." 

Three  bounds  and  the  abbe  reached  the  ground  floor.  "You 
imprudent  children!"  he  exclaimed,  addressing  the  three  trav- 
elers, "what  has  induced  you  to  return  here?"  Then  turning 
to  Maurice:  "Isn't  it  enough  that  your  father  has  nearly  died 
for  you  and  through  you?  Are  you  so  anxious  for  his  recap- 
ture that  you  return  here  to  set  our  enemies  on  his  track  ?  Be 
off  at  once !" 

Utterly  abashed,  it  was  as  much  as  Maurice  could  do  to 
falter  his  excuses;  uncertainty,  he  said,  had  seemed  worse  to 
him  than  death;  he  had  heard  of  M.  Lacheneur's  execution; 


THE   HONOR   OF   THE    NAME  507 

he  had  started  off  at  once  without  reflection  and  only  asked 
to  see  his  father  and  embrace  his  mother  before  leaving  again. 

The  priest  was  inflexible.  "The  slightest  emotion  might  kill 
your  father,"  he  declared ;  "and  I  should  cause  your  mother 
the  greatest  anxiety  if  I  told  her  of  your  return,  and  the 
dangers  to  which  you  have  foolishly  exposed  yourself.  Come, 
go  at  once,  and  cross  the  frontier  again  this  very  night." 

The  scene  had  been  witnessed  by  Jean  Lacheneur,  who  now 
approached.  "The  time  has  come  for  me  to  take  my  leave," 
said  he,  "I  shall  go  with  Maurice.  But  I  scarcely  think  that 
the  highway's  the  right  place  for  my  sister.  You  would  cap 
all  your  kindness,  Monsieur  le  Cure,  if  you  would  only  per- 
suade Father  Poignot  to  let  her  remain  here,  and  if  you  would 
watch  over  her  yourself." 

The  abbe  deliberated  for  a  moment,  and  then  hurriedly  re- 
plied :  "So  be  it ;  but  go  at  once ;  your  name  is  not  on  the 
proscribed  list.    You  will  not  be  pursued." 

Suddenly  separated  from  his  wife  in  this  fashion,  Maurice 
wished  to  confer  with  her,  to  give  her  some  parting  advice ; 
but  the  abbe  did  not  allow  him  an  opportunity  to  do  so.  "Go, 
go  at  once,"  he  insisted.    "Farewell !" 

The  priest's  intentions  were  excellent,  no  doubt,  but  in  point 
of  fact  he  was  too  hasty.  At  the  very  moment  when  Maurice 
stood  sorely  in  need  of  wise  and  temperate  counsel  he  was 
handed  over  to  Jean  Lacheneur's  pernicious  influence.  Scarcely 
were  they  outside  the  house  than  the  latter  remarked :  "We 
have  to  thank  the  Sairmeuses  and  the  Marquis  de  Courtornieu 
for  all  this.  I  don't  even  know  where  they  have  thrown  my 
father's  corpse.  I,  his  son,  was  even  debarred  from  embracing 
him  before  he  was  traitorously  murdered."  He  spoke  in  a 
harsh,  bitter  voice,  laughing  the  while  in  a  strange  discordant 
fashion.  "And  yet,"  he  continued,  "if  we  climbed  that  hill  we 
should  be  able  to  see  the  Chateau  de  Sairmeuse  brightly  illumi- 
nated. They  are  celebrating  the  marriage  of  Martial  de  Sair- 
meuse and  Blanche  de  Courtornieu.  We  are  friendless  outcasts, 
succorless  and  shelterless,  but  they  are  feasting  and  making 
merry." 

Less  than  this  would  have  sufficed  to  rekindle  Maurice's 
wrath.  Yes,  these  Sairmeuses  and  these  Courtornieus  had  killed 
the  elder  Lacheneur,  and  they  had  betrayed  the  Baron  d'Escor- 
val,  and  delivered  him  up — a  mangled  corpse — to  his  suffering 
relatives.     "It  would  be  a  rightful  vengeance  to  disturb  their 


508     THE  HONOR  OF  THE  NAME 

merrymaking  now,  and  in  the  midst  of  hundreds  of  assembled 
guests  denounce  their  cruelty  and  perfid"."  "I  will  start  at 
once,"  exclaimed  Maurice,  "I  will  challenge  Martial  in  the 
presence  of  the  revalers." 

But  Jean  interrupted  him.  "No,  don't  do  that !  The  cowards 
would  arrest  you.  Write  to  the  young  marquis,  and  I  will  take 
your  letter." 

Corporal  Bavois,  who  heard  the  conversation,  did  not  make 
the  slightest  attempt  to  oppose  this  foolish  enterprise.  Indeed, 
he  thought  the  undertaking  quite  natural,  under  the  circum- 
stances, and  esteemed  his  young  friends  all  the  more  for  their 
rashness.  They  all  three  entered  the  first  wine-shop  they  came 
across,  and  Maurice  wrote  the  challenge  which  was  confided  to 
Jean  Lacheneur. 

The  only  object  which  Jean  had  in  view  was  to  disturb  the 
bridal  ball  at  the  Chateau  de  Sairmeuse.  He  merely  hoped  to 
provoke  a  scandal  which  would  disgrace  Martial  and  his  rela- 
tives in  the  eyes  of  all  their  friends ;  for  he  did  not  for  one 
moment  imagine  that  the  young  marquis  would  accept  Mau- 
rice's challenge.  While  waiting  for  Martial  in  the  hall  of  the 
chateau,  he  sought  to  compose  a  fitting  attitude,  striving  to 
steel  himself  against  the  sneering  scorn  with  which  he  expected 
the  young  nobleman  would  receive  him.  Martial's  kindly  greet- 
ing was  so  unlooked  for  that  Jean  was  at  first  quite  discon- 
certed, and  he  did  not  recover  his  assurance  until  he  perceived 
how  cruelly  Maurice's  insulting  letter  made  the  marquis  suffer. 
When  the  latter  seized  him  by  the  arm  and  led  him  upstairs, 
he  offered  no  resistance ;  and  as  they  crossed  the  brightly-lighted 
drawing-rooms  and  passed  through  the  throng  of  astonished 
guests,  his  surprise  was  so  intense  that  he  forgot  both  his 
heavy  shoes  and  peasant's  blouse.  Breathless  with  anxiety,  he 
wondered  what  was  coming.  Then  standing  on  the  threshold 
of  the  little  saloon  leading  out  of  the  grand  hall  he  heard  Mar- 
tial read  Maurice  d'Escorval's  letter  aloud,  and  finally  saw  him, 
frantic  with  passion,  throw  the  missive  in  his  father-in-law's 
face.  It  might  have  been  supposed  that  these  incidents  did  not 
in  the  least  affect  Jean  Lacheneur,  who  stood  by  cold  and  un- 
moved, with  compressed  lips  and  downcast  eyes.  However, 
appearances  were  deceitful,  for  in  reality  his  heart  throbbed 
with  exultation ;  and  if  he  lowered  his  eyes,  it  was  only  to 
conceal  the  joy  that  sparkled  in  them.  He  had  not  hoped  for 
so  prompt  and  so  terrible  a  revenge. 


THE   HONOR   OF   THE   NAME  509 

Nor  was  this  all.  After  brutally  pushing  Blanche,  his  newly- 
wedded  wife,  aside  when  she  attempted  to  detain  him,  Martial 
again  seized  Jean  Lachcneur's  arm.  "Now,"  said  he,  "follow 
me!" 

Jean  still  obeyed  him  without  uttering  a  word.  They  again 
crossed  the  grand  hall,  and  on  passing  out  into  an  anteroom, 
Martial  took  a  candle  burning  on  a  side  table,  and  opened  a 
little  door  leading  to  a  private  staircase.  "Where  are  you 
taking  me?"  inquired  Jean. 

Martial,  in  his  haste,  was  already  a  third  of  the  way  up  the 
flight.    "Are  you  afraid?"  he  asked,  turning  round. 

The  other  shrugged  his  shoulders.  "If  you  put  it  in  that 
way,  let  us  go  on,"  he  coldly  replied. 

They  entered  the  room  which  Martial  had  occupied  since 
taking  possession  of  the  chateau.  It  was  the  same  room  that 
had  once  belonged  to  Jean  Lacheneur ;  and  nothing  in  it  had 
been  changed.  The  whilom  steward's  son  recognized  the 
brightly-flowered  curtains,  the  figures  on  the  carpet,  and  even 
an  old  armchair  ensconced  wherein  he  had  read  many  a  novel 
in  secret.  Martial  hastened  to  a  small  writing-desk,  and  drew 
therefrom  a  folded  paper  which  he  slipped  into  his  pocket. 
"Now,"  said  he,  "let  us  be  off.  We  must  avoid  another  scene. 
My  father  and  my  wife  will  be  looking  for  me.  I  will  explain 
everything  when  we  are  outside." 

They  hastily  descended  the  staircase,  passed  through  the 
gardens,  and  soon  reached  the  long  avenue.  Then  Jean  Lache- 
neur suddenly  paused.  "After  all,"  said  he,  "it  was  scarcely 
necessary  for  me  to  wait  so  long  for  a  simple  yes  or  no.  Have 
you  decided?    What  answer  am  I  to  give  Maurice  d'Escorval?" 

"None  at  all.  You  will  take  me  to  him.  I  must  see  him 
and  speak  with  him  in  order  to  justify  myself.  Let  us 
proceed  !" 

But  Jean  did  not  move.  "What  you  ask  is  impossible !"  he 
replied. 

"Why  so?" 

"Because  Maurice  is  pursued.  If  he  is  captured,  he  will  be 
tried  and  undoubtedly  condemned  to  death.  He  is  now  in  a 
safe  retreat,  and  I  have  no  right  to  disclose  it."  In  point  of 
fact,  Maurice's  safe  retreat,  for  the  time  being,  was  only  a 
neighboring  wood,  where,  in  the  corporal's  company,  he  was 
waiting  for  Jean's  return.  But  the  latter  could  not  resist  the 
temptation  to  make  this  insinuating  remark,  which,  by  reason 


510     THE  HONOR  OF  THE  NAME 

of  its  covert  character,  was  far  more  insulting  than  if  he  had 
simply  said  :  "We  fear  informers  !" 

Strange  as  it  may  appear,  and  proud  and  violent  as  was 
Martial's  nature,  he  did  not  resent  the  insult.  "So  you  distrust 
me  !"  he  merely  said.  Jean  Lacheneur  was  silent — another  in- 
sult. "And  yet,"  insisted  Martial,  "after  what  you've  just  seen 
and  heard  you  can't  possibly  suspect  me  of  having  cut  the  ropes 
I  carried  to  the  baron." 

"No !  I'm  convinced  that  you  didn't  do  it." 

"You  saw  how  I  punished  the  man  who  had  dared  to  com- 
promise my  honor.  And  this  man  is  the  father  of  the  girl  I 
married  to-day." 

"Oh,  I  saw  and  heard  everything,  but  as  for  taking  you  to 
Maurice,  I  must  still  reply:  'Impossible!'" 

No  doubt  the  younger  Lacheneur's  severity  was  unjust ;  how- 
ever, Martial  did  not  rebel  against  it.  He  merely  drew  from 
his  pocket  the  paper  which  he  had  taken  from  his  desk  a  few 
minutes  previously,  and  handed  it  to  Jean.  "You  doubt  my 
word,"  he  said  grimly.  "I  shall  not  forget  to  punish  those 
whose  fault  it  is.  However,  here  is  a  proof  of  my  sincerity 
which  I  expect  you  to  give  to  Maurice,  and  which  must  convince 
even  you." 

"What  proof  is  it?" 

"Why,  the  very  letter  in  exchange  for  which  we  facilitated 
the  baron's  escape.  A  presentiment  I  can't  explain  prevented 
me  from  burning  it,  and  now  I'm  very  glad  I  didn't.  Take  it, 
and  do  what  you  choose  with  it." 

Any  one  but  Jean  Lacheneur  would  have  appreciated  the 
young  marquis's  candor,  and  have  been  touched  by  the  con- 
fidence he  displayed.  But  Jean's  hatred  was  implacable,  and 
the  more  humble  his  enemy  showed  himself,  the  more  deter- 
mined he  was  to  carry  out  the  project  of  vengeance  maturing 
in  his  brain.  His  only  reply  to  Martial's  last  remark  was  a 
promise  to  give  the  letter  to  Maurice. 

"It  should  be  a  bond  of  alliance,  it  seems  to  me,"  said  Mar- 
tial, gently. 

"A  bond  of  alliance !"  rejoined  Jean  with  a  threatening 
gesture.  "You  are  too  fast,  Monsieur  le  Marquis !  Have  you 
forgotten  all  the  blood  that  flows  between  us?  You  didn't  cut 
the  ropes;  but  who  condemned  the  Baron  d'Escorval  to  death? 
Wasn't  it  your  father,  the  Due  de  Sairmeuse?  An  alliance! 
why,  you   must  have   forgotten   that   you   and   yours   sent  my 


THE   HONOR   OF   THE    NAME  511 

father  to  the  scaffold !  How  have  you  rewarded  the  man  whose 
honesty  gave  you  back  a  fortune?  By  murdering  him  and 
ruining  his  daughter's  reputation." 

"I  offered  my  name  and  fortune  to  your  sister." 
"I  would  have  killed  her  with  my  own  hand  had  she  accepted 
your  offer.  Take  that  as  a  proof  that  I  don't  forget;  and  if 
any  great  disgrace  ever  tarnishes  the  proud  name  of  Sairmeuse, 
think  of  Jean  Lacheneur.  My  hand  will  be  in  it."  He  was 
so  frantic  with  passion  that  he  forgot  his  usual  caution.  How- 
ever, after  a  great  effort  he  recovered  his  self-possession,  and 
added  in  calmer  tones :  "If  you  are  so  desirous  of  seeing  Mau- 
rice, be  at  La  Reche  to-morrow  at  noon.  He  will  be  there." 
With  these  words  he  turned  abruptly  aside,  sprang  over  the 
fence  skirting  the  avenue,  and  vanished  into  the  darkness. 

"Jean,"  cried  Martial,  in  almost  supplicating  tones;  "Jean, 
come  back — listen  to  me  !"  There  was  no  reply-  The  young 
marquis  stood  bewildered  in  the  middle  of  the  road;  and  little 
short  of  a  miracle  prevented  his  being  run  over  by  a  horseman 
galloping  in  the  direction  of  Montaignac.  The  latter's  shouts 
to  get  out  of  the  way  awakened  him  from  his  dream,  and  as 
the  cold  night  breeze  fanned  his  forehead  he  was  able  to  collect 
his  thoughts  and  judge  his  conduct.  Ah,  there  was  no  denying 
it.  He,  the  professed  skeptic,  a  man  who,  despite  his  youth, 
boasted  of  his  indifference  and  insensibility,  had  forgotten  all 
self-control.  He  had  acted  generously,  no  doubt,  but  after  all 
he  had  created  a  terrible  scandal,  all  to  no  purpose.  When 
Blanche,  his  wife,  had  accused  Marie-Anne  of  being  the  cause 
of  his  frenzy,  she  had  not  been  entirely  wrong.  For  though 
Martial  might  regard  all  other  opinions  with  disdain,  the  thought 
that  Marie-Anne  despised  him,  and  considered  him  a  traitor 
and  a  coward,  had,  in  truth,  made  him  perfectly  frantic.  It 
was  for  her  sake  that  on  the  impulse  of  the  moment  he  had 
resorted  to  such  a  startling  justification.  And  if  he  had  begged 
Jean  to  lead  him  to  Maurice  d'Escorval,  it  was  because  he 
hoped  to  find  Marie-Anne  not  far  off,  and  to  say  to  her:  "Ap- 
pearances were  against  me,  but  I  am  innocent ;  and  have  proved 
it  by  unmasking  the  real  culprit."  It  was  to  Marie-Anne  that 
he  wished  Chanlouineau's  circular  to  be  given,  thinking  that 
she,  at  least,  would  be  surprised  at  his  generosity.  And  yet 
all  his  expectations  had  been  disappointed.  "It  will  be  the 
devil  to  arrange  !"  he  thought ;  "but  nonsense !  it  will  be  for- 
gotten in  a  month.     The  best  way  is  to  face  those  gossips  at 


512      THE  HONOR  OF  THE  NAME 

once:  I  will  return  immediately."  He  said:  "I  will  return," 
in  the  most  deliberate  manner;  but  his  courage  grew  weaker 
at  each  successive  step  he  took  in  the  direction  of  the  chateau. 
The  guests  must  have  already  left,  and  Martial  concluded  that 
he  would  probably  find  himself  alone  with  his  young  wife,  his 
father,  and  the  Marquis  de  Courtornieu,  whose  reproaches, 
tears,  and  threats  he  would  be  obliged  to  encounter.  "No," 
muttered  he.  "After  all,  let  them  have  a  night  to  calm  them- 
selves.    I  will  not  appear  until  to-morrow." 

But  where  should  he  sleep?  He  was  in  evening  dress  and 
bareheaded,  and  the  night  was  chilly.  On  reflection  he  recol- 
lected his  father's  house  at  Montaignac.  "I  shall  find  a  bed 
there,"  he  thought,  "servants,  a  fire,  and  a  change  of  clothing 
— and  to-morrow,  a  horse  to  come  back  again."  The  walk  was 
a  long  one,  no  doubt ;  however,  in  his  present  mood,  this  cir- 
cumstance did  not  displease  him.  The  servant  who  came  to 
open  the  door  when  he  knocked  was  at  first  speechless  with 
astonishment.  "You,  Monsieur  le  Marquis !"  he  exclaimed  at 
last. 

"Yes,  it's  I.  Light  a  good  fire  in  the  drawing-room,  and 
bring  me  a  change  of  clothes."  The  valet  obeyed,  and  soon 
Martial  found  himself  alone,  stretched  on  a  sofa  in  front  of 
the  blazing  logs.  "It  would  be  a  good  thing  to  sleep  and  forget 
my  troubles,"  he  thought ;  and  accordingly  he  tried  to  do  so, 
but  it  was  almost  dawn  when  at  last  he  fell  into  a  feverish 
slumber. 

He  woke  up  again  at  nine  o'clock,  gave  the  necessary  instruc- 
tions for  breakfast,  and  was  eating  with  a  good  appetite,  when 
suddenly  he  remembered  his  rendezvous  with  Maurice.  He 
ordered  a  horse  and  set  out  at  once,  reaching  La  Reche  at  half- 
past  eleven  o'clock.  The  others  had  not  yet  arrived ;  so  he 
fastened  his  horse  by  the  bridle  to  a  tree  near  by,  and  leisurely 
climbed  to  the  summit  of  the  hill.  It  was  here  that  Lacheneur's 
cottage  had  formerly  stood,  and  the  four  walls  still  remained 
standing,  blackened  by  fire.  Martial  was  gazing  at  the  ruins, 
not  without  a  feeling  of  emotion,  when  he  heard  the  branches 
crackle  in  the  adjacent  cover.  He  turned,  and  perceived  that 
Maurice,  Jean,  and  Corporal  Bavois  were  approaching.  The 
old  soldier  carried  under  his  arm,  in  a  piece  of  green  serge,  a 
couple  of  swords  which  Jean  Lacheneur  had  borrowed  from  a 
retired  officer  at  Montaignac  during  the  night.  "We  are  sorry 
to    have    kept    you    waiting,"    began    Maurice,    "but    you    will 


THE   HONOR   OF   THE   NAME  513 

observe  that  it  is  not  yet  noon.  Since  we  scarcely  expected  to 
see  you — " 

"I  was  too  anxious  to  justify  myself  not  to  be  here  early," 
interrupted  Martial. 

Maurice  shrugged  his  shoulders  disdainfully.  "This  is  not 
a  question  of  self- justification,  but  one  of  fighting,"  he  abruptly 
replied. 

Insulting  as  were  the  words  and  the  gesture  that  accom- 
panied them,  Martial  never  so  much  as  winced.  "Grief  has 
made  you  unjust,"  said  he,  gently,  "or  M.  Lacheneur  has  not 
told  you  everything." 

"Yes,  Jean  has  told  me  everything." 

"Well,  then?" 

Martial's  coolness  drove  Maurice  frantic.  "Well,"  he  re- 
plied, with  extreme  violence,  "my  hatred  is  unabated  even  if 
my  scorn  is  diminished.  I  have  waited  for  this  occasion  ever 
since  the  day  we  met  on  the  square  at  Sairmeuse  in  Mademoi- 
selle Lacheneur's  presence.  You  said  to  me  then :  'We  shall 
meet  again.'  And  now  here  we  stand  face  to  face.  What 
insults  must  I  heap  upon  you  to  decide  you  to  fight?" 

With  a  threatening  gesture  Martial  seized  one  of  the  swords 
which  Bavois  offered  him,  and  assumed  an  attitude  of  defense. 
"You  will  have  it  so,"  said  he  in  a  husky  voice.  "The  thought 
of  Marie-Anne  can  no  longer  save  you." 

But  the  blades  had  scarcely  crossed  before  a  cry  from  Jean 
arrested  the  combat.  "The  soldiers !"  he  exclaimed ;  "we  are 
betrayed."  A  dozen  gendarmes  were  indeed  approaching  at  full 
speed. 

"Ah!  I  spoke  the  truth!"  exclaimed  Maurice.  "The  coward 
came,  but  the  guards  accompanied  him."  He  bounded  back, 
and  breaking  his  sword  over  his  knee,  hurled  the  fragments  in 
Martial's  face.     "Here,  miserable  wretch !"  he  cried. 

"Wretch !"  repeated  Jean  and  Corporal  Bavois.  "traitor ! 
coward !"  And  then  they  fled,  leaving  Martial  literally  thun- 
derstruck. 

He  struggled  hard  to  regain  his  composure.  The  soldiers 
were  swiftly  approaching;  he  ran  to  meet  them,  and  addressing 
the  officer  in  command,  imperiously  inquired :  "Do  you  know 
who  I  am?" 

"Yes,"  replied  the  brigadier,  respectfully,  "you  are  the  Due 
de  Sairmeuse's  son." 

"Very  well !  I  forbid  you  to  follow  those  men." 


514 


THE  HONOR  OF  THE  NAME 


The  brigadier  hesitated  at  first;  then  in  a  decided  tone  he 
replied :  "I  can't  obey  you,  sir.  I  have  my  orders."  And  turn- 
ing to  his  men,  he  added,  "Forward !" 

He  was  about  to  set  the  example,  when  Martial  seized  him 
by  the  arm:  "At  least  you  will  not  refuse  to  tell  me  who  sent 
you  here?" 

"Who  sent  us  ?  The  colonel,  of  course,  in  obedience  to  orders 
from  the  grand  provost,  M.  d'Courtornieu.  He  sent  the  order 
last  night.  We  have  been  hidden  near  here  ever  since  daybreak. 
But  thunder !  let  go  your  hold,  I  must  be  off." 

He  galloped  away,  and  Martial,  staggering  like  a  drunken 
man,  descended  the  slope,  and  remounted  his  horse.  But  in- 
stead of  repairing  to  the  Chateau  of  Sairmeuse,  he  returned 
to  Montaignac,  and  passed  the  remainder  of  the  afternoon  in 
the  solitude  of  his  own  room.  That  evening  he  sent  two  letters 
to  Sairmeuse — one  to  his  father,  and  the  other  to  his  wife. 


\4'ARTIAL  certainly  imagined  that  he  had  created  a  terrible 
■L**-  scandal  on  the  evening  of  his  marriage ;  but  he  had  no 
conception  of  the  reality.  Had  a  thunderbolt  burst  in  these 
gilded  halls,  the  guests  at  Sairmeuse  could  not  have  been  more 
amazed  and  horrified  than  they  were  by  the  scene  presented 
to  their  view.  The  whole  assembly  shuddered  when  Martial, 
in  his  wrath,  flung  the  crumpled  letter  full  in  the  Marquis  de 
Courtornieu's  face.  And  when  the  latter  sank  back  into  an 
armchair,  several  young  ladies  of  extreme  sensibility  actually 
fainted  away.  The  young  marquis  had  departed,  taking  Jean 
Lacheneur  with  him,  and  yet  the  guests  stood  as  motionless  as 
statues,  pale,  mute,  and  stupefied.  It  was  Blanche  who  broke 
the  spell.  While  the  Marquis  de  Courtornieu  was  panting  for 
breath — while  the  Due  de  Sairmeuse  stood  trembling  and  speech- 
less with  suppressed  anger — the  young  marquise  made  an 
heroic  attempt  to  save  the  situation.  With  her  hand  still  aching 
from  Martial's  brutal  clasp,  her  heart  swelling  with  rage  and 
hatred,  and  her  face  whiter  than  her  bridal  veil,  she  yet  had 


THE   HONOR   OF   THE   NAME  515 

sufficient  strength  to  restrain  her  tears  and  force  her  lips  to 
smile.  "Really  this  is  placing  too  much  importance  on  a  trifling 
misunderstanding  which  will  be  explained  to-morrow,"  she 
said,  almost  gaily,  to  those  nearest  her.  And  stepping  into  the 
middle  of  the  hall  she  made  a  sign  to  the  musicians  to  play  a 
country  dance. 

But  scarcely  had  the  first  note  sounded,  than,  as  if  by  unani- 
mous consent,  the  whole  company  hastened  toward  the  door. 
It  might  have  been  supposed  that  the  chateau  was  on  fire,  for 
the  guests  did  not  withdraw,  they  actually  fled.  An  hour 
previously,  the  Marquis  de  Courtornieu  and  the  Due  de  Sair- 
ineuse  had  been  overwhelmed  with  the  most  obsequious  homage 
and  adulation.  But  now  there  was  not  one  in  all  the  assembly 
daring  enough  to  take  them  openly  by  the  hand.  Just  when  they 
both  believed  themselves  all-powerful  they  were  rudely  pre- 
cipitated from  their  lordly  eminence.  Indeed  disgrace,  and  per- 
haps punishment,  were  to  be  their  portion.  Heroic  to  the  last, 
however,  the  abandoned  bride  endeavored  to  stay  the  tide  of 
retreating  guests.  Standing  near  the  door,  and  with  her  most 
bewitching  smile  upon  her  lips,  Blanche  spared  neither  flattering 
words  nor  entreaties  in  her  efforts  to  retain  the  deserters. 
The  attempt  was  vain ;  and,  in  point  of  fact,  many  were  not 
sorry  of  this  opportunity  to  repay  the  young  Marquise  de 
Sairmeuse  for  all  her  past  disdain  and  criticism.  Soon,  of 
all  the  guests,  there  only  remained  one  old  gentleman  who,  on 
account  of  his  gout,  had  deemed  it  prudent  not  to  mingle  with 
the  crowd.  He  bowed  as  he  passed  before  Blanche,  and  could 
not  even  restrain  a  blush,  for  he  rightly  considered  that 
this  swift  flight  was  a  cruel  insult  for  the  abandoned  bride. 
Still,  what  could  he  do  alone?  Under  the  circumstances,  his 
presence  would  prove  irksome,  and  so  he  departed  like  the 
others. 

Blanche  was  now  alone,  and  there  was  no  longer  any  necessity 
for  constraint.  There  were  no  more  curious  witnesses  to  enjoy 
her  sufferings  and  comment  upon  them.  With  a  furious  gesture 
she  tore  her  bridal  veil  and  wreath  of  orange  flowers  from  her 
head,  and  trampled  them  under  foot.  "Extinguish  the  lights 
everywhere !"  she  cried  to  a  servant  passing  by,  stamping  her 
foot  angrily,  and  speaking  as  imperiously  as  if  she  had  been  in 
her  father's  house  and  not  at  Sairmeuse.  The  lackey  obeyed 
her,  and  then,  with  flashing  eyes  and  disheveled  hair,  she 
hastened   to  the   little  drawing-room  at   the   end  of   the  hall. 


616     THE  HONOR  OF  THE  NAME 

Several  servants  stood  round  the  marquis,  who  was  lying  back 
in  his  chair  with  a  swollen,  purple  face,  as  if  he  had  been 
stricken   with   apoplexy. 

"All  the  blood  in  his  body  has  flown  to  his  head,"  remarked 
the  duke,  with  a  shrug  of  his  shoulders.  His  grace  was  furious. 
He  scarcely  knew  whom  he  was  most  angry  with — with  Martial 
or  the  Marquis  de  Courtornieu.  The  former,  by  his  public 
confession,  had  certainly  imperiled,  if  not  ruined,  their  political 
future.  But,  on  the  other  hand,  the  Marquis  de  Courtornieu 
had  cast  on  the  Sairmeuses  the  odium  of  an  act  of  treason 
revolting  to  any  honorable  heart.  The  duke  was  watching  the 
clustering  servants  with  a  contracted  brow  when  his  daughter- 
in-law  entered  the  room.  She  paused  before  him,  and  angrily 
exclaimed :  "Why  did  you  remain  here  while  I  was  left  alone 
to  endure  such  humiliation.  Ah  !  if  I  had  been  a  man !  All 
our  guests  have  fled,  monsieur — all  of  them !" 

M.  de  Sairmeuse  sprang  up.  "Ah,  well  1  what  if  they  have. 
Let  them  go  to  the  devil  I"  Among  all  the  invited  ones  who 
had  just  left  his  house,  there  was  not  one  whom  his  grace 
really  regretted — not  one  whom  he  regarded  as  an  equal.  In 
giving  a  marriage  feast  for  his  son,  he  had  invited  all  the 
petty  nobility  and  gentry  of  the  neighborhood.  They  had  come — 
very  well!  They  had  fled — bon  voyage'  If  the  duke  cared  at 
all  for  their  desertion,  it  was  only  because  it  presaged  with 
terrible  eloquence  the  disgrace  that  was  to  come.  Still  he  tried 
to  deceive  himself.  "They  will  come  back  again,  madame," 
said  he;  "you  will  see  them  return,  humble  and  repentant  1 
But  where  can  Martial  be?" 

Blanche's  eyes  flashed  but  she  made  no  reply. 

"Did  he  go  away  with  the  son  of  that  rascal,  Lacheneur?" 

"I  believe  so."  ' 

"It  won't  be  long  before  he  returns — " 

"Who  can  say?" 

M.  de  Sairmeuse  struck  the  mantelpiece  with  his  clenched 
fist.  "My  God !"  he  exclaimed,  "this  is  an  overwhelming  mis- 
fortune." The  young  wife  believed  that  he  was  anxious  and 
angry  on  her  account.  But  she  was  mistaken ;  for  his  grace 
was  only  thinking  of  his  disappointed  ambition.  Whatever 
he  might  pretend,  the  duke  secretly  admitted  his  son's  intel- 
lectual superiority  and  genius  for  intrigue,  and  he  was  now 
extremely  anxious  to  consult  him.  "He  has  wrought  this  evil," 
he  murmured:  "it  is  for  him  to  repair  it!    And  he  is  capable 


THE   HONOR   OF   THE    NAME  517 

of  doing  so  if  he  chooses."  Then,  aloud,  he  resumed:  "Martial 
must  be  found — he  must  be  found — " 

With  an  angry  gesture  Blanche  interrupted  him.  "You 
must  look  for  Marie-Anne  Lacheneur  if  you  wish  to  find  my 
husband,"  said  she. 

The  duke  was  of  the  same  opinion,  but  he  dared  not  admit 
it.    "Anger  leads  you  astray,  marquise,"  said  he. 

"I  know  what  I  say,"  was  the  curt  response. 

"No,  believe  me,  Martial  will  soon  make  his  appearance. 
If  he  went  away,  he  will  soon  return.  The  servants  shall  go 
for  him  at  once,  or  I  will  go  for  him  myself — " 

The  duke  left  the  room  with  a  muttered  oath,  and  Blanche 
approached  her  father,  who  still  seemed  to  be  unconscious.  She 
seized  his  arm  and  shook  it  roughly,  peremptorily  exclaiming, 
"Father,  father !"  This  voice,  which  had  so  often  made  the 
Marquis  de  Courtornieu  tremble,  proved  more  efficacious  than 
eau  de  Cologne.  "I  wish  to  speak  with  you,"  added  Blanche: 
"do  you  hear  me?" 

The  marquis  dared  not  disobey ;  he  slowly  opened  his  eyes 
and  raised  himself  from  his  recumbent  position.  "Ah !  how 
I  suffer !"  he  groaned,  "how  I  suffer !" 

His  daughter  glanced  at  him  scornfully,  and  then  in  a  tone  of 
bitter  irony  remarked:  "Do  you  think  that  I'm  in  paradise?" 

"Speak,"  sighed  the  marquis.    "What  do  you  wish  to  say?" 

The  bride  turned  haughtily  to  the  servants  and  imperiously 
ordered  them  to  leave  the  room.  When  they  had  done  so  and 
she  had  locked  the  door :  "Let  us  speak  of  Martial,"  she  began. 

At  the  sound  of  his  son-in-law's  name  the  marquis  bounded 
from  his  chair  with  clenched  fists.  "Ah,  the  wretch !"  he 
exclaimed. 

"Martial  is  my  husband,  father." 

"And  you !  after  what  he  has  done — you  dare  to  defend 
him?" 

"I  don't  defend  him;  but  I  don't  wish  him  to  be  murdered." 
At  that  moment  the  news  of  Martial's  death  would  have  given 
the  Marquis  de  Courtornieu  infinite  satisfaction.  "You  heard, 
father,"  continued  Blanche,  "that  young  D'Escoval  appointed 
a  meeting  for  to-morrow,  at  midday,  at  La  Reche.  I  know 
Martial;  he  has  been  insulted,  and  will  go  there.  Will  he  en- 
counter a  loyal  adversary?  No.  He  will  find  a  band  of  assas- 
sins.    You  alone  can  prevent  him  from  being  murdered." 

"I— and  how  ?" 


518     THE  HONOR  OF  THE  NAME 

"By  sending  some  soldiers  to  La  Reche,  with  orders  to  con- 
ceal themselves  in  the  grove — with  orders  to  arrest  these  mur- 
derers at  the  proper  moment." 

The  marquis  gravely  shook  his  head.  "If  I  do  that,"  said 
he,  "Martial  is  quite  capable — " 

"Of  anything! — yes,  I  know  it.  But  what  does  it  matter  to 
you,  since  I  am  willing  to  assume  the  responsibility?" 

M.  de  Courtomieu  looked  at  his  daughter  inquisitively,  and 
if  she  had  been  less  excited  as  she  insisted  on  the  necessity  of 
sending  instructions  of  Montaignac  at  once,  she  would  have 
discerned  a  gleam  of  malice  in  his  eye.  The  marquis  was 
thinking  that  this  would  afford  him  an  ample  revenge,  since 
he  could  easily  bring  dishonor  on  Martial,  who  had  shown  so 
little  regard  for  the  honor  of  others.  "Very  well,  then;  since 
you  will  have  it  so,  it  shall  be  done,"  he  said,  with  feigned 
reluctance. 

His  daughter  hastily  procured  ink  and  pens,  and  then  with 
trembling  hands  he  prepared  a  series  of  minute  instructions  for 
the  commander  at  Montaignac.  Blanche  herself  gave  the 
letter  to  a  servant,  with  directions  to  start  at  once;  and  it 
was  not  until  she  had  seen  him  set  off  at  a  gallop  that  bhe  went 
to  her  own  apartment,  that  luxurious  bridal  chamber  which 
Martial  had  so  sumptuously  adorned.  But  now  its  splendor 
only  aggravated  the  misery  of  the  deserted  wife,  for  that 
she  was  deserted  she  did  not  for  a  moment  doubt.  She  felt 
sure  that  her  husband  would  not  return,  and  had  no  faith 
whatever  in  the  promises  of  the  Due  de  Sairmeuse,  who  at 
that  moment  was  searching  through  the  neighborhood  with  a 
party  of  servants.  Where  could  the  truant  be?  With  Marie- 
Anne  most  assuredly — and  at  the  thought  a  wild  desire  to 
wreak  vengeance  on  her  rival  took  possession  of  Blanche's 
heart.  She  did  not  sleep  that  night,  she  did  not  even  undress, 
but  when  morning  came  she  exchanged  her  snowy  bridal  robe 
for  a  black  dress,  and  wandered  through  the  grounds  like  a 
restless  spirit.  Most  of  the  day,  however,  she  spent  shut  up 
in  her  room,  refusing  to  allow  either  the  duke  or  her  father 
to  enter. 

At  about  eight  o'clock  in  the  evening  tidings  came  from 
Martial.  A  servant  brought  two  letters ;  one  sent  by  the  young 
marquis  to  his  father,  and  the  other  to  his  wife.  For  a  moment 
Blanche  hesitated  to  open  the  one  addressed  to  her.  It  would 
determine  her  destiny,  and  she  felt  afraid.     At  last,  however, 


THE   HONOR   OF   THE    NAME  519 

she  broke  the  seal  and  read :  "Madame — Between  you  and  me 
all  is  ended ;  reconciliation  is  impossible.  From  this  moment 
you  are  free.  I  esteem  you  enough  to  hope  that  you  will  respect 
the  name  of  Sairmeuse,  from  which  I  can  not  relieve  you.  You 
will  agree  with  me,  I  am  sure,  in  thinking  a  quiet  separation 
preferable  to  the  scandal  of  legal  proceedings.  My  lawyer  will 
pay  you  an  allowance  befitting  the  wife  of  a  man  whose  income 
amounts  to  five  hundred  thousand  francs. — Martial  de  Sair- 
meuse." 

Blanche  staggered  beneath  the  terrible  blow.  She  was  indeed 
deserted — and  deserted,  as  she  supposed,  for  another.  "Ah !" 
she  exclaimed,  "that  creature  !  that  creature !     I  will  kill  her !" 

While  Blanche  was  measuring  the  extent  of  her  misfortune 
his  grace  the  Due  de  Sairmeuse  raved  and  swore.  After  a 
fruitless  search  for  his  son  he  returned  to  the  chateau,  and 
began  a  continuous  tramp  to  and  fro  in  the  great  hall.  On  the 
morrow  he  scarcely  ate,  and  was  well-nigh  sinking  from  weari- 
ness when  his  son's  letter  was  handed  him.  It  was  very  brief. 
Martial  did  not  vouchsafe  any  explanation ;  he  did  not  even 
mention  the  conjugal  separation  he  had  determined  on,  but 
merely  wrote :  "I  can  not  return  to  Sairmeuse,  and  yet  it  is 
of  the  utmost  importance  that  I  should  see  you.  You  will,  I 
trust,  approve  the  resolution  I  have  taken  when  I  explain  the 
reasons  that  have  guided  me  in  adopting  it.  Come  to  Montai- 
gnac,  then,  the  sooner  the  better.     I  am  waiting  for  you." 

Had  he  listened  to  the  prompting  of  his  own  impatience,  his 
grace  would  have  started  at  once.  But  he  could  not  abandon 
the  Marquis  de  Courtornieu  and  his  son's  wife  in  this  abrupt 
fashion.  He  must  at  least  see  them,  speak  to  them,  and  warn 
them  of  his  intended  departure.  He  attempted  to  do  this  in 
vain.  Blanche  had  shut  herself  up  in  her  own  apartments, 
and  remained  deaf  to  all  entreaties  for  admittance.  Her  father 
had  been  put  to  bed,  and  the  physician  who  had  been  summoned 
to  attend  him,  declared  that  the  marquis  was  well-nigh  at 
death's  door.  The  duke  was  therefore  obliged  to  resign  himself 
to  the  prospect  of  another  night  of  suspense,  which  was  almost 
intolerable  to  such  a  nature  as  his.  "However,"  thought  he, 
"to-morrow,  after  breakfast,  I  will  find  some  pretext  to  escape, 
without  telling  them  I  am  going  to  see  Martial." 

He  was  spared  this  trouble,  for  on  the  following  morning  at 
about  nine  o'clock,  while  he  was  dressing,  a  servant  came  to 
inform  him  that  M.  de  Courtornieu  and  his  daughter  were  wait- 

12— Vol.  II — Gab. 


520     THE  HONOR  OF  THE  NAME 

ing  to  speak  with  him  in  the  drawing-room.  Much  surprised, 
he  hastened  downstairs.  As  he  entered  the  room,  the  marquis, 
who  was  seated  in  an  armchair,  rose  to  his  feet,  leaning  for 
support  on  Aunt  Medea's  shoulder ;  while  Blanche,  who  was  as 
pale  as  if  every  drop  of  blood  had  been  drawn  from  her  veins, 
stepped  forward:  "We  are  going,  Monsieur  le  Due,"  she  said 
coldly,  "and  we  wish  to  bid  you  farewell." 
"What !  you  are  going  ?  Will  you  not — " 
The  young  bride  interrupted  him  with  a  mournful  gesture, 
and  drew  Martial's  letter  from  her  bosom.  "Will  you  do  me 
the  favor  to  peruse  this?"  she  said,  handing  the  missive  to 
his  grace. 

The  duke  glanced  over  the  short  epistle,  and  his  astonish- 
ment was  so  intense  that  he  could  not  even  find  an  oath.  "In- 
comprehensible !"  he  faltered ;  "incomprehensible  !" 

"Incomprehensible,  indeed,"  repeated  the  young  wife  sadly, 
but  without  bitterness.  "I  was  married  yesterday ;  to-day  I  am 
deserted.  It  would  have  been  more  generous  to  have  reflected 
the  evening  before  and  not  the  next  day.  Tell  Martial,  how- 
ever, that  I  forgive  him  for  having  destroyed  my  life,  for  hav- 
ing made  me  the  most  unhappy  of  women.  I  also  forgive  him 
for  the  supreme  insult  of  speaking  to  me  of  his  fortune.  I 
trust  he  may  be  happy.  Farewell,  Monsieur  le  Due,  we  shall 
never  meet  again.     Farewell !" 

With  these  words  she  took  her  father's  arm,  and  they  were 
about  to  retire  when  M.  de  Sairmeuse  hastily  threw  himself 
between  them  and  the  door.  "You  shall  not  go  away  like  this !" 
he  exclaimed.  "I  will  not  suffer  it.  Wait  at  least  until  I  have 
seen  Martial.    Perhaps  he  is  not  so  guilty  as  you  suppose — " 

"Enough!"  interrupted  the  marquis;  "enough!  This  is  one 
of  those  outrages  which  can  never  be  repaired.  May  your  con- 
science forgive  you,  as  I  myself  forgive  you.     Farewell !" 

This  was  said  with  such  a  conventional  air  of  benevolence, 
and  with  such  entire  harmony  of  intonation  and  gesture,  that 
M.  de  Sairmeuse  was  perfectly  bewildered.  With  a  dazed  air 
he  watched  the  marquis  and  his  daughter  depart,  and  they  had 
been  gone  some  moments  before  he  recovered  himself  suffi- 
ciently to  exclaim :  "The  old  hypocrite !  does  he  believe  me  to 
be  his  dupe?"  His  dupe!  M.  de  Sairmeuse  was  so  far  from 
being  his  dupe  that  his  next  thought  was:  "What's  going  to 
follow  this  farce?  If  he  says  he  forgives  us,  that  means  that 
he  has  some  crushing  blow  in  store  for  us."     This  idea  soon 


THE   HONOR   OF   THE   NAME  521 

ripening  into  conviction  made  his  grace  feel  apprehensive,  for 
he  did  not  quite  sec  how  he  would  cope  successfully  with  the 
perfidious  marquis.  "But  Martial  is  a  match  for  him  !"  he  at 
last  exclaimed.     "Yes,  I  must  see  Martial  at  once." 

So  great  was  his  anxiety  that  he  lent  a  helping  hand  in  har- 
nessing the  horses  he  had  ordered,  and  vvhen  the  vehicle  was 
ready  he  announced  his  determination  to  drive  himself.  As  he 
urged  the  horses  furiously  onward,  he  tried  to  reflect,  but  the 
most  contradictory  ideas  were  seething  in  his  brain,  and  he 
lost  all  power  of  looking  at  the  situation  calmly.  He  burst  into 
Martial's  room  like  a  bombshell.  "I  certainly  think  you  must 
have  gone  mad,  marquis,"  he  exclaimed.  "That  is  the  only 
valid  excuse  you  can  offer." 

But  Martial,  who  had  been  expecting  the  visit,  had  fully  pre- 
pared himself  for  some  such  remark.  "Never,  on  the  contrary, 
have  I  felt  more  calm  and  composed  in  mind,"  he  replied,  "than 
I  am  now.  Allow  me  to  ask  you  one  question.  Was  it  you 
who  sent  the  gendarmes  to  the  meeting  which  Maurice  d'Es- 
corval  appointed?" 

"Marquis !" 

"Very  well !  Then  it  was  another  act  of  infamy  to  be  scored 
against  the  Marquis  de  Courtornieu." 

The  duke  made  no  reply.  In  spite  of  all  his  faults  and  vices, 
this  haughty  nobleman  retained  those  characteristics  of  the  old 
French  aristocracy — fidelity  to  his  word  and  undoubted  valor. 
He  thought  it  perfectly  natural,  even  necessary,  that  Martial 
should  fight  with  Maurice ;  and  he  considered  it  a  contemptible 
proceeding  to  send  armed  soldiers  to  seize  an  honest  and  con- 
fiding opponent. 

"This  is  the  second  time,"  resumed  Martial,  "that  this  scoun- 
drel has  tried  to  dishonor  our  name ;  and  if  I  am  to  convince 
people  of  the  truth  of  this  assertion,  I  must  break  off  all  con- 
nection with  him  and  his  daughter.  I  have  done  so,  and  I 
don't  regret  it,  for  I  only  married  her  out  of  deference  to  your 
wishes,  and  because  it  seemed  necessary  for  me  to  marry,  and 
because  all  women,  excepting  one,  who  can  never  be  mine,  are 
alike  to  me." 

Such  utterances  were  scarcely  calculated  to  reassure  the 
duke.  "This  sentiment  is  very  noble,  no  doubt,"  said  he ;  "but 
it  has  none  the  less  ruined  the  political  prospects  of  our  house." 

An  almost  imperceptible  smile  curved  Martial's  lips.  "I 
believe,  on  the  contrary,  I  have  saved  them,"  replied  he.     "It 


522 


THE  HONOR  OF  THE  NAME 


is  useless  for  us  to  attempt  to  deceive  ourselves;  this  affair  of 
the  insurrection  has  been  abominable,  and  you  ought  to  bless 
the  opportunity  this  quarrel  gives  you  to  free  yourself  from 
all  responsibility  in  it.  You  must  go  to  Paris  at  once,  and  see 
the  Due  de  Richelieu — nay,  the  king  himself,  and  with  a  little 
address,  you  can  throw  all  the  odium  on  the  Marquis  de  Cour- 
tornieu,  and  retain  for  yourself  only  the  prestige  of  the  valuable 
services  you  have  rendered." 

The  duke's  face  brightened.  "Zounds,  marquis  I"  he  ex- 
claimed ;  "that  is  a  good  idea  !  In  the  future  I  shall  be  infinitely 
less  afraid  of  Courtornieu." 

Martial  remained  thoughtful.  "It  is  not  the  Marquis  de 
Courtornieu  that  I  fear,"  he  murmured,  "but  his  daughter — my 
wife." 


T  N  the  country,  news  flies  from  mouth  to  mouth  with  incon- 
-*•  ceivable  rapidity,  and,  strange  as  it  may  seem,  the  scene 
at  the  Chateau  de  Sairmeuse  was  known  of  at  Father  Poignot's 
farmhouse  that  same  night.  After  Maurice,  Jean  Lacheneur, 
and  Bavois  left  the  farm,  promising  to  recross  the  frontier  as 
quickly  as  possible,  the  Abbe  Midon  decided  not  to  acquaint 
M.  d'Escorval  either  with  his  son's  return,  or  Marie-Anne's 
presence  in  the  house.  The  baron's  condition  was  so  critical 
that  the  merest  trifle  might  turn  the  scale.  At  about  ten  o'clock 
he  fell  asleep,  and  the  abbe  and  Madame  d'Escorval  then  went 
downstairs  to  talk  with  Marie-Anne.  They  were  sitting  together 
when  Poignot's  eldest  son  came  home  in  a  state  of  great  ex- 
citement. He  had  gone  out  after  supper  with  some  of  his 
acquaintances  to  admire  the  splendors  of  the  Sairmeuse  fete, 
and  he  now  came  rushing  back  to  relate  the  strange  events  of 
the  evening  to  his  father's  guests.  "It  is  inconceivable !"  mur- 
mured the  abbe  when  the  lad  had  finished  his  narrative.  The 
worthy  ecclesiastic  fully  understood  that  these  strange  events 
would  probably  render  their  situation  more  perilous  than  ever. 
"I  can  not  understand,"  added  he,  "how  Maurice  could  commit 


THE   HONOR   OF   THE   NAME  523 

such  an  act  of  folly  after  what  I  had  just  said  to  him.     The 
baron  has  no  worse  enemy  than  his  own  son." 

In  the  course  of  the  following  day  the  inmates  of  the  farmhouse 
heard  of  the  meeting  at  La  Reche ;  a  peasant  who  had  witnessed 
the  preliminaries  of  the  duel  from  a  distance  being  able  to  give 
them  the  fullest  details.  He  had  seen  the  two  adversaries  take 
their  places,  and  had  then  perceived  the  soldiers  hasten  to  the 
spot.  After  a  brief  parley  with  the  young  Marquis  de  Sair- 
meuse,  they  had  started  off  in  pursuit  of  Maurice,  Jean,  and 
Bavois,  fortunately,  however,  without  overtaking  them ;  for  this 
peasant  had  met  the  same  troopers  again  five  hours  later,  when 
they  were  harassed  and  furious ;  the  officer  in  command  declar- 
ing that  their  failure  was  due  to  Martial,  who  had  detained  them. 
That  same  day,  moreover,  Father  Poignot  informed  the  abbe 
that  the  Due  de  Sairmeuse  and  the  Marquis  de  Courtornieu 
were  at  variance.  Their  quarrel  was  the  talk  of  the  district. 
The  marquis  had  returned  home  with  his  daughter,  and  the 
xluke  had  gone  to  Montaignac.  The  abbe's  anxiety  on  receiv- 
ing this  intelligence  was  so  intense  that,  strive  as  he  might,  he 
could  not  conceal  it  from  the  Baron  d'Escorval.  "You  have 
heard  some  bad  news,  my  friend,"  said  the  latter. 

"Nothing,  absolutely  nothing." 

"Some  new  danger  threatens  us." 

"None,  none  at  all." 

But  the  priest's  protestations  did  not  convince  the  wounded 
■man.  "Oh,  don't  deny  it!"  he  exclaimed.  "On  the  night  be- 
fore last,  when  you  came  into  my  room  after  I  woke  up,  you 
were  paler  than  death,  and  my  wife  had  certainly  been  crying. 
What  does  all  this  mean?"  As  a  rule,  when  the  cure  did  not 
wish  to  reply  to  his  patient's  questions,  it  sufficed  to  tell  him 
that  conversation  and  excitement  would  retard  his  recovery; 
but  this  time  the  baron  was  not  so  docile.  "It  will  be  very 
easy  for  you  to  restore  my  peace  of  mind,"  he  continued.  "Con- 
fess now,  you  are  afraid  they  may  discover  my  retreat.  This  fear 
is  torturing  me  also.  Very  well,  swear  to  me  that  you  will  not 
let  them  take  me  alive,  and  then  my  mind  will  be  at  rest." 

"I  can't  take  such  an  oath  as  that,"  said  the  cure,  turning  pale. 

"And  why  not?"  insisted  M.  d'Escorval.  "If  I  am  recap- 
tured, what  will  happen?  They  will  nurse  me,  and  then,  as 
soon  as  I  can  stand  on  my  feet,  they  will  shoot  me  down  again. 
Would  it  be  a  crime  to  save  me  from  such  suffering?  You  are 
my  best  friend ;  swear  you  will  render  me  this  supreme  service. 


524     THE  HONOR  OF  THE  NAME 

Would  you  have  me  curse  you  for  saving  my  life?"  The  abbe 
offered  no  verbal  reply;  but  his  eye,  voluntarily  or  involun- 
tarily, turned  with  a  peculiar  expression  to  the  medicine  chest 
standing  upon  the  table  near  by. 

Did  he  wish  to  be  understood  as  saying:  "I  will  do  nothing 
myself,  but  you  will  find  a  poison  there?" 

At  all  events  M.  d'Escorval  understood  him  so;  and  it  was 
in  a  tone  of  gratitude  that  he  murmured :  "Thanks !"  He 
breathed  more  freely  now  that  he  felt  he  was  master  of  his 
life,  and  from  that  hour  his  condition,  so  long  desperate,  began 
steadily  to  improve. 

Day  after  day  passed  by,  and  yet  the  abbe's  gloomy  appre- 
hensions were  not  realized.  Instead  of  fomenting  reprisals, 
the  scandal  at  the  Chateau  de  Sairmeuse,  and  the  imprudent 
temerity  of  which  Maurice  and  Jean  Lacheneur  had  been  guilty, 
seemed  actually  to  have  frightened  the  authorities  into  in- 
creased indulgence;  and  it  might  have  been  reasonably  sup- 
posed that  they  quite  had  forgotten,  and  wished  every  one  else 
to  forget,  all  about  Lacheneur's  conspiracy,  and  the  slaughter 
which  had  folLowed  it.  The  inmates  of  the  farmhouse  soon  learned 
that  Maurice  and  his  friend  the  corporal  had  succeeded  in 
reaching  Piedmont ;  though  nothing  was  heard  of  Jean  Lache- 
neur, who  had  probably  remained  in  France.  However,  his 
safety  was  scarcely  to  be  feared  for,  as  he  was  not  upon  the 
proscribed  list.  Later  on  it  was  rumored  that  the  Marquis  de 
Courtornieu  was  ill,  and  that  Blanche,  his  daughter,  did  not 
leave  his  bedside;  and  then  just  afterward  Father  Poignot.  re- 
turning from  an  excursion  to  Montaignac,  reported  that  the 
Due  de  Sairmeuse  had  lately  passed  a  week  in  Paris,  and  that 
he  was  now  on  his  way  home  with  one  more  decoration — a 
convincing  proof  that  he  was  still  in  the  enjoyment  of  royal 
favor.  What  was  of  more  importance  was,  that  his  grace  suc- 
ceeded in  obtaining  an  order  for  the  release  of  all  the  conspira- 
tors still  detained  in  prison.  It  was  impossible  to  doubt  this 
news  which  the  Montaignac  papers  formally  chronicled  on  the 
following  day.  The  abbe  attributed  this  sudden  and  happy 
change  of  prospects  to  the  quarrel  between  the  duke  and  the 
Marquis  de  Courtornieu,  and  such  indeed  was  the  universal 
opinion  in  the  neighborhood.  Even  the  retired  officers  re- 
marked: "The  duke  is  decidedly  better  than  he  was  supposed 
to  be;  if  he  was  so  severe,  it  is  only  because  he  was  influenced 
by  his  colleague,  the  odious  provost  marshal." 


THE   HONOR   OF   THE   NAME  525 

Marie-Anne  alone  suspected  the  truth.  A  secret  presenti- 
ment told  her  that  it  was  Martial  de  Sairmeuse  who  was  work- 
ing all  these  changes,  by  utilizing  his  ascendency  over  his 
father's  mind.  "And  it  is  for  your  sake,"  whispered  an  inward 
voice,  "that  Martial  is  working  in  this  fashion.  He  cares  noth- 
ing for  the  obscure  peasant  prisoners,  whose  names  he  does 
not  even  know  !  If  he  protects  them,  it  is  only  that  he  may 
have  a  right  to  protect  you,  and  those  whom  you  love  !"  With 
these  thoughts  in  her  mind  she  could  but  feel  her  aversion  for 
Martial  diminish.  Was  not  his  conduct  truly  noble?  She  had 
to  confess  it  was,  and  yet  the  thought  of  this  ardent  passion 
which  she  had  inspired  never  once  quickened  the  throbbing 
of  Marie-Anne's  heart.  Alas !  it  seemed  as  if  nothing  were 
capable  of  touching  her  heart  now.  She  was  but  the  ghost  of 
her  former  self.  She  would  sit  for  whole  days  motionless  in 
her  chair,  her  eyes  fixed  upon  vacancy,  her  lips  contracted  as 
if  by  a  spasm,  while  great  tears  rolled  silently  down  her  cheeks. 
The  Abbe  Midon,  who  was  very  anxious  on  her  account,  often 
tried  to  question  her.  "You  are  suffering,  my  child,"  he  said 
kindly  one  afternoon.     "What  is  the  matter?" 

""Nothing,  Monsieur  le  Cure.     I  am  not  ill." 

"Won't  you  confide  in  me?  Am  I  not  your  friend?  What 
do  you  fear?" 

She  shook  her  head  sadly  and  replied:  "I  have  nothing  to 
confide."  She  said  this,  and  yet  she  was  dying  of  sorrow  and 
anguish.  Faithful  to  the  promise  she  had  made  to  Maurice, 
she  had  never  spoken  of  her  condition,  or  of  the  marriage  sol- 
emnized in  the  little  church  at  Vigano.  And  she  saw  with  in- 
expressible terror  the  moment  when  she  could  no  longer  keep 
her  secret  slowly  approaching.  Her  agony  was  frightful,  but 
what  could  she  do?  Fly!  but  where  could  she  go?  And  by 
going,  would  she  not  lose  all  chance  of  hearing  from  Maurice, 
which  was  the  only  hope  that  sustained  her  in  this  trying  hour  ? 
Still  she  had  almost  determined  on  flight  when  circumstances 
— providentially,  it  seemed  to  her — came  to  her  aid. 

Money  was  needed  at  the  farm.  The  fugitives  were  unable 
to  obtain  any  without  betraying  their  whereabouts,  and  Father 
Poignot's  little  store  was  almost  exhausted.  The  Abbe  Midon 
was  wondering  what  they  could  do,  when  Marie-Anne  told  him 
of  the  will  which  Chanlouineau  had  made  in  her  favor,  and  of  the 
money  concealed  under  the  hearthstone  in  the  room  on  the  first 
floor.     "I  might  go  to  the  Borderie  one  night,"  she  suggested, 


526     THE  HONOR  OF  THE  NAME 

"enter  the  house,  which  is  unoccupied,  obtain  the  money  and 
bring  it  here.    I  have  a  right  to  do  so,  haven't  I  ?" 

"You  might  be  seen,"  replied  the  priest,  "and — who  knows? — 
perhaps  arrested.  If  you  were  questioned,  what  plausible  ex- 
planation could  you  give  ?" 

"What  shall  I  do,  then?" 

"Act  openly;  you  yourself  are  not  compromised.  You  must 
appear  at  Sairmeuse  to-morrow  as  if  you  had  just  returned 
from  Piedmont ;  go  at  once  to  the  notary,  take  possession  of 
your  property,  and  instal  yourself  at  the  Borderie." 

Marie-Anne  shuddered.  "What,  live  in  Chanlouineau's 
house?"  she  faltered.     "Live  there  alone?" 

"Heaven  will  protect  you,  my  dear  child.  I  can  only  see  an 
advantage  in  your  living  at  the  Borderie.  It  will  be  easy  to 
communicate  with  you;  and  with  ordinary  precautions  there 
can  be  no  danger.  Before  you  start  we  will  decide  on  a  meet- 
ing place,  and  two  or  three  times  a  week  you  can  join  Father 
Poignot  there.  And  in  the  course  of  two  or  three  months  you 
can  be  still  more  useful  to  us.  When  people  have  grown  accus- 
tomed to  your  living  at  the  Borderie,  we  will  take  the  baron 
there.  Such  an  arrangement  would  hasten  his  convalescence ; 
for  in  the  narrow  loft,  where  we  are  obliged  to  conceal  him 
now,  he  is  really  suffering  for  want  of  light  and  air." 

Accordingly  it  was  decided  that  Father  Poignot  should  ac- 
company Marie-Anne  to  the  frontier  that  very  night;  and  that 
she  should  take  the  diligence  running  between  Piedmont  and 
Montaignac,  via  Sairmeuse.  Before  she  started,  the  Abbe  Midon 
gave  her  minute  instructions  as  to  the  story  she  should  tell  of 
her  sojourn  in  foreign  lands.  The  peasantry,  possibly  even  the 
authorities,  would  question  her,  and  all  her  answers  must  tend 
to  prove  that  the  Baron  d'Escorval  was  concealed  near  Turin. 

The  plan  was  carried  out  as  projected;  and  at  eight  o'clock 
on  the  following  morning,  the  people  of  Sairmeuse  were  greatly 
astonished  to  see  Marie-Anne  alight  from  the  passing  diligence. 
"M.  Lacheneur's  daughter  has  come  back  again !"  they  ex- 
claimed. The  words  flew  from  lip  to  lip  with  marvelous  rapid- 
ity, and  soon  all  the  villagers  stood  at  their  doors  and  windows 
watching  the  poor  girl  as  she  paid  the  driver,  and  entered  the 
local  hostelry,  followed  by  a  lad  carrying  a  small  trunk.  Urban 
curiosity  has  some  sense  of  shame,  and  seeks  to  hide  itself 
when  prying  into  other  people's  affairs,  but  country  folks  are 
openly  and  outrageously  inquisitive.     Thus  when  Marie-Anne 


THE   HONOR   OF   THE    NAME  527 

emerged  from  the  inn,  she  found  quite  a  crowd  of  sightseers 
awaiting  her  with  gaping  mouths  and  staring  eyes.  And  fully 
a  score  of  chattering  gossips  thought  fit  to  escort  her  to  the 
notary's  door.  This  notary  was  a  man  of  importance,  and  he 
welcomed  Marie-Anne  with  all  the  deference  due  to  the  heiress 
of  a  house  and  farm  worth  from  forty  to  fifty  thousand  francs. 
However,  being  jealous  of  his  renown  for  perspicuity,  he  gave 
her  clearly  to  understand  that,  as  a  man  of  experience,  he  fully 
divined  that  love  alone  had  influenced  Chanlouineau  in  drawing 
up  this  last  will  and  testament.  He  was  no  doubt  anxious  to 
obtain  some  information  concerning  the  young  farmer's  pas- 
sion, and  Marie-Anne's  composure  and  reticence  disappointed 
him  immensely. 

"You  forget  what  brings  me  here,"  she  said;  "you  don't  tell 
me  what  I  have  to  do!" 

The  notary,  thus  interrupted,  made  no  further  attempts  at 
divination.  "Plague  on  it !"  he  thought,  "she  is  in  a  hurry  to 
get  possession  of  her  property — the  avaricious  creature !"  Then 
he  added  aloud :  "The  business  can  be  finished  at  once,  for  the 
magistrate  is  at  liberty  to-day,  and  can  go  with  us  to  break 
the  seals  this  afternoon." 

So,  before  evening,  all  the  legal  requirements  were  complied 
with,  and  Marie- Anne  was  formally  installed  at  the  Borderie.  She 
was  alone  in  Chanlouineau's  house,  and  as  the  darkness  gath- 
ered round  her,  a  great  terror  seized  hold  of  her  heart.  She 
fancied  that  the  doors  were  about  to  open,  that  this  man  who 
had  loved  her  so  much  would  suddenly  appear  before  her,  and 
that  she  should  hear  his  voice  again  as  she  heard  it  for  the 
last  time  in  his  grim  prison  cell.  She  struggled  hard  against 
these  foolish  fears,  and  at  last,  lighting  a  lamp,  she  ventured 
to  wander  through  his  house — now  hers — but  wherein  every- 
thing spoke  so  forcibly  of  its  former  owner.  She  slowly  ex- 
amined the  different  rooms  on  the  ground  floor,  noting  the  re- 
cent repairs  and  improvements,  and  at  last  climbed  the  stairs 
to  the  room  above  which  Chanlouineau  had  designed  to  be  the 
altar  of  his  love.  Strange  as  it  may  seem,  it  was  really  lux- 
uriously upholstered — far  more  so  than  Chanlouineau's  letter 
had  led  her  to  suppose.  The  young  farmer,  who  for  years  had 
breakfasted  off  a  crust  and  an  onion,  had  lavished  a  small 
fortune  on  this  apartment,  which  he  meant  to  be  his  idol's 
sanctuary. 

"How  he  loved  me !"  murmured  Marie- Anne,  moved  by  that 


528 


THE  HONOR  OF  THE  NAME 


emotion,  the  bare  thought  of  which  had  awakened  Maurice's 
jealousy.  But  she  had  neither  the  time  nor  the  right  to  yield 
to  her  feelings.  At  that  very  moment  Father  Poignot  was  no- 
doubt  waiting  for  her  at  the  appointed  meeting-place.  Accord- 
ingly, she  swiftly  raised  the  hearthstone,  and  found  the  money 
which  Chanlouineau  had  mentioned.  She  handed  the  larger 
part  of  it  to  Poignot,  who  in  his  turn  gave  it  to  the  abbe  on 
reaching  home. 

The  days  that  followed  were  peaceful  ones  for  Marie-Anne, 
and  this  tranquillity,  after  so  many  trials,  seemed  to  her  almost 
happiness.  Faithful  to  the  priest's  instructions,  she  lived  alone ; 
but,  by  frequent  visits  to  Sairmeuse,  she  accustomed  people  to 
her  presence.  Yes,  she  would  have  been  almost  happy  if  she 
could  only  have  had  some  news  of  Maurice.  What  had  become 
of  him?  Why  did  he  give  no  sign  of  life?  She  would  have 
given  anything  in  exchange  for  one  word  of  love  and  counsel 
from  him.  Soon  the  time  approached  when  she  would  require 
a  confidant;  and  yet  there  was  no  one  in  whom  she  dared 
confide.  In  her  dire  need  she  at  last  remembered  the  old  physi- 
cian at  Vigano,  who  had  been  one  of  the  witnesses  at  her  mar- 
riage. She  had  no  time  to  reflect  whether  he  would  be  willing 
or  not;  but  wrote  to  him  immediately,  entrusting  her  letter  to 
a  youth  in  the  neighborhood.  "The  gentleman  says  you  may 
rely  upon  him,"  said  the  lad  on  his  return.  And  that  very 
evening  Marie-Anne  was  roused  by  a  rap  at  her  door.  It  was 
the  kind-hearted  old  man,  who  had  hastened  to  her  relief.  He 
remained  at  the  Borderie  nearly  a  fortnight,  and  when  he  left 
one  morning  before  daybreak,  he  took  away  with  him  under  his 
cloak  an  infant — a  little  boy — whom  he  had  sworn  to  cherish 
as  his  own  child. 


T  T  had  cost  Blanche  an  almost  superhuman  effort  to  leave 
*  Sairmeuse  without  treating  the  duke  to  a  display  of  violence, 
such  as  would  have  fairly  astonished  even  that  irascible  noble- 
man.    She  was  tortured  with  inward  rage  at  the  very  moment. 


THE   HONOR   OF   THE   NAME  529 

when,  with  an  assumption  of  melancholy  dignity,  she  murmured 
the  words  of  forgiveness  we  have  previously  recorded.  But 
vanity,  after  all,  was  more  powerful  than  resentment.  She 
thought  of  the  gladiators  who  fall  in  the  arena  with  a  smile  on 
their  lips,  and  resolved  that  no  one  should  see  her  weep,  that 
no  one  should  hear  her  threaten  or  complain.  Indeed,  on  her 
return  to  the  Chateau  de  Courtornieu  her  behavior  was  truly 
worthy  of  a  stoic  philosopher.  Her  face  was  pale,  but  not  a 
muscle  of  her  features  moved  as  the  servants  glanced  at  her 
inquisitively.  "I  am  to  be  called  mademoiselle  as  formerly," 
she  said  imperiously.  "Any  of  you  forgetting  this  order  will 
be  at  once  dismissed." 

One  maid  did  forget  the  injunction  that  very  day,  address- 
ing her  young  mistress  as  "madame,"  and  the  poor  girl  was 
instantly  dismissed,  in  spite  of  her  tears  and  protestations.  All 
the  servants  were  indignant.  "Does  she  hope  to  make  us  for- 
get that  she's  married,  and  that  her  husband  has  deserted  her?" 
they  queried. 

Ah !  that  was  what  she  wished  to  forget  herself.  She  wished 
to  annihilate  all  recollection  of  the  day  that  had  seen  her  suc- 
cessively maiden,  wife,  and  widow.  For  was  she  not  really  a 
widow?  A  widow,  not  by  her  husband's  death,  it  is  true;  but, 
thanks  to  the  machinations  of  an  odious  rival,  an  infamous, 
perfidious  creature,  lost  to  all  sense  of  shame.  And  yet,  though 
she  had  been  disdained,  abandoned,  and  repulsed,  she  was  no 
longer  free.  She  belonged  to  this  man  whose  name  she  bore 
like  a  badge  of  servitude — to  this  man  who  hated  her,  who 
had  fled  from  her.  She  was  not  yet  twenty;  still  her  youth, 
her  hopes,  her  dreams  were  ended.  Society  condemned  her  to 
seclusion,  while  Martial  was  free  to  rove  wheresoever  he  listed. 
It  was  now  that  she  realized  the  disadvantages  of  isolation. 
She  had  not  been  without  friends  in  her  schoolgirl  days;  but 
after  leaving  the  convent  she  had  estranged  them  by  her  haugh- 
tiness, on  finding  them  not  as  high  in  rank  or  as  wealthy  as 
herself.  So  she  was  now  reduced  to  the  irritating  consolations 
of  Aunt  Medea,  a  very  worthy  person,  no  doubt,  but  whose 
tears  flowed  as  freely  for  the  loss  of  a  cat  as  for  the  death 
of  a  relative.  However,  Blanche  firmly  persevered  in  her  de- 
termination to  conceal  her  grief  and  despair  in  the  deepest 
recesses  of  her  heart.  She  drove  about  the  country,  wore  her 
prettiest  dresses,  and  forced  herself  to  assume  a  gay  and  in- 
different air.     But   on  going  to  church  at   Sairmeuse  on  the 


530     THE  HONOR  OF  THE  NAME 

following  Sunday  she  realized  the  futility  of  her  efforts.  Her 
fellow  worshipers  did  not  look  at  her  haughaly,  or  even  inquisi- 
tively, but  they  turned  aside  to  smile,  and  she  overheard  re- 
marks concerning  "the  maiden  widow"  which  pierced  her  very 
soul.  So  she  was  an  object  of  mockery  and  ridicule.  "Oh  I 
I  will  have  my  revenge !"  she  muttered  to  herself. 

She  had  indeed  already  thought  of  vengeance;  and  had  found 
her  father  quite  willing  to  assist  her.  For  the  first  time  the 
father  and  the  daughter  shared  the  same  views.  "The  Due  de 
Sairmeuse  shall  learn  what  it  costs  to  favor  a  prisoner's  escape 
and  to  insult  a  man  like  me,"  said  the  Marquis  bitterly.  "For- 
tune, favor,  position — he  shall  lose  everything,  and  I  will  not 
rest  content  till  I  see  him  ruined  and  dishonored  at  my  feet. 
And,  mind  me,  that  day  shall  surely  come !" 

Unfortunately,  however,  for  M.  de  Courtornieu's  project,  he 
was  extremely  ill  for  three  days  after  the  scene  at  Sairmeuse; 
and  then  he  wasted  three  days  more  in  composing  a  report, 
which  was  intended  to  crush  his  former  ally.  This  delay  ruined 
him,  for  it  gave  Martial  time  to  perfect  his  plans,  and  to  des- 
patch the  Due  de  Sairmeuse  to  Paris  with  full  instructions. 
And  what  did  the  duke  say  to  the  king,  who  gave  him  such 
a  gracious  reception  ?  He  undoubtedly  pronounced  the  first 
reports  to  be  false,  reduced  the  rising  at  Montaignac  to  its 
proper  proportions,  represented  Lacheneur  as  a  fool,  and  his 
followers  as  inoffensive  idiots.  It  was  said,  moreover,  that  he 
led  his  majesty  to  suppose  that  the  Marquis  de  Courtornieu 
might  have  provoked  the  outbreak  by  undue  severity.  He  had 
served  under  Napoleon,  and  had  possibly  thought  it  necessary 
to  make  a  display  of  his  zeal,  so  that  his  past  apostasy  might 
be  forgotten.  As  far  as  the  duke  himself  was  concerned,  he 
deeply  deplored  the  mistakes  into  which  he  had  been  led  by 
his  ambitious  colleague,  on  whom  he  cast  most  of  the  respon- 
sibility of  so  much  bloodshed.  To  be  brief,  the  result  of  the 
duke's  journey  was,  that  when  the  Marquis  de  Courtornieu's 
report  reached  Paris,  it  was  answered  by  a  decree  depriving 
him  of  his  office  as  provost-marshal  of  the  province. 

This  unexpected  blow  quite  crushed  the  old  intriguer.  What ! 
he  had  been  duped  in  this  fashion,  he  so  shrewd,  so  adroit,  so 
subtle-minded  and  quick-witted ;  he  who  had  successfully  bat- 
tled with  so  many  storms;  who,  unlike  most  of  his  fellow  patri- 
cians, had  been  enriched,  not  impoverished,  by  the  Revolution, 
and  who  had  served  with  the  same  obsequious  countenance  each 


THE   HONOR   OF   THE    NAME  531 

master  who  was  willing  to  accept  his  services.  "It  must  be 
that  old  imbecile,  the  Due  de  Sairmeuse,  who  has  maneuvred 
so  skilfully,"  he  groaned.  "But  who  advised  him?  I  can't 
imagine  who  it  could  have  been." 

Who  it  was  Blanche  knew  only  too  well.  Like  Marie-Anne, 
she  recognized  Martial's  hand  in  all  this  business.  "Ah !  I  was 
not  deceived  in  him,"  she  thought;  "he  is  the  great  diplomatist 
I  believed  him  to  be.  To  think  that  at  his  age  he  has  out- 
witted my  father,  an  old  politician  of  such  experience  and  ac- 
knowledged skill !  And  he  does  all  this  to  please  Marie- Anne," 
she  continued,  frantic  with  rage.  "It  is  the  first  step  toward 
obtaining  pardon  for  that  vile  creature's  friends.  She  has  un- 
bounded influence  over  him,  and  so  long  as  she  lives  there  is 
no  hope  for  me.    But  patience,  my  time  will  come." 

She  had  not  yet  decided  what  form  the  revenge  she  con- 
templated should  take ;  but  she  already  had  her  eye  on  a  man 
who  she  believed  would  be  willing  to  do  anything  for  money. 
And,  strange  as  it  may  seem,  this  man  was  none  other  than 
our  old  acquaintance,  Father  Chupin.  Burdened  with  remorse, 
despised  and  jeered  at,  stoned  whenever  he  ventured  in  the 
streets,  and  horror-stricken  whenever  he  thought  of  Balstain's 
vow,  Chupin  had  left  Montaignac  and  sought  an  asylum  at  the 
Chateau  de  Sairmeuse.  In  his  ignorance  he  fancied  that  the 
great  nobleman  who  had  incited  him  to  discover  Lacheneur 
owed  him,  over  and  above  the  promised  reward,  all  needful 
aid  and  protection.  But  the  duke's  servants  shunned  the  so- 
called  traitor.  He  was  not  even  allowed  a  seat  at  the  kitchen 
table,  nor  a  straw  pallet  in  the  stables.  The  cook  threw  him 
a  bone,  as  he  would  have  thrown  it  to  a  dog;  and  he  slept  just 
where  he  could.  However,  he  bore  all  these  hardships  uncom- 
plainingly, deeming  himself  fortunate  in  being  able  to  purchase 
comparative  safety  even  at  such  a  price.  But  when  the  duke 
returned  from  Paris  with  a  policy  of  forgetfulness  and  con- 
ciliation in  his  pocket,  his  grace  could  no  longer  tolerate  in 
his  establishment  the  presence  of  a  man  who  was  the  object  of 
universal  execration.  He  accordingly  gave  instructions  for 
Chupin  to  be  dismissed.  The  latter  resisted,  however,  swear- 
ing that  he  would  not  leave  Sairmeuse  unless  he  were  forcibly 
expelled  or  unless  he  received  the  order  from  the  lips  of  the 
duke  himself.  This  obstinate  resistance  was  reported  to  the 
duke,  and  made  him  hesitate ;  but  a  word  from  Martial  con- 
cerning the  necessities  of  the  situation  eventually  decided  him. 


632      THE  HONOR  OF  THE  NAME 

He  sent  for  Chupin  and  told  him  that  he  must  not  visit  Sair- 
meuse  again  under  any  pretext  whatever,  softening  the  harsh- 
ness of  expulsion,  however,  by  the  offer  of  a  small  sum  of 
money.  But  Chupin,  sullenly  refusing  the  proffered  coins,  gath- 
ered his  belongings  together  and  departed,  shaking  his  clenched 
fist  at  the  chateau,  and  vowing  vengeance  on  the  Sairmeuse 
family.  He  then  went  to  his  old  home,  where  his  wife  and  his 
two  boys  still  lived.  He  seldom  left  this  filthy  den,  and  then 
only  to  satisfy  his  poaching  proclivities.  On  these  occasions, 
instead  of  stealthily  firing  at  a  squirrel  or  a  partridge  from 
some  safe  post  of  concealment,  as  he  had  done  in  former  times, 
he  walked  boldly  into  the  Sairmeuse  or  the  Courtornieu  forests, 
shot  his  game,  and  brought  it  home  openly,  displaying  it  in  an 
almost  defiant  manner.  He  spent  the  rest  of  his  time  in  a  state 
of  semi-intoxication,  for  he  drank  constantly,  and  more  and 
more  immoderately.  When  he  had  taken  more  than  usual,  his 
wife  and  his  sons  usually  attempted  to  obtain  money  from  him, 
and  if  persuasion  failed  they  often  resorted  to  blows.  For  he 
had  never  so  much  as  shown  them  the  blood-money  paid  to 
him  for  betraying  Lacheneur ;  and  though  he  had  squandered 
a  small  sum  at  Montaignac,  no  one  knew  what  he  had  done 
with  the  great  bulk  of  the  twenty  thousand  francs  in  gold  paid 
to  him  by  the  Due  de  Sairmeuse.  His  sons  believed  he  had 
buried  it  somewhere;  but  they  tried  in  vain  to  wrest  his  secret 
from  him.  All  the  people  in  the  neighborhood  were  aware  of 
this  state  of  affairs,  and  one  day  when  the  head  gardener  at 
Courtornieu  was  telling  the  story  to  two  of  his  assistants, 
Blanche,  seated  on  a  bench  near  by,  chanced  to  overhear 
him. 

"Ah,  he's  an  old  scoundrel !"  said  the  gardener  indignantly. 
"And  he  ought  to  be  at  the  galleys,  instead  of  at  large  among 
respectable  people." 

At  the  same  moment  the  voice  of  hatred  was  whispering  to 
Blanche:  "That's  the  man  to  serve  your  purpose."  But  how 
an  opportunity  was  to  be  found  to  confer  with  him  ?  she  won- 
dered, being  too  prudent  to  think  of  hazarding  a  visit  to  his 
house.  However,  she  remembered  that  he  occasionally  went 
shooting  in  the  Courtornieu  woods,  and  that  it  might  be  pos- 
sible for  her  to  meet  him  there.  "It  will  only  require,"  thought 
she,  "a  little  perseverance  and  a  few  long  walks."  But,  in 
point  of  fact,  it  cost  poor  Aunt  Medea,  the  inevitable  chaperon, 
two  long  weeks  of  almost  constant  perambulation.     "Another 


THE   HONOR   OF   THE    NAME  533 

freak!"  groaned  the  impoverished  relative,  overcome  with  fa- 
tigue ;  "my  niece  is  certainly  crazy !" 

However,  at  last,  one  lovely  afternoon  in  May,  Blanche  came 
across  the  object  of  her  quest.  She  chanced  to  be  standing  in 
a  sequestered  nook  nigh  the  mere,  situated  in  the  depths  of  the 
forest  of  Courtornieu,  when  she  perceived  Chupin,  tramping 
sullenly  along  with  his  gun  in  his  hand  and  glancing  suspi- 
ciously on  either  side.  Not  that  he  feared  either  gamekeeper 
or  judicial  proceedings,  but  go  wherever  he  would,  still  and 
ever  he  fancied  he  could  see  Balstain,  the  Piedmontese  inn- 
keeper, walking  in  his  shadow  and  brandishing  the  terrible 
knife  which,  by  Saint-Jean-de-Coche,  he  had  consecrated  to  his 
vengeance.  Seeing  Blanche  in  turn,  the  old  rascal  would  have 
fled  into  the  cover,  but  before  he  could  do  so  she  had  called  to 
him  :  "Eh,  Father  Chupin  !" 

He  hesitated  for  a  moment,  then  paused,  dropped  his  gun, 
and  waited. 

Aunt  Medea  was  pale  with  fright.  "Blessed  Jesus!"  she 
murmured,  pressing  her  niece's  arm ;  "what  are  you  calling  that 
terrible  man  for?" 

"I  want  to  speak  to  him." 

"What,  Blanche,  do  you  dare — " 

"I  must!" 

"No,  I  can't  allow  it.    I  must  not — " 

"There,  that's  enough !"  said  Blanche  with  one  of  those  im- 
perious glances  that  deprive  a  dependent  of  all  strength  and 
courage;  "quite  enough."  Then,  in  gentler  tones:  "I  must  talk 
with  this  man,"  she  added.  "And  you,  Aunt  Medea,  must  re- 
main some  little  distance  off.  Keep  a  close  watch  on  every 
side,  and  if  you  see  any  one  approaching,  call  me  at  once." 

Aunt  Medea,  submissive  as  was  her  wont,  immediately 
obeyed;  and  Blanche  walked  straight  toward  the  old  poacher. 
"Well,  my  good  Father  Chupin,  and  what  sort  of  sport  have 
vou  had  to-day?"  she  began  directly  she  was  a  few  steps  from 
him." 

"What  do  you  want  with  me?"  growled  Chupin;  "for  you 
do  want  something,  or  you  wouldn't  trouble  yourself  about  a 
man  like  me." 

The  old  ruffian's  manner  was  so  surly  and  aggressive  that 
Blanche  needed  all  ber  strength  of  mind  to  carry  out  her  pur- 
pose. "Yes,  it  is  true  that  I  have  a  favor  to  ask  you,"  she 
replied  in  a  resolute  tone. 


534     THE  HONOR  OF  THE  NAME 

"Ah,  ha !  I  supposed  so." 

"A  mere  trifle,  which  will  cost  you  no  trouble,  and  for  which 
you  shall  be  well  paid."  She  said  this  so  carelessly  that  an 
ordinary  person  would  have  supposed  she  was  really  asking  for 
some  unimportant  service;  but  cleverly  as  she  played  her  part, 
Chupin  was  not  deceived. 

"No  one  asks  trifling  services  of  a  man  like  me,"  he  said 
coarsely.  "Since  I  served  the  good  cause,  at  the  peril  of  my 
life,  people  seem  to  suppose  they've  a  right  to  come  to  me  with 
money  in  their  hands  whenever  they  want  any  dirty  work  done. 
It's  true  that  I  was  well  paid  for  that  other  job;  but  I  would 
like  to  melt  all  the  gold  and  pour  it  down  the  throats  of  those 
who  gave  it  to  me.  Ah !  I  know  now  what  it  costs  the  poor 
to  listen  to  the  words  of  the  great !  Go  your  way,  and  if  you 
have  any  wickedness  in  your  head,  do  it  yourself !" 

He  shouldered  his  gun  and  was  moving  off  when  Blanche 
coldly  observed:  "It  was  because  I  knew  of  your  wrongs  that 
I  stopped  you ;  I  thought  you  would  be  glad  to  serve  me,  because 
I  hate  the  Sairmeuses  as  you  do." 

These  words  excited  the  old  poacher's  interest,  and  he  paused. 
"I  know  very  well  that  you  hate  the  Sairmeuses  now — but — " 

"But  what?" 

"Why,  in  less  than  a  month  you  will  be  reconciled.  And 
then  that  old  wretch,  Chupin — " 

"We  shall  never  be  reconciled." 

"Hum !"  growled  the  wily  rascal  after  deliberating  a  while. 
"And  if  I  do  assist  you,  what  compensation  will  you  give  me?" 

"I  will  give  you  whatever  you  wish  for — money,  land,  a 
house — " 

"Many  thanks.    I  want  something  quite  different." 

"What  do  you  want  then  ?    Tell  me." 

Chupin  reflected  for  a  moment,  and  then  replied:  "This  is 
what  I  want.  I  have  a  good  many  enemies,  and  I  don't  even 
feel  safe  in  my  own  house.  My  sons  abuse  me  when  I've  been 
drinking,  and  my  wife  is  quite  capable  of  poisoning  my  wine. 
I  tremble  for  my  life  and  for  my  money.  I  can't  endure  such 
an  existence  much  longer.  Promise  me  an  asylum  at  the  Cha- 
teau de  Courtornieu  and  I'm  yours.  I  shall  be  safe  in  your 
house.  But  let  it  be  understood  I  won't  be  ill-treated  by  the 
servants  as  I  was  at  Sairmeuse." 

"Oh,  I  can  promise  you  all  that." 

"Swear  it  then  by  your  hope  of  heaven." 


THE   HONOR   OF   THE    NAME  535 

"I  swear  it." 

There  was  such  evident  sincerity  in  her  accent  that  Chupin 
-felt  reassured.  He  leaned  toward  her,  and  in  a  low  voice  re- 
marked :  "Now  tell  me  your  business."  His  small  gray  eyes 
glittered  in  a  threatening  fashion ;  his  thin  lips  were  drawn 
tightly  over  his  sharp  teeth ;  he  evidently  expected  some  propo- 
sition of  murder,  and  was  ready  to  accomplish  it. 

His  attitude  evinced  his  feelings  so  plainly  that  Blanche 
shuddered.  "Really,  what  I  want  of  you  is  almost  nothing," 
she  replied.  "I  only  want  you  to  watch  the  Marquis  de  Sair- 
meuse." 

"Your  husband." 

"Yes;  my  husband.  I  want  to  know  what  he  does,  where 
he  goes,  and  what  persons  he  sees ;  I  want  to  know  how  he 
spends  all  his  time." 

"What !  now  is  that  really  all  you  want  me  to  do  ?"  asked 
Chupin  eagerly. 

"For  the  present,  yes.  My  plans  are  not  yet  decided ;  but  cir- 
cumstances will  guide  me." 

"You  can  rely  upon  me,"  replied  Chupin  at  once ;  "but  I 
must  have  a  little  time." 

"Yes,  I  understand  that.  To-day  is  Saturday;  can  you  give 
me  a  first  report  on  Thursday?" 

"In  five  days  ?    Yes,  probably." 

"In  that  case,  meet  me  here  on  Thursday,  at  the  same  hour." 

The  conversation  might  have  continued  a  few  moments 
longer,  but  at  this  very  moment  Aunt  Medea  was  heard  ex- 
claiming: "Some  one  is  coming!" 

"Quick  !  we  must  not  be  seen  together.  Conceal  yourself," 
ejaculated  Blanche,  and  while  the  old  poacher  disappeared  with 
one  bound  into  the  forest,  she  hastily  rejoined  her  chaperone. 
A  few  paces  off  she  could  perceive  one  of  her  father's  servants 
approaching. 

"Ah !  mademoiselle,"  exclaimed  the  lackey,  "we  have  been 
looking  for  you  everywhere  during  the  last  three  hours.  Your 
father,  M.  le  Marquis — good  heavens !  what  a  misfortune !  A 
physician  has  been  sent  for." 

"Whatever  has  happened?    Is  my  father  dead?" 

"No,  mademoiselle,  no;  but — how  can  I  tell  you?  When  the 
marquis  went  out  this  morning  his  actions  were  very  strange, 
and — and — when  he  returned — "  As  he  spoke,  the  servant 
tapped  his  forehead  with  his  forefinger.     "You  understand  me, 


536     THE  HONOR  OF  THE  NAME 

mademoiselle — when  he  came  home  his  reason  seemed  to — to 
have  left  him !" 

Without  waiting  for  the  servant  to  finish,  or  for  her  terrified 
aunt  to  follow  her,  Blanche  darted  off  in  the  direction  of  the 
chateau.  "How  is  the  marquis?"  she  inquired  of  the  first  ser- 
vant she  met. 

"He  is  in  bed,  and  is  quieter  than  he  was,"  answered  the 
maid. 

But  Blanche  had  already  reached  her  father's  room.  He 
was  sitting  up  in  bed,  under  the  supervision  of  his  valet  and 
a  footman.  His  face  was  livid,  and  a  white  foam  had  gathered 
on  his  lips.  Still,  he  recognized  his  daughter.  "Here  you  are," 
said  he.    "I  was  waiting  for  you." 

She  paused  on  the  threshold,  and  though  she  was  neither 
tender-hearted  nor  impressionable,  the  sight  seemed  to  appal 
her:  "My  father!"  she  faltered.  "Good  heavens!  what  has 
happened  ?" 

"Ah,  ha !"  exclaimed  the  marquis,  with  a  discordant  laugh. 
"I  met  him!  what,  you  doubt  me?  I  tell  you  that  I  saw  the 
wretch.  I  know  him  well ;  haven't  I  seen  his  cursed  face  before 
my  eyes  for  more  than  a  month? — for  it  never  leaves  me.  I 
saw  him.  It  was  in  the  forest  near  the  Sanguille  rocks.  You 
know  the  place;  it  is  always  dark  there,  on  account  of  the 
trees.  I  was  slowly  walking  home  thinking  of  him,  when  sud- 
denly he  sprang  up  before  me,  holding  out  his  arms  as  if  to 
bar  my  passage.  'Come,'  said  he,  'you  must  join  me.'  He  was 
armed  with  a  gun ;  he  fired — " 

The  marquis  paused,  and  Blanche  summoned  up  sufficient 
courage  to  approach  him.  For  more  than  a  minute  she  looked 
at  him  attentively,  with  a  cold,  magnetic  glance,  such  as  often 
exercises  great  influence  over  those  who  have  lost  their  reason, 
then  shaking  him  roughly  by  the  arm,  she  exclaimed :  "Control 
yourself,  father.  You  are  the  victim  of  an  hallucination.  It  is 
impossible  that  you  can  have  seen  the  man  you  speak  of." 

Blanche  knew  only  too  well  who  was  the  man  that  M.  de 
Courtornieu  alluded  to;  but  she  dared  not,  could  not,  utter  his 
name. 

However,  the  marquis  had  resumed  his  scarcely  coherent  nar- 
rative. "Was  I  dreaming?"  he  continued.  "No,  it  was  Lache- 
neur,  Lacheneur  and  none  other  who  stood  in  front  of  me.  I 
am  sure  of  it,  and  the  proof  is  that  he  reminded  me  of  a  cir- 
cumstance which  occurred  in  my  youth,  and  which  was  known 


THE   HONOR   OF   THE    NAME  537 

only  to  him  and  me.  It  happened  during  the  Reign  of  Terror. 
He  was  all-powerful  in  Montaignac;  and  I  was  accused  of  being 
in  correspondence  with  the  emigres.  My  property  had  been 
confiscated ;  and  I  was  every  moment  expecting  to  feel  the  exe- 
cutioner's hand  on  my  shoulder,  when  Lacheneur  took  me  to  his 
house.  He  concealed  me;  furnished  me  with  a  passport;  saved 
my  money,  and  saved  my  life  as  well ;  and  yet — and  yet  I  sen- 
tenced him  to  death.  That's  the  reason  why  I've  seen  him 
again.  I  must  join  him;  he  told  me  so — I'm  a  dying  man!" 
With  these  words  the  marquis  fell  back  on  his  pillows,  pulled 
the  bedclothes  over  his  face,  and  lay  there  so  rigid  and  mo- 
tionless that  one  might  readily  have  supposed  the  counterpane 
covered  some  inanimate  corpse. 

Mute  with  horror,  the  servants  exchanged  frightened  glances. 
Such  baseness  and  ingratitude  amazed  them.  They  could  not 
understand  why,  under  such  circumstances,  the  marquis  had  not 
pardoned  Lacheneur.  Blanche  alone  retained  her  presence  of 
mind.  Turning  to  her  father's  valet,  she  said:  "Hasn't  some 
one  tried  to  injure  my  father?" 

"I  beg  your  pardon,  mademoiselle,  some  one  most  certainly 
has:  a  little  more  and  Monsieur  le  Marquis  would  have  been 
killed." 

"How  do  you  know  that?" 

"In  undressing  the  marquis  I  noticed  that  he  had  received 
a  wound  in  the  head.  I  also  examined  his  hat,  and  I  found 
three  holes  in  it,  which  could  only  have  been  made  by  bullets." 

"Then  some  one  must  have  tried  to  murder  my  father,"  mur- 
mured Blanche,  "and  this  attack  of  delirium  has  been  brought 
on  by  fright.  How  can  we  find  out  who  the  would-be  mur- 
derer was?" 

The  valet  shook  his  head.  "I  suspect  that  old  poacher,  who 
is  always  prowling  about  here,  a  man  named — Chupin." 

"No,  it  couldn't  have  been  he." 

"Ah !  I  am  almost  sure  of  it.  There's  no  one  else  in  the 
neighborhood  capable  of  such  an  evil  deed." 

Blanche  could  not  give  her  reasons  for  declaring  Chupin  in- 
nocent. Nothing  in  the  world  would  have  induced  her  to 
admit  that  she  had  met  him,  talked  with  him  for  more  than  half 
an  hour,  and  only  just  parted  from  him.  So  she  remained 
silent. 

Soon  afterward  the  medical  man  arrived.  He  removed  the 
coverlet   from   M.  de   Courtornieu's   face,   being   almost   com- 


638     THE  HONOR  OF  THE  NAME 

pelled  to  use  force  in  doing  so — examined  the  patient  with  evi- 
dent anxiety,  and  then  ordered  mustard  plasters,  applications 
of  ice  to  the  head,  leeches,  and  a  potion,  for  which  a  servant 
was  to  gallop  to  Montaignac  at  once.  Immediately  afterward 
all  was  bustle  and  confusion  in  the  house.  When  the  physician 
left  the  sick-room,  Blanche  followed  him.  "Well,  doctor?"  she 
said,  with  a  questioning  look. 

The  physician  hesitated,  but  at  last  he  replied :  "People  some- 
times recover  from  such  attacks." 

It  really  mattered  little  to  Blanche  whether  her  father  recov- 
ered or  died,  but  she  felt  that  an  opportunity  to  recover  her  lost 
influence  was  now  afforded  her.  If  she  was  to  fight  successfully 
against  Martial's  desertion,  she  must  improvise  a  very  differ- 
ent reputation  to  that  which  she  at  present  enjoyed.  Now,  if 
she  could  only  appear  to  the  world  in  the  character  of  a  patient 
victim,  and  devoted  daughter,  public  opinion,  which,  as  she  had 
recently  discovered,  was  after  all  worth  having,  might  yet  turn 
in  her  favor.  Such  an  occasion  offering  itself  must  not  be 
neglected.  Accordingly,  she  lavished  the  most  touching  and 
delicate  attentions  on  her  suffering  father.  It  was  impossible 
to  induce  her  to  leave  his  bedside  for  a  moment,  and  it  was 
only  with  great  difficulty  that  she  would  be  persuaded  to  sleep 
for  a  couple  of  hours  in  an  armchair  in  the  sick-room.  But 
while  she  was  playing  this  self-imposed  role  of  sister  of  charity 
with  a  talent  worthy  of  a  healthier  mind,  her  chief  thoughts 
were  for  Chupin.  What  was  he  doing  at  Montaignac?  Was 
he  watching  Martial  as  he  had  promised?  How  slowly  the 
time  passed !  Would  that  Thursday  which  had  been  appointed 
for  their  meeting  never  come? 

It  came  at  last,  and  momentarily  entrusting  her   father  to. 
Aunt  Medea's  care,  Blanche  made  her  escape.    The  old  poacher 
was  waiting  for  her  at  the  appointed  place  near  the  lake.    "Well, 
what  have  you  got  to  tell  me?"  asked  Blanche. 
"Next  to  nothing,  I'm  sorry  to  say." 
"What!  haven't  you  been  watching  the  marquis?" 
"Your  husband?     Excuse  me,  I  have  followed  him  like  his 
own  shadow.     But  I'm  afraid  the  news  I  have  of  him  won't 
interest  you  very  much.     Since  the  duke  left  for  Paris,  your 
husband  has  charge  of  everything.     Ah !  you  wouldn't  recog- 
nize him  !     He's  always  busy  now.     He's  up  at  cock-crow ;  and 
goes  to  bed  with  the  chickens.     He  writes  letters  all  the  morn- 
ing.    In  the  afternoon  he  receives  every  one  who  calls  upon 


THE   HONOR   OF   THE    NAME  539 

him.  The  retired  officers  are  hand  and  glove  with  him.  He 
has  reinstated  five  or  six  of  them,  and  has  granted  pensions  to 
two  others.     He  seldom  goes  out,  and  never  in  the  evening." 

He  paused,  and  for  a  moment  Blanche  remained  silent.  A 
question  rose  to  her  lips,  and  yet  she  scarcely  dared  to  pro- 
pound it.  She  blushed  with  shame,  and  it  was  only  after  a 
supreme  effort  she  managed  to  articulate:  "But  he  must  surely 
have  a  mistress?" 

Chupin  burst  into  a  noisy  laugh.  "Well,  we  have  come  to 
it  at  last,"  he  said,  with  an  air  of  audacious  familiarity  that 
made  Blanche  positively  shudder.  "You  mean  that  scoundrel 
Lacheneur's  daughter,  don't  you?  that  stuck-up  minx  Marie- 
Anne?" 

Blanche  felt  that  denial  was  useless.  "Yes,"  she  answered; 
"I  do  mean  Marie-Anne." 

"Ah,  well !  she's  neither  been  seen  nor  heard  of.  She  must 
have  fled  with  her  other  lover,  Maurice  d'Escorval." 

"You  are  mistaken." 

"Oh,  not  at  all !  Of  all  the  Lacheneurs,  the  only  one  re- 
maining about  here  is  Jean,  the  son,  who  leads  a  vagabond  life, 
poaching  much  as  I  do.  He's  always  in  the  woods,  day  and 
night,  with  his  gun  slung  over  his  shoulder.  I  caught  sight 
of  him  once.  He's  quite  frightful  to  look  at,  a  perfect  skeleton, 
with  eyes  that  glitter  like  live  coals.  If  he  ever  meets  me  and 
sees  me,  my  account  will  be  settled  then  and  there." 

Blanche  turned  pale.  Plainly  enough  it  was  Jean  Lacheneur 
who  had  fired  at  her  father.  However,  concealing  her  agita- 
tion, she  replied :  "I  myself  feel  sure  that  Marie-Anne  is  in  the 
neighborhood,  concealed  at  Montaignac,  probably.  I  must 
know.  Try  and  find  out  where  she  is  by  Monday,  when  I  will 
meet  you  here  again." 

"All  right,  I'll  try,"  answered  Chupin,  and  he  did  indeed 
try ;  exerting  all  his  energy  and  cunning,  but  in  vain.  He  was 
fettered  by  the  precautions  which  he  took  to  shield  himself 
against  Balstain  and  Jean  Lacheneur;  while,  on  the  other  hand, 
he  had  to  prosecute  his  search  personally,  as  no  one  in  the 
neighborhood  would  have  consented  to  give  him  the  least  infor- 
mation. "Still  no  news !"  he  said  to  Blanche  at  each  succeed- 
ing interview.  But  she  would  not  admit  the  possibility  of 
Marie-Anne  having  fled  with  Maurice.  Jealousy  will  not  yield 
even  to  evidence.  She  had  declared  that  Marie-Anne  had 
taken   her  husband   from   her,  that   Martial   and   Marie-Anne 


540     THE  HONOR  OF  THE  NAME 

loved  each  other,  and  it  must  be  so,  all  proofs  to  the  contrary 
notwithstanding.  At  last,  one  morning,  she  found  her  spy 
jubilant.  "Good  news!"  he  cried,  as  soon  as  he  perceived  her; 
"we  have  caught  the  minx  at  last." 


'T'HIS  was  three  days  after  Marie- Anne's  arrival  at  the  Bor- 
■*■  derie,  which  event  was  the  general  topic  of  conversation 
throughout  the  neighborhood,  Chanlouineau's  will  especially 
forming  the  subject  of  countless  comments.  The  old  folks 
looked  grave,  and  repeated  to  one  another:  "Ah,  well,  here's 
M.  Lacheneur's  daughter  with  an  income  of  more  than  two 
thousand  francs,  without  counting  the  house."  While  the  un- 
attractive maidens  who  had  not  been  fortunate  enough  to  se- 
cure husbands  muttered  in  their  turn:  "An  honest  girl  would 
have  had  no  such  luck  as  that !" 

When  Chupin  brought  this  great  news  to  Blanche  she  trem- 
bled with  anger,  and  clenched  her  soft  white  hands,  exclaiming: 
"What  audacity  !     What  impudence  !" 

The  old  poacher  seemed  to  be  of  the  same  opinion.  "If  each 
of  her  lovers  gives  her  as  much  she  will  be  richer  than  a  queen," 
quothed  he  maliciously.  "She  will  be  able  to  buy  up  Sairmeuse, 
and  Courtornieu  as  well  if  she  chooses." 

"And  this  is  the  woman  who  has  estranged  Martial  from 
me !"  ejaculated  Blanche.  "He  abandons  me  for  a  filthy  drab 
like  that !"  She  was  so  incensed  that  she  entirely  forgot  Chu- 
pin's  presence,  making  no  attempt  to  restrain  herself,  or  to  hide 
the  secret  of  her  sufferings.  "Are  you  sure  that  what  you  tell 
me  is  true?"  she  asked. 

"As  sure  as  you  stand  there." 

"Who  told  you  all  this?" 

"No  one — I  have  eyes.  That  is,  I  overheard  two  villagers 
talking  about  Mademoiselle  Lacheneur's  return ;  so  then  I  went 
to  the  Borderie  to  see  for  myself,  and  I  found  all  the  shutters 
open.  Marie-Anne  was  leaning  out  of  a  window.  She  doesn't 
even  wear  mourning,  the  heartless  hussy !"     Chupin  spoke  the 


THE   HONOR   OF   THE    NAME  541 

truth,  but  then  the  only  dress  the  poor  girl  possessed  was  the 
one  that  Madame  d'Escorval  had  lent  her  on  the  night  of  the 
insurrection,  when  it  became  necessary  for  her  to  doff  her 
masculine  attire. 

The  old  poacher  was  about  to  increase  Blanche's  irritation 
by  some  further  malicious  remarks,  when  she  checked  him  with 
the  inquiry:  "Whereabouts  is  the  Borderie?" 

"Oh,  about  a  league  and  a  half  from  here,  opposite  the  water 
mills  on  the  Oiselle,  and  not  far  from  the  river  bank." 

"Ah,  yes !  I  remember  now.     Were  you  ever  in  the  house  ?" 

"Oh,  scores  and  scores  of  times  while  Chanlouineau  was 
living." 

"Then  you  can  describe  it  to  me?" 

"I  should  think  I  could.  It  stands  in  an  open  space  a  little 
distance  from  the  road.  There's  a  small  garden  in  front  and  an 
orchard  behind.  They  are  both  hedged  in.  In  the  rear  of  the 
orchard,  on  the  right,  are  the  vineyards ;  while  on  the  left 
there's  a  small  grove  planted  round  about  a  spring."  Chupin 
paused  suddenly  in  his  description,  and,  with  a  knowing  wink, 
inquired:  "But  what  use  do  you  mean  to  make  of  all  this 
information  ?" 

"That's  no  matter  of  yours.  But  tell  me,  what  is  the  house 
like  inside?"' 

"There  are  three  large  square  rooms  on  the  ground  floor, 
besides  the  kitchen  and  pantry.  I  can't  say  what  there  is  up- 
stairs, as  I've  never  been  there." 

"And  what  are  the  rooms  you've  seen  furnished  like?'' 

"Why,  like  those  in  any  peasant's  house,  to  be  sure."  Chu- 
pin, it  should  be  observed,  knew  nothing  of  the  luxurious 
apartment  which  Chanlouineau  had  intended  for  Marie-Anne. 
Indeed,  the  only  stranger  who  was  aware  of  its  existence  was 
the  leading  upholsterer  of  Montaignac,  for  the  young  farmer 
had  never  confided  his  secret  to  any  one  in  the  neighborhood, 
and  the  furniture  had  been  brought  to  the  Borderie  one  night 
in  the  stealthiest  fashion. 

"How  many  doors  are  there  to  the  house  ?"  inquired  Blanche. 

"Three :  one  opening  into  the  garden,  one  into  the  orchard, 
and  another  communicating  with  the  stables.  The  staircase  is 
in  the  middle  room." 

"And  is  Marie-Anne  quite  alone  at  the  Borderie?" 

"Quite  alone  at  present;  but  I  expect  her  brigand  of  a 
brother  will  join  her  before  long." 


542     THE  HONOR  OF  THE  NAME 

After  this  reply,  Blanche  fell  into  so  deep  and  prolonged  a 
reverie  that  Chupin  at  last  became  impatient.  He  ventured  to 
touch  her  on  the  arm,  and,  in  a  wily  voice,  inquired :  "Well, 
what  shall  we  decide?" 

Blanche  drew  back  shuddering.  "My  mind  is  not  yet  made 
up,"  she  stammered.  "I  must  reflect — I  will  see."  And  then 
noting  the  old  poacher's  discontented  face,  she  added:  "I  will 
do  nothing  lightly.  Don't  lose  sight  of  the  marquis.  If  he 
goes  to  the  Borderie,  and  he  will  go  there,  I  must  be  informed 
of  it.  If  he  writes,  and  he  will  write,  try  to  procure  one  of 
his  letters.  I  must  see  you  every  other  day.  Don't  rest !  Try 
to  deserve  the  good  place  I  am  reserving  for  you  at  Courtor- 
nieu.     Now  go !" 

The  old  rascal  trudged  off  without  attempting  a  rejoinder, 
but  his  manner  plainly  showed  that  he  was  intensely  disap- 
pointed. "It  serves  me  deucedly  well  right,"  he  growled.  "I 
oughtn't  to  have  listened  to  such  a  silly,  affected  woman.  She 
fills  the  air  with  her  ravings,  wants  to  kill  everybody,  burn  and 
destroy  everything.  She  only  asks  for  an  opportunity.  Well, 
the  occasion  presents  itself,  and  then  of  course  her  heart  fails 
her.     She  draws  back,  and  gets  afraid !" 

In  these  remarks  Chupin  did  Blanche  great  injustice.  If,  as 
he  had  noted,  she  had  shrunk  back  shuddering  when  he  urged 
her  to  decide,  it  was  not  because  her  will  wavered,  but  rather 
because  her  flesh  instinctively  revolted  against  the  deed  she 
had  in  her  mind.  The  old  spy's  unwelcome  touch,  his  per- 
fidious voice  and  threatening  glance,  may  also  in  a  minor  de- 
gree have  prompted  this  movement  of  repulsion.  At  all  events, 
Blanche's  reflections  were  by  no  means  calculated  to  appease 
her  rancor.  Whatever  Chupin  and  the  Sairmeuse  villagers 
might  say  to  the  contrary,  she  regarded  the  story  which  Marie- 
Anne,  in  obedience  to  the  Abbe  Midon's  instructions,  had  told 
of  her  travels  in  Piedmont  as  a  ridiculous  fable,  and  nothing 
more.  In  her  opinion,  Marie-Anne  had  simply  emerged  from 
some  retreat  where  Martial  had  previously  deemed  it  prudent 
to  conceal  her.  But  why  this  sudden  reappearance?  Vindic- 
tive Blanche  was  ready  to  swear  that  it  was  out  of  mere  bravado, 
and  intended  only  as  an  insult  to  herself.  "Ah,  I  will  have  my 
revenge,"  she  thought.  "I  would  tear  my  heart  out  if  it  were 
capable  of  cowardly  weakness  under  such  provocation !" 

The  voice  of  conscience  was  unheard,  unheeded,  in  this 
tumult  of  passion.     Her  sufferings,  and  Jean  Lacheneur's  at- 


THE   HONOR   OF   THE    NAME  543 

tempt  upon  her  father's  life,  seemed  to  justify  the  most  terrible 
reprisals.  She  had  plenty  of  time  now  to  brood  over  her 
wrongs,  and  to  concoct  schemes  of  vengeance ;  for  her  father 
no  longer  required  her  care.  He  had  passed  from  the  frenzied 
ravings  of  delirium  to  the  stupor  of  idiocy.  And  yet  the  physi- 
cian had  confidently  declared  his  patient  to  be  cured.  Cured ! 
The  body  was  cured,  perhaps,  but  reason  had  utterly  fled.  All 
traces  of  intelligence  had  left  the  marquis's  once  mobile  face, 
so  ready  in  former  times  to  assume  the  precise  expression 
which  his  hypocrisy  and  duplicity  required.  His  eyes,  which 
had  gleamed  with  cunning,  wore  a  dull,  vacant  stare,  and  his 
under  lip  hung  low,  as  is  customary  with  idiots.  Worst  of  all, 
no  hope  of  any  improvement  was  to  be  entertained.  A  single 
passion — indulgence  at  table — had  taken  the  place  of  all  those 
which  in  former  times  had  swayed  the  life  of  this  ambitious 
man.  The  marquis,  in  previous  years  most  temperate  in  his 
habits,  now  ate  and  drank  with  disgusting  voracity,  and  was 
rapidly  becoming  extremely  corpulent.  Between  his  meals  he 
would  wander  about  the  chateau  and  its  surroundings  in  a 
listless  fashion,  scarcely  knowing  what  he  did.  His  memory 
had  gone,  and  he  had  lost  all  sense  of  dignity,  all  knowledge 
of  good  and  evil.  Even  the  instinct  of  self-preservation,  the 
last  which  dies  within  us,  had  departed,  and  he  had  to  be 
watched  like  a  child.  Often,  as  he  roamed  about  the  grounds, 
his  daughter  would  gaze  at  him  from  her  window  with  a 
strange  terror  in  her  heart.  But  after  all,  this  warning  of 
providence  only  increased  her  desire  for  revenge.  "Who  would 
not  prefer  death  to  such  a  misfortune  ?"  she  murmured.  'Ah ! 
Jean  Lacheneur's  revenge  is  far  more  terrible  than  if  his  bullet 
had  pierced  my  father's  heart.  It  is  a  similar  revenge  that  I 
must  have,  and  I  will  have  it !" 

She  saw  Chupin  every  two  or  three  days ;  sometimes  going 
alone  to  the  meeting-place,  and  at  others  in  Aunt  Medea's  com- 
pany. The  old  poacher  came  punctually  enough,  although  he 
was  beginning  to  tire  of  his  task.  "I  am  risking  a  great  deal," 
he  growled.  "I  fancied  that  Jean  Lacheneur  would  go  and  live 
at  the  Borderie  with  his  sister.  Then  I  should  have  been  safe. 
But  no;  the  brigand  continues  to  prowl  about  with  his  gun 
under  his  arm:  and  sleeps  in  the  woods  at  night-time.  What 
game  is  he  after?  Why,  Father  Chupin,  of  course.  On  the 
other  hand,  I  know  that  my  rascally  innkeeper  over  there  has 
abandoned  his  inn  and  disappeared.     Where  is  he?     Hidden 

13 — Vol.  II — Gab. 


544 


THE  HONOR  OF  THE  NAME 


behind  one  of  these  trees,  perhaps,  in  settling  what  part  of  my 
body  he  shall  plunge  his  knife  into."  What  irritated  the  old 
poacher  most  of  all  was,  that  after  two  months'  watching  he 
had  come  to  the  conclusion  that  whatever  might  have  been 
Martial's  connection  with  Marie-Anne  in  former  times,  every- 
thing was  now  all  over  between  them. 

But  Blanche  would  not  admit  this.  ,TOwn  that  they  are  more 
cunning  than  you  are,  Father  Cbupin,  but  don't  tell  me  they 
don't  see  each  other,"  she  observed  one  day. 

"Cunning — and  how?"  was  the  retort.  "Since  I  have  been 
watching  the  marquis,  he  hasn't  once  passed  outside  the  for- 
tifications of  Montaignac,  while,  on  the  other  hand,  the  post- 
man at  Sairmeuse,  whom  my  wife  cleverly  questioned,  declares 
that  he  hasn't  taken  a  single  letter  to  the  Borderie." 

After  this,  if  it  had  not  been  for  the  hope  of  a  safe  and  pleas- 
ant retreat  at  Courtornieu,  Chupin  would  have  abandoned  his 
task  altogether;  as  it  was,  he  relaxed  his  surveillance  consid- 
erably ;  coming  to  the  rendezvous  with  Blanche,  chiefly  because 
he  had  fallen  into  the  habit  of  claiming  some  money  for  his 
expenses,  on  each  occasion.  And  when  Blanche  asked  him  for 
an  account  of  everything  that  Martial  had  done  since  their 
previous  meeting,  he  generally  told  her  anything  that  came 
into  his  head.  However,  one  day,  early  in  September,  she  in- 
terrupted him  as  he  began  the  same  old  story,  and,  looking 
him  steadfastly  in  the  eyes,  exclaimed:  "Either  you  are  betray- 
ing me,  Father  Chupin,  or  else  you  are  a  fool.  Yesterday  Mar- 
tial and  Marie-Anne  spent  a  quarter  of  an  hour  together  at  the 
Croix  d'Arcy." 


AFTER  the  old  physician  of  Vigano  had  left  the  Borderie 
with  his  precious  burden,  Marie-Anne  fell  into  a  state  of 
bitter  despondency.  Many  in  her  situation  would  perhaps  have 
experienced  a  feeling  of  relief,  for  had  she  not  succeeded  in 
concealing  the  outcome  of  her  frailty,  which  none,  save  perhaps 
the  Abbe  Midon,  so  much  as  suspected?    Hence,  her  despond- 


THE   HONOR   OF   THE   NAME  545 

ency  may  at  first  sight  seem  to  have  been  uncalled  for.  But 
then  let  it  be  remembered  that  the  sublime  instinct  of  maternity 
had  been  awakened  in  her  breast;  and  when  she  saw  the  phy- 
sician leave  her,  carrying  away  her  child,  she  felt  as  if  her 
soul  and  body  were  being  rent  asunder.  When  might  she  hope 
to  set  her  eyes  again  on  this  poor  babe,  who  was  doubly  dear 
to  her  by  reason  of  the  very  sorrow  and  anguish  he  had  cost 
her?  Ah,  if  it  had  not  been  for  her  promise  to  Maurice,  she 
would  have  braved  public  opinion  and  kept  her  infant  son  at 
the  Borderie.  Had  she  not  braved  calumny  already?  She  had 
been  accused  of  having  three  lovers,  Chanlouineau,  Martial, 
and  Maurice.  The  comments  of  the  villagers  had  not  affected 
her;  but  she  had  been  tortured,  and  was  still  tortured  by  the 
thought  that  these  people  didn't  know  the  truth.  Maurice  was 
her  husband,  and  yet  she  dare  not  proclaim  the  fact;  she  was 
"Mademoiselle  Lacheneur"  to  all  around — a  maiden — a  living 
lie.  Surely  such  a  situation  accounted  only  too  completely  for 
her  despondency  and  distress.  And  when  she  thought  of  her 
brother  she  positively  shuddered  with  dismal  apprehensions. 

Having  learned  that  Jean  was  roving  about  the  country,  she 
sent  for  him;  but  it  was  not  without  considerable  persuasion 
that  he  consented  to  come  and  see  her  at  the  Borderie.  A 
glance  at  his  appearance  sufficed  to  explain  all  Chupin's  terror. 
The  young  fellow's  clothes  were  in  tatters,  and  the  expression 
of  his  weather-stained,  unshaven,  unkempt  face  was  ferocious 
in  the  extreme.  When  he  entered  the  cottage,  Marie-Anne 
recoiled  with  fear.  She  did  not  recognize  him  until  he  spoke. 
"It  is  I,  sister,"  he  said  gloomily. 

"What,  you — my  poor  Jean  !  you !" 

He  surveyed  himself  from  head  to  foot,  and  with  a  sneering 
laugh  retorted:  "Well,  really,  I  shouldn't  like  to  meet  myself 
at  dusk  in  the  forest." 

Marie-Anne  fancied  she  could  detect  a  threat  behind  this 
ironical  remark,  and  her  apprehensions  were  painful  in  the 
extreme.  "What  a  life  you  must  be  leading,  my  poor  brother !" 
she  said  after  a  brief  pause.  "Why  didn't  you  come  here 
sooner?  Now  I  have  you  here,  I  shall  not  let  you  go.  You 
will  not  desert  me.  I  need  protection  and  love  so  much.  You 
will  remain  with  me?" 

"That's  impossible,  Marie-Anne." 

"And  why  ?" 

Jean  averted  his  glance;  his  face  colored,  and  it  was  with 


546     THE  HONOR  OF  THE  NAME 

evident  hesitation  that  he  replied:  "Because  I've  a  right  to  dis- 
pose of  my  own  life,  but  not  of  yours.  Wc  can't  be  anything 
to  each  other  any  longer.  I  deny  you  to-day,  so  that  you  may 
be  able  to  deny  me  to-morrow.  Yes,  although  you  are  now  the 
only  person  on  earth  I  love.  I  must  and  do  renounce  you. 
Your  worst  enemies  haven't  slandered  you  more  foully  than  I 
have  done,  for  before  numerous  witnesses  I  have  openly  de- 
clared that  I  would  never  set  my  foot  inside  a  house  given  you 
by  Chanlouineau." 

"What,  you  said  that — you,  Jean — you,  my  brother?" 

"Yes,  I  said  it,  and  with  a  purpose;  for  it  must  be  supposed 
that  there  is  a  deadly  feud  between  us,  so  that  neither  you  nor 
Maurice  d'Escorval  may  be  accused  of  complicity  in  any  deed 
of  mine." 

Marie- Anne  gazed  at  her  brother  wonderingly.  "He  is  mad  !" 
she  murmured,  and  then  with  a  burst  of  energy  she  added: 
"What  do  you  mean  to  do  ?    Tell  me ;  I  must  know." 

"Nothing!  leave  me  to  myself." 

"Jean !" 

"Leave  me  to  myself,"  he  repeated  roughly. 

Marie-Anne  felt  that  her  apprehensions  were  correct.  "Take 
care,  take  care,"  she  said  entreatingly.  "Do  not  tamper  with 
such  matters.  God's  justice  will  punish  those  who  have 
wronged  us." 

But  nothing  could  move  Jean  Lacheneur,  or  divert  him  from 
his  purpose.  With  a  hoarse,  discordant  laugh,  he  clapped  his 
hand  on  his  gun  and  retorted:  "That's  my  justice!" 

Marie-Anne  almost  tottered  as  she  heard  these  words.  She 
discerned  in  her  brother's  mind  the  same  fixed,  fatal  idea  which 
had  lured  her  father  on  to  destruction — the  idea  for  which  he 
had  sacrificed  everything — family,  friends,  fortune,  and  even 
his  daughter's  honor,  the  idea  which  had  caused  so  much  blood- 
shed, which  had  cost  the  lives  of  so  many  innocent  men,  and  had 
finally  led  him  to  the  scaffold  himself.  "Jean,"  she  murmured, 
"remember  our  father." 

The  young  fellow's  face  turned  livid,  and  instinctively  he 
clenched  his  fists.  But  the  words  he  uttered  were  the  more 
impressive,  as  his  voice  was  calm  and  low.  "It  is  just  because 
I  do  remember  my  father  that  I  am  determined  justice  shall 
be  done.  Ah !  these  wretched  nobles  wouldn't  display  such 
audacity  if  all  sons  had  my  will  and  determination.  A  scoun- 
drel like  the  Due  de  Sairmeuse  would  hesitate  before  he  at- 


THE    HONOR   OF   THE    NAME  547 

tacked  an  honest  man  if  he  were  only  obliged  to  say  to  himself : 
'If  I  wrong  this  man,  and  even  should  I  kill  him,  I  can  not  escape 
retributive  justice,  for  his  children  will  surely  call  me  to  ac- 
count. Their  vengeance  will  fall  on  me  and  mine ;  they  will 
pursue  us  by  day  and  night,  at  all  hours  and  in  all  seasons. 
We  must  ever  fear  their  hatred,  for  they  will  be  implacable 
and  merciless.  I  shall  never  leave  my  house  without  fear  of 
a  bullet ;  never  lift  food  to  my  lips  without  dread  of  poison. 
And  until  I  and  mine  have  succumbed,  these  avengers  will  prowl 
round  about  our  home,  threatening  us  at  every  moment  with 
death,  dishonor,  ruin,  infamy,  and  misery !' "  The  young  fel- 
low paused,  laughed  nervously,  and  then,  in  a  still  slower  voice, 
he  added:  "That  is  what  the  Sairmeuses  and  the  Courtornieus 
have  to  expect  from  me."  It  was  impossible  to  mistake  the 
import  of  these  words.  Jean  Lacheneur's  threats  were  not  the 
wild  ravings  of  anger.  His  was  a  cold,  deep-set,  premeditated 
desire  for  vengeance,  which  would  last  as  long  as  he  lived — 
and  he  took  good  care  that  his  sister  should  understand  him, 
for  between  his  teeth  he  added:  "Undoubtedly  these  people  are 
very  high,  and  I  am  very  low,  but  when  a  tiny  insect  pierces 
the  root  of  a  giant  oak,  that  tree  is  doomed." 

Marie-Anne  realized  that  all  her  entreaties  would  fail  to  turn 
her  brother  from  his  purpose,  and  yet  she  could  not  allow  him 
to  leave  without  making  one  more  effort.  It  was  with  clasped 
hands  and  in  a  supplicating  voice  that  she  begged  him  to  re- 
nounce his  projects,  but  he  still  remained  obdurate,  and  when 
changing  her  tactics  she  asked  him  to  remain  with  her  at  least 
that  evening  and  share  her  frugal  supper,  adding  in  trembling 
tones  that  it  might  be  the  last  time  they  would  see  each  other  for 
long  years,  he  again  repeated :  "You  ask  me  an  impossibility !" 
And  yet  he  was  visibly  moved,  and  if  his  voice  was  stern,  a 
tear  trembled  in  his  eye.  She  was  clinging  to  him  implor- 
ingly, when,  yielding  for  one  moment  to  the  impulse  of  nature, 
he  took  her  in  his  arms  and  pressed  her  to  his  heart.  "Poor 
sister — poor  Marie-Anne,"  he  said,  "you  will  never  know  what 
it  costs  me  to  refuse  your  supplications.  But  I  can  not  yield 
to  them.  I  have  been  most  imprudent  in  coming  here  at  all. 
You  don't  realize  the  danger  to  which  you  may  be  exposed  if 
folks  suspect  that  there  is  any  connection  between  us.  I  trust 
that  you  and  Maurice  may  lead  a  calm  and  happy  life.  It 
would  be  a  crime  for  me  to  mix  you  up  with  my  wild  schemes. 
Think  of  me  sometimes,  but  don't  try  to  see  me,  or  even  to 


648     THE  HONOR  OF  THE  NAME 

find  out  what  has  become  of  me.  A  man  like  me  struggles, 
triumphs,  or  perishes  alone."  He  kissed  Marie-Anne  passion- 
ately, and  freed  himself  from  her  detaining  hands.  "Farewell !" 
he  cried ;  "when  you  see  me  again,  our  father  will  be  avenged !" 

Then  with  one  bound  he  reached  the  door.  She  sprang  out 
after  him,  meaning  to  call  him  back,  but  he  had  already  dis- 
appeared. "It  is  all  over,"  murmured  the  wretched  girl ;  "my 
brother  is  lost.  Nothing  will  restrain  him  now."  And  a  vague, 
inexplicable  dread  invaded  her  heart.  She  felt  as  if  she  were 
being  slowly  but  surely  drawn  into  a  whirlpool  of  passion, 
rancor,  vengeance,  and  crime,  and  a  voice  whispered  that  she 
would  be  crushed. 

Some  days  had  elapsed  after  this  incident,  when  one  even- 
ing, while  she  was  preparing  her  supper,  she  heard  a  rustling 
sound  outside.  She  turned  and  looked;  some  one  had  slipped 
a  letter  under  the  front  door.  Without  a  moment's  hesitation 
she  raised  the  latch  and  courageously  sprang  out  on  to  the 
threshold.  No  one  could  be  seen.  The  gloom  was  well-nigh 
impenetrable,  and  when  she  listened  not  a  sound  broke  the  still- 
ness. With  a  trembling  hand  she  picked  up  the  letter,  walked 
toward  the  lamp  burning  on  her  supper  table,  and  looked  at 
the  address.  "From  the  Marquis  de  Sairmeuse !"  she  exclaimed 
in  amazement  as  she  recognized  Martial's  handwriting.  So  he 
had  written  to  her!  He  had  dared  to  write  to  her!  Her  first 
impulse  was  to  burn  the  letter;  and  she  was  already  holding 
it  over  the  stove  when  she  suddenly  thought  of  her  friends  con- 
cealed at  Father  Poignot's  farm.  "For  their  sake,"  she  thought, 
"I  must  read  it,  and  see  if  they  are  threatened  with  danger." 

Then  hastily  opening  the  missive,  she  found  that  it  was  as 
follows : 

"My  dear  Marie-Anne — Perhaps  you  have  suspected  who  it 
is  that  has  given  an  entirely  new  and  certainly  surprising  turn 
to  events.  Perhaps  you  have  also  understood  the  motives  that 
guided  him.  In  that  case  I  am  amply  repaid  for  my  efforts, 
for  you  can  no  longer  refuse  me  your  esteem.  But  my  work 
of  reparation  is  not  yet  perfect.  I  have  prepared  everything 
for  a  revision  of  the  judgment  that  condemned  the  Baron  d'Es- 
corval  to  death,  or  for  having  him  pardoned.  You  must  know 
where  the  baron  is  concealed.  Acquaint  him  with  my  plans  and 
ascertain  whether  he  prefers  a  revision  of  judgment  or  a  sim- 
ple pardon.     If  he  wishes  for  a  new  trial,  I  will  give  him  a 


THE   HONOR   OF   THE    NAME  549 

letter  of   license   from   the  king.     I   await   your   reply  before 
acting.  Martial  de  Sairmeuse." 

Marie-Anne's  head  whirled.  This  was  the  second  time  that 
Martial  had  astonished  her  by  the  chivalrous  spirit  of  his  love. 
How  noble  the  two  men  who  had  loved  her  and  whom  she  had 
rejected  had  proved  themselves  to  be.  One  of  them,  Chan- 
louineau,  after  dying  for  her  sake,  had  sought  to  protect  her 
from  beyond  the  grave.  The  other,  Martial  de  Sairmeuse,  had 
sacrificed  the  connections  and  prejudices  of  his  caste,  and  haz- 
arded with  noble  recklessness  the  political  fortunes  of  his 
house,  so  as  to  insure  as  far  as  possible  her  own  happiness  and 
that  of  those  she  loved.  And  yet  the  man  whom  she  had 
chosen,  the  father  of  her  child,  Maurce  d'Escorval,  had  not 
given  as  much  as  a  sign  of  life  since  he  left  her  five  months 
before.  But  suddenly  and  without  reason  Marie-Anne  passed 
from  profound  admiration  to  deep  distrust.  "What  if  Martial's 
offer  were  only  a  trap?"  This  was  the  suspicion  that  darted 
through  her  mind.  "Ah!"  she  thought,  "the  Marquis  de  Sair- 
meuse would  be  a  hero  if  he  were  sincere !"  And  she  did  not 
wish  him  to  be  a  hero. 

The  result  of  her  suspicions  was  that  she  hesitated  five  days 
before  repairing  to  the  meeting-place  where  Father  Poignot 
usually  awaited  her.  When  she  did  go,  in  lieu  of  the  worthy 
farmer  she  found  the  Abbe  Midon,  who  had  been  greatly 
alarmed  by  her  prolonged  absence.  It  was  night-time,  but 
Marie-Anne,  fortunately,  knew  Martial's  letter  by  heart.  The 
abbe  made  her  repeat  it  twice,  the  second  time  very  slowly, 
and  when  she  had  concluded  he  remarked:  "This  young  man 
no  doubt  has  the  prejudices  of  his  rank  and  his  education: 
but  his  heart  is  noble  and  generous."  And  when  Marie-Anne 
disclosed  her  suspicions :  "You  are  wrong,  my  child,"  he  added : 
"the  marquis  is  certainly  sincere,  and  it  would  be  unwise  not 
to  take  advantage  of  his  generosity.  Such,  at  least,  is  my  opin- 
ion. Entrust  this  letter  to  me.  I  will  consult  the  baron,  and 
to-morrow  you  shall  know  our  decision." 

Four  and  twenty  hours  later  the  abbe  and  Marie-Anne  met 
again  at  the  same  spot.  "M.  d'Escorval,"  said  the  priest,  "agrees 
with  me  that  we  must  trust  ourselves  to  the  Marquis  de  Sair- 
meuse. Only  the  baron,  being  innocent,  can  not,  will  not,  accept 
a  pardon.  He  demands  a  revision  of  the  iniquitous  judgment 
which  condemned  him — in  one  word,  a  new  trial." 


560     THE  HONOR  OF  THE  NAME 

Marie-Anne  had  foreseen  this  determination,  and  yet  she 
could  not  help  exclaiming:  "What!  M.  d  Escorval  means  to 
give  himself  up  to  his  enemies !  To  risk  his  life  on  the  chance 
of  acquittal?"  The  priest  nodded  assent,  and  then  knowing 
that  it  was  quite  useless  to  attempt  arguing  the  point,  Marie- 
Anne  submissively  remarked:  "In  this  case,  I  must  ask  you  for 
a  rough  draft  of  the  letter  I  ought  to  write  to  the  marquis." 

For  a  moment  the  priest  did  not  reply.  He  evidently  had 
some  misgivings.  At  last,  summoning  all  his  courage,  he  an- 
swered: "It  would  be  better  not  to  write." 

"But—" 

"It  is  not  that  I  distrust  the  marquis,  not  by  any  means,  but 
a  letter  is  dangerous;  it  doesn't  always  reach  the  person  it's 
addressed  to.    You  must  see  M.  de  Sairmeuse." 

Marie-Anne  recoiled.     "Never !  never  !"  she  exclaimed. 

The  abbe  did  not  seem  surprised.  "I  understand  your  re- 
pugnance, my  child,"  he  said  gently;  "your  reputation  has  suf- 
fered greatly  through  the  marquis's  attentions.  But  duty  calls, 
and  this  is  not  the  time  to  hesitate.  You  know  that  the  baron 
is  innocent,  and  you  know,  alas,  that  your  father's  mad  enter- 
prise has  ruined  him.  You  must,  at  least,  make  this  atoning 
sacrifice."  He  then  explained  to  her  everything  she  would  have 
to  say,  and  did  not  leave  her  until  she  had  promised  to  see  the 
marquis  in  person. 

It  must  not  be  supposed  that  Marie-Anne's  aversion  to  this 
interview  was  due  to  the  reason  which  the  abbe  assigned.  Her 
reputation !  Alas,  she  knew  that  it  was  lost  forever.  A  fort- 
night before  the  prospect  of  such  a  meeting  would  have  in 
no  wise  disquieted  her.  Then,  though  she  no  longer  hated 
Martial,  she  thought  of  him  with  indifference,  whereas  now — 
Perhaps,  in  choosing  the  Croix  d'Arcy  for  the  rendezvous,  she 
hoped  that  this  spot  with  its  cruel  memories  would  restore 
aversion  to  her  heart.  As  she  walked  along  toward  the  meet- 
ing-place, she  said  to  herself  that  no  doubt  Martial  would 
wound  her  feelings  by  his  usual  tone  of  careless  gallantry. 
But  in  this  she  was  mistaken.  The  young  marquis  was  greatly 
agitated,  but  he  did  not  utter  a  word  unconnected  with  the 
purport  of  the  meeting.  It  was  only  when  the  conference  was 
over,  and  he  had  consented  to  all  the  conditions  suggested  by 
the  abbe,  that  he  sadly  remarked:  "We  are  friends,  are  we  not?" 

And  in  an  almost  inaudible  voice  she  answered,  "Yes." 

And  lhat  was  all.     He  remounted  his  horse,  which  had  been 


THE   HONOR   OF   THE    NAME  551 

held  by  a  servant,  and  galloped  off  in  the  direction  of  Mon- 
taignac.  Breathless,  with  cheeks  on  fire,  Marie-Anne  watched 
him  as,  bending  low  in  the  saddle,  he  urged  his  horse  onward 
over  the  dusty  highway,  until  at  last  a  bend  and  some  pro- 
jecting trees  finally  hid  him  from  view.  Then,  all  of  a  sud- 
den, she  became  as  it  were  conscious  of  her  thoughts.  "Ah, 
wretched  woman  that  I  am,"  she  exclaimed,  "is  it  possible  I 
could  ever  love  any  other  man  than  Maurice,  my  husband,  the 
father  of  my  child?" 

Her  voice  was  still  trembling  with  emotion  when  she  related 
the  particulars  of  the  interview  to  the  abbe.  But  he  did  not 
perceive  her  trouble,  his  thoughts  being  busy  with  the  baron's 
interests.  "I  felt  sure,"  said  he,  "that  Martial  would  agree  to 
our  conditions.  I  was,  indeed,  so  certain  that  I  even  made 
every  arrangement  for  the  baron  to  leave  the  farm.  He  will 
leave  it  to-morrow  night  and  wait  at  your  house  till  we  re- 
ceive the  letters  of  license  from  the  king.  The  heat  and  bad 
ventilation  of  Poignot's  loft  are  certainly  retarding  his  recov- 
ery. One  of  Poignot's  boys  will  bring  our  baggage  to-morrow 
evening,  and  at  eleven  o'clock  or  so  we  will  place  M.  d'Escorval 
in  a  vehicle  and  all  sup  together  at  the  Borderie." 

"Heaven  comes  to  my  aid !"  murmured  Marie- Anne  as  she 
walked  home,  reflecting  that  now  she  would  no  longer  be  alone. 
With  Madame  d'Escorval  at  her  side  to  talk  to  her  of  Maurice, 
and  the  cheerful  presence  of  her  other  friends,  she  would  soon 
be  able  to  chase  away  those  thoughts  of  Martial  now  haunt- 
ing her. 

When  she  awoke  the  next  morning  she  was  in  better  spirits 
than  she  had  been  for  months,  and  once,  while  putting  her 
little  house  in  order,  she  was  surprised  to  find  herself  singing 
at  her  work.  Just  as  eight  o'clock  in  the  evening  was  strik- 
ing she  heard  a  peculiar  whistle.  This  was  a  signal  from  the 
younger  Poignot,  who  soon  appeared  laden  with  an  armchair 
for  the  sick  man,  the  abbe's  medicine  chest,  and  a  bag  of  books. 
They  were  all  placed  in  the  room  upstairs — the  room  which 
Chanlouineau  had  decorated  at  such  cost,  and  which  Marie- 
Anne  now  intended  for  the  baron.  Young  Poignot  told  her 
that  he  had  several  other  things  to  bring,  and  nearly  an  hour 
afterward,  fancying  that  he  might  be  overloaded,  she  ventured 
out  to  meet  him.  The  night  was  very  dark,  and  as  she  hast- 
ened on,  Marie-Anne  failed  to  notice  two  figures  stooping 
behind  a  clump  of  lilac  bushes  in  her  little  garden. 


552 


THE  HONOR  OF  THE  NAME 


/"*  HUPIN  was  at  first  quite  crestfallen  when  Blanche  told 
^  him  of  Martial's  meeting  with  Marie-Anne  at  the  Croix 
d'Arcy.  He  was  detected  with  a  falsehood  on  his  lips,  and 
feared  that  the  discovery  of  his  duplicity  would  forever  wreck 
his  prospects.  He  must  say  good-by  to  a  safe  and  pleasant 
retreat  at  Courtornieu,  and  good-by  also  to  frequent  gifts  which 
had  enabled  him  to  spare  his  hoarded  treasure,  and  even  to 
increase  it.  However,  his  discomfiture  only  lasted  for  a  mo- 
ment. It  seemed  best  to  put  a  bold  face  on  the  matter,  and 
accordingly  raising  his  head,  he  remarked  with  an  affectation  of 
frankness:  "I  may  be  stupid  no  doubt,  but  I  wouldn't  deceive 
a  child.  I  scarcely  fancy  your  information  can  be  correct. 
Some  one  must  have  told  you  falsely." 

^  Blanche  shrugged  her  shoulders.  "I  obtained  my  informa- 
tion from  two  persons,  who  were  ignorant  of  the  interest  it 
possessed  for  me." 

"As  truly  as  the  sun  is  in  the  heavens,  I  swear — " 

"Don't  swear;  simply  confess  that  you  have  been  very 
negligent." 

Blanche  spoke  so  authoritatively  that  Chupin  considered  it 
best  to  change  his  tactics.  With  an  air  of  abject  humility,  he 
admitted  that  he  had  relaxed  his  surveillance  on  the  previous 
day;  he  had  been  very  busy  in  the  morning;  then  one  of  his 
boys  had  injured  his  foot;  and,  finally,  he  had  met  some  friends 
who  persuaded  him  to  go  with  them  to  a  wine-shop,  where  he 
had  taken  more  than  usual,  so  that —  He  told  his  story  in  a 
whining  tone,  frequently  interrupting  himself  to  affirm  his  re- 
pentance and  cover  himself  with  reproaches.  "Old  drunkard !" 
he  said,  "this  will  teach  you  not  to  neglect  your  duties." 

But  far  from  reassuring  Blanche,  his  protestations  only  made 
her  more  suspicious.  "All  this  is  very  good,  Father  Chupin," 
she  said  dryly,  "but  what  are  you  going  to  do  now  to  repair 
your  negligence?" 

"What  do  I  intend  to  do?"  he  exclaimed,  feigning  the  most 


THE   HONOR   OF  THE   NAME  66S 

violent  anger.  "Oh !  you  shall  see.  I  will  prove  that  no  one 
can  deceive  me  with  impunity.  There  is  a  small  grove  near 
the  Borderie,  and  I  shall  station  myself  there ;  and  may  the  devil 
seize  me  if  a  cat  enters  that  house  without  my  knowing  it." 

Blanche  drew  her  purse  from  her  pocket,  and  handed  three 
louis  to  Chupin,  saying  as  she  did  so,  "Take  these,  and  be 
more  careful  in  future.  Another  blunder  of  the  kind,  and  I 
shall  have  to  obtain  some  other  person's  assistance." 

The  old  poacher  went  away  whistling  contentedly.  He  felt 
quite  reassured.  In  this,  however,  he  was  wrong,  for  Blanche's 
generosity  was  only  intended  to  prevent  him  fancying  that  she 
doubted  his  veracity.  In  point  of  fact,  she  did  doubt  it.  She 
believed  his  promises  to  be  on  a  par  with  his  past  conduct, 
which,  as  events  had  shown,  had  at  the  very  best  been  negli- 
gent in  the  extreme.  This  miserable  wretch  made  it  his  busi- 
ness to  betray  others — so  why  shouldn't  he  have  betrayed  her 
as  well?  What  confidence  could  she  place  in  his  reports?  She 
certainly  paid  him,  but  the  person  who  paid  him  more  would 
unquestionably  have  the  preference.  Still,  she  must  know  the 
truth,  the  whole  truth,  and  how  was  she  to  ascertain  it?  There 
was  but  one  method — a  certain,  though  a  very  disagreeable 
one — she  must  play  the  spy  herself. 

With  this  idea  in  her  head,  she  waited  impatiently  for  even- 
ing to  arrive,  and  then,  directly  dinner  was  over,  she  summoned 
Aunt  Medea,  and  requested  her  company,  as  she  was  going  out 
for  a  walk.  The  impoverished  chaperone  made  a  feeble  pro- 
test concerning  the  lateness  of  the  hour.  But  Blanche  speed- 
ily silenced  her,  and  bade  her  get  ready  at  once,  adding  that 
she  did  not  wish  any  one  in  the  chateau  to  know  that  they 
had  gone  out.  Aunt  Medea  had  no  other  resource  than  to 
obey,  and  in  the  twinkling  of  an  eye  she  was  ready.  The 
marquis  had  just  been  put  to  bed,  the  servants  were  at  din- 
ner, and  Blanche  and  her  companion  reached  a  little  gate 
leading  from  the  grounds  into  the  open  fields  without  being 
observed.  "Good  heavens!  Where  are  we  going?"  groaned 
the  astonished  chaperone. 

"What  does  that  matter  to  you?  Come  along!"  replied 
Blanche,  who,  as  it  may  have  been  guessed,  was  going  to  the 
Borderie.  She  could  have  followed  the  banks  of  the  Oiselle, 
but  she  preferred  to  cut  across  the  fields,  thinking  she  would  be 
less  likely  to  meet  any  one.  The  night  was  very  dark,  and 
the  hedges  and  ditches  often  impeded  their  progress.     On  two 


664     THE  HONOR  OF  THE  NAME 

occasions  Blanche  lost  her  way,  while  Aunt  Medea  stumbled 
again  and  again  over  the  rough  ground,  bruising  herself  against 
the  stones.  She  groaned;  she  almost  wept;  but  her  terrible 
niece  was  pitiless.  "Come  along!"  she  cried,  "or  else  I  shall 
leave  you  to  find  your  way  as  best  you  can."  And  so  the  poor 
dependent  struggled  on. 

At  last,  after  more  than  an  hour's  tramp,  Blanche  ventured 
to  breathe.  She  recognized  Chanlouineau's  house,  a  short  dis- 
tance off,  and  soon  afterward  she  paused  in  the  little  grove 
of  which  Chupin  had  spoken.  Aunt  Medea  now  timidly  in- 
quired if  they  were  at  their  journey's  end — a  question  which 
Blanche  answered  affirmatively.  "But  be  quiet,"  she  added, 
"and  remain  where  you  are.     I  wish  to  look  about  a  little." 

"What!  you  are  leaving  me  alone?"  ejaculated  the  fright- 
ened chaperon.  "Blanche,  I  entreat  you !  What  are  you 
going  to  do  ?  Good  heavens !  you  frighten  me.  You  do  indeed, 
Blanche !" 

But  her  niece  had  gone.  She  was  exploring  the  grove,  look- 
ing for  Chupin,  whom  she  did  not  find.  This  convinced  her 
that  the  old  poacher  was  deceiving  her,  and  she  angrily  asked 
herself  if  Martial  and  Marie-Anne  were  not  in  the  house  hard 
by  at  that  very  hour,  laughing  at  her  credulity.  She  then  re- 
joined Aunt  Medea,  whom  she  found  half-dead  with  fright, 
and  they  both  advanced  to  the  edge  of  the  copse,  where  they 
could  view  the  front  of  the  house.  A  flickering,  ruddy  light 
illuminated  two  windows  on  the  upper  floor.  There  was  evi- 
dently a  fire  in  the  room  upstairs.  "That's  right,"  murmured 
Blanche  bitterly,  "Martial  is  such  a  chilly  personage."  She 
was  about  to  approach  the  house  when  a  peculiar  whistle  made 
her  pause.  She  looked  about  her,  and,  through  the  darkness, 
she  managed  to  distinguish  a  man  walking  toward  the  Bor- 
derie,  and  carrying  a  weighty  burden.  Almost  immediately 
afterward  a  woman,  certainly  Marie-Anne,  opened  the  door  of 
the  house,  and  the  stranger  was  admitted.  Ten  minutes  later 
he  reappeared,  this  time  without  his  burden,  and  walked  briskly 
away.  Blanche  was  wondering  what  all  this  meant,  but  for 
the  time  being  she  did  not  venture  to  approach,  and  nearly  an 
hour  elapsed  before  she  decided  to  try  to  satisfy  her  curi- 
osity by  peering  through  the  windows.  Accompanied  by  Aunt 
Medea,  she  had  just  reached  the  little  garden  when  the  door 
of  the  cottage  opened  so  suddenly  that  Blanche  and  her  rela- 
tive had  scarcely  time  to  conceal  themselves  behind  a  clump 


THE   HONOR   OF   THE    NAME  555 

of  lilac  bushes.  At  the  same  moment  Marie-Anne  crossed  the 
threshold  and  walked  down  the  narrow  garden  path,  gained  the 
road,  and  disappeared.  "Wait  for  me  here,"  said  Blanche  to 
her  aunt  in  a  strained,  unnatural  voice,  "and  whatever  hap- 
pens, whatever  you  hear,  if  you  wish  to  finish  your  days  at 
Courtornieu,  not  a  word !  Don't  stir  from  this  spot ;  I  will 
come  back  again."  Then  pressing  the  frightened  spinster's 
arm,  she  left  her  alone  and  went  into  the  cottage. 

Marie-Anne,  on  going  out,  had  left  a  candle  burning  on  the 
table  in  the  front  room.     Blanche  seized  it  and  boldly  began 
an  exploration  of  the  dwelling.     Owing  to  Chupin's  descrip- 
tion, she  was  tolerably  familiar  with  the  arrangements  on  the 
ground  floor,  and  yet  the  aspect  of  the  rooms  surprised  her. 
They    were    roughly    floored    with    tiles,    and    the    walls    were 
poorly  whitewashed.    A  massive  linen-press,  a  couple  of  heavy 
tables,  and  a  few  clumsy  chairs,  constituted  the  only  furniture 
in   the   front   apartment,    while    from   the   beams   above   hung 
numerous  bags  of  grain  and  bunches  of  dried  herbs.     Marie- 
Anne  evidently  slept  in  the   back   room,   which  contained  an 
old-fashioned  country  bedstead,  very  high  and  broad,  the  tall, 
fluted  posts  of  which  were  draped  with  green  serge  curtains, 
sliding  on  iron  rings.     Fastened  to  the  wall  at  the  head  of  the 
bed  was  a  receptacle  for  holy  water.     Blanche  dipped  her  fin- 
ger in  the  bowl,  and  found  it  full  to  the  brim.     Then  beside 
the  window  on  a  wooden  shelf  she  espied  a  jug  and  basin  of 
common  earthenware.     "It  must  be  confessed  that  my  husband 
doesn't   provide  his   idol   with   a  very  sumptuous   abode,"  she 
muttered  with  a  sneer.     And  for  a  moment,  indeed,  she  was 
almost  on  the  point  of  asking  herself  if  jealousy  had  not  led 
her  astray.     Remembering  Martial's  fastidious  tastes,  she  failed 
to  reconcile  them  with  these  meagre  surroundings.     The  pres- 
ence of   the   holy   water,   moreover,   seemed   incompatible   with 
her  suspicions.     But  the  latter  revived  again  when  she  entered 
the  kitchen.     A  savory  soup  was  bubbling  in  a  pot  over  the 
fire,  and  fragrant  stews  were  simmering  in  two  or  three  sauce- 
pans.    Such  preparations  could  not  be  made  for  Marie-Anne 
alone.     Whom,  then,  were  they  for?    At  this  moment  Blanche 
remembered  the   ruddy   glow  which  she  had  noticed  through 
the  windows  on  the  floor  above.     Hastily  leaving  the  kitchen, 
she  climbed  the  stairs  and  opened  a  door  she  found  in  front 
of   her.     A   cry  of   mingled   anger   and   surprise  escaped   her 
lips.     She   stood  on  the  threshold  of  the  room   which   Chan- 


666     THE  HONOR  OF  THE  NAME 

louineau  in  the  boldness  of  his  passion  had  designed  to  be 
the  sanctuary  of  his  love.  Here  everything  was  beautiful  and 
luxurious:  "Ah,  so  after  all  it's  true,"  exclaimed  Blanche  in 
a  paroxysm  of  jealousy.  "And  I  was  fancying  that  everything 
was  too  meagre  and  too  poor.  Downstairs  everything  is  so 
arranged  that  visitors  may  not  suspect  the  truth !  Ah,  now  I 
recognize  Martial's  astonishing  talent  for  dissimulation;  he  is 
so  infatuated  with  this  creature  that  he  is  even  anxious  to 
shield  her  reputation.  He  keeps  his  visits  secret  and  hides 
himself  up  here.  Yes,  here  it  is  that  they  laugh  at  me,  the 
deluded,  forsaken  wife  whose  marriage  was  but  a  mockery !" 

She  had  wished  to  know  the  truth,  and  now  she  felt  she  knew 
it.  Certainty  was  less  cruel  than  everlasting  suspicion,  and  she 
even  took  a  bitter  delight  in  examining  the  appointments  of  the 
apartment,  which  to  her  mind  proved  how  deeply  Martial  must 
be  infatuated.  She  felt  the  heavy  curtains  of  brocaded  silken 
stuff  with  trembling  hands;  she  tested  the  thickness  of  the 
rich  carpet  with  her  feet ;  the  embroidered  coverlid  on  the  palis- 
sandre  bedstead,  the  mirrors,  the  hundred  knickknacks  on  the 
tables  and  the  mantelshelf — all  in  turn  met  with  her  attentive 
scrutiny.  Everything  indicated  that  some  one  was  expected — 
the  bright  fire — the  cozy  armchair  beside  it,  the  slippers  on  the 
rug.  And  whom  would  Marie-Anne  expect  but  Martial?  No 
doubt  the  man  whom  Blanche  had  seen  arriving  had  come  to 
announce  the  marquis's  approach,  and  Marie-Anne  had  gone  to 
meet  him. 

Curiously  enough,  on  the  hearth  stood  a  bowl  of  soup,  still 
warm,  and  which  Marie-Anne  had  evidently  been  about  to 
drink  when  she  heard  the  messenger's  signal.  Blanche  was 
still  wondering  how  she  could  profit  of  her  discoveries,  when 
she  espied  a  chest  of  polished  oak  standing  open  on  a  table 
near  a  glass  door  leading  into  an  adjoining  dressing-room.  She 
walked  toward  it  and  perceived  that  it  contained  a  number  of 
tiny  vials  and  boxes.  It  was  indeed  the  Abbe  Midon's  medicine 
chest,  which  Marie-Anne  had  placed  here  in  readiness,  should 
it  be  needed  when  the  baron  arrived,  weak  from  his  nocturnal 
journey.  Blanche  was  examining  the  contents  when  suddenly 
she  noticed  two  bottles  of  blue  glass,  on  which  "poison"  was 
inscribed.  "Poison !" — the  word  seemed  to  fascinate  her,  and 
by  a  diabolical  inspiration  she  associated  these  vials  with  the 
bowl  of  soup  standing  on  the  hearth.  "And  why  not?"  she 
muttered.    "I  could  escape  afterward."    Another  thought  made 


THE   HONOR   OF   THE    NAME  557 

her  pause,  however.  Martial  would  no  doubt  return  with 
Marie-Anne,  and  perhaps  he  would  drink  this  broth.  She  hesi- 
tated for  a  moment,  and  then  took  one  of  the  vials  in  her  hand, 
murmuring  as  she  did  so :  "God  will  decide ;  it  is  better  he 
should  die  than  belong  to  another."  She  had  hitherto  acted 
like  one  bewildered,  but  this  act,  simple  in  its  performance,  but 
terrible  in  its  import,  seemed  to  restore  all  her  presence  of  mind. 
"What  poison  is  it  ?"  thought  she ;  "ought  I  to  administer  a  large 
or  a  small  dose?"  With  some  little  difficulty  she  opened  the 
bottle  and  poured  a  small  portion  of  its  contents  into  the  palm 
of  her  hand.  The  poison  was  a  fine,  white  powder,  glistening 
like  pulverized  glass.  "Can  it  really  be  sugar?"  thought 
Blanche ;  and  with  the  view  of  making  sure  she  moistened  a 
finger-tip,  and  gathered  on  it  a  few  atoms  of  the  powder,  which 
she  applied  to  her  tongue.  Its  taste  was  not  unlike  that  of  an 
apple.  She  wiped  her  tongue  with  her  handkerchief,  and  then 
without  hesitation  or  remorse,  without  even  turning  pale,  she 
poured  the  entire  contents  of  the  bottle  into  the  bowl.  Her 
self-possession  was  so  perfect  that  she  even  stirred  the  broth, 
so  that  the  powder  might  more  rapidly  dissolve.  She  next 
tasted  it,  and  found  that  it  had  a  slightly  bitter  flavor — not  suf- 
ficiently perceptible,  however,  to  awaken  distrust.  All  that  now 
remained  was  to  escape,  and  she  was  already  walking  toward 
the  door  when,  to  her  horror,  she  heard  some  one  coming  up  the 
stairs.  What  should  she  do?  Where  could  she  conceal  her- 
self? She  now  felt  so  sure  that  she  would  be  detected  that  she 
almost  decided  to  throw  the  contents  of  the  bowl  into  the  fire, 
and  then  face  the  intruders.  But  no — a  chance  remained — the 
dressing-room  ?  She  darted  into  it,  without  daring,  however, 
to  close  the  door,  for  the  least  click  of  the  lock  might  betray 
her. 

Immediately  afterward  Marie-Anne  entered  the  apartment, 
followed  by  a  peasant  carrying  a  large  bundle.  "Ah  !  here  is 
my  candle  !"  she  exclaimed,  as  she  crossed  the  threshold.  "Joy 
must  be  making  me  lose  my  wits !  I  could  have  sworn  that  I 
left  it  on  the  table  downstairs." 

Blanche  shuddered.  She  had  not  thought  of  this  circum- 
stance before. 

"Where  shall  I  put  these  clothes?"  asked  the  peasant. 

"Lay  them  down  here.  I  will  arrange  them  by  and  by."  re- 
plied Marie-Anne. 

The  youth  dropped  his  heavy  burden  with  a  sigh  of  relief. 


558     THE  HONOR  OF  THE  NAME 

"That's  the  last,"  he  exclaimed.  "Now  our  gentleman  can 
come." 

"At  what  o'clock  will  he  start?"  inquired  Marie-Anne. 

"At  eleven.     It  will  be  nearly  midnight  when  he  gets  here." 

Marie-Anne  glanced  at  the  magnificent  timepiece  on  the  man- 
telshelf. "I  have  still  three  hours  before  me,"  said  she;  "more 
time  than  I  need.  Supper  is  ready,  I  am  going  to  set  the  table 
here  by  the  fire.    Tell  him  to  bring  a  good  appetite  with  him." 

"I  won't  forget,  mademoiselle ;  thank  you  for  having  come  to 
meet  me.  The  load  wasn't  so  very  heavy,  but  it  was  awkward 
to  handle." 

"Won't  you  take  a  glass  of  wine?" 

"No,  thanks.  I  must  make  haste  back,  Mademoiselle  Lache- 
neur." 

"Good  night,  Poignot." 

Blanche  had  never  heard  this  name  of  Poignot  before;  it 
had  no  meaning  for  her.  Ah,  if  she  had  heard  M.  d'Escorval 
or  the  abbe  mentioned,  she  might  perhaps  have  doubted  the 
truth ;  her  resolution  might  have  wavered  and — who  knows  ? 
But  unfortuately,  young  Poignot,  in  referring  to  the  baron,  had 
spoken  of  him  as  "our  gentleman,"  while  Marie-Anne  said, 
"he."  And  to  Blanche's  mind  they  both  of  them  referred  to 
Martial.  Yes,  unquestionably  it  must  be  the  Marquis  de  Sair- 
meuse,  who  would  arrive  at  midnight.  She  was  sure  of  it.  It 
was  he  who  had  sent  this  messenger  with  a  parcel  of  clothes — 
a  proceeding  which  could  only  mean  that  he  was  going  to  es- 
tablish himself  at  the  Borderie.  Perhaps  he  would  cast  aside 
all  secrecy  and  live  there  openly,  regardless  of  his  rank,  his 
dignity,  and  duties;  forgetful  even  of  his  prejudices  as  well. 
These  conjectures  could  only  fire  Blanche's  jealous  fury.  Why 
should  she  hesitate  or  tremble  after  that?  The  only  thing  she 
had  to  fear  now  was  that  Marie-Anne  might  enter  the  dressing- 
room  and  find  her  there.  She  had  but  little  anxiety  concerning 
Aunt  Medea,  who,  it  is  true,  was  still  in  the  garden;  but  after 
the  orders  she  had  received  the  poor  dependent  would  remain 
as  still  as  a  stone  behind  the  lilac  bushes,  and,  if  needs  be, 
during  the  whole  night.  On  the  other  hand,  Marie-Anne  would 
remain  alone  in  the  house  during  another  two  hours  and  a  half, 
and  Blanche  reflected  that  this  would  give  her  ample  time  to 
watch  the  effects  of  the  poison  on  her  hated  rival.  When  the 
crime  was  discovered  she  would  be  far  away.  No  one  knew  she 
was  not  at  Courtornieu;  no  one  had  seen  her  leave  the  chateau; 


THE   HONOR   OF   THE    NAME  559 

Aunt  Medea  would  be  as  silent  as  the  grave.  And,  besides, 
who  would  dare  to  accuse  the  Marquise  de  Sairmeuse,  nee 
Blanche  de  Courtornieu,  of  murder?  One  thing  that  worried 
Blanche  was  that  Marie-Anne  seemed  to  pay  no  attention  to 
the  broth.  She  had,  in  fact,  forgotten  it.  She  had  opened  the 
bundle  of  clothes,  and  was  now  busily  arranging  them  in  a 
wardrobe  near  the  bed.  Who  talks  of  presentiments !  She  was 
as  gay  and  vivacious  as  in  her  happiest  days ;  and  while  she 
folded  the  clothes  hummed  an  air  that  Maurice  had  often  sung. 
She  felt  that  her  troubles  were  nearly  over,  for  her  friends 
would  soon  be  round  her,  and  a  brighter  time  seemed  near  at 
hand.  When  she  had  put  all  the  clothes  away,  she  shut  the 
wardrobe  and  drew  a  small  table  up  before  the  fire.  It  was 
not  till  then  that  she  noticed  the  bowl  standing  on  the  hearth. 
"How  stupid  I  am !"  she  said,  with  a  laugh ;  and  taking  the 
bowl  in  her  hands,  she  raised  it  to  her  lips. 

Blanche  heard  Marie- Anne's  exclamation  plainly  enough ;  she 
saw  what  she  was  doing;  and  yet  she  never  felt  the  slightest 
remorse.  However,  Marie-Anne  drank  but  one  mouthful,  and 
then,  in  evident  disgust,  she  set  the  bowl  down.  A  horrible 
dread  made  the  watcher's  heart  stand  still,  and  she  wondered 
whether  her  victim  had  detected  any  peculiar  taste  in  the  soup. 
No,  she  had  not;  but,  owing  to  the  fire  having  fallen  low,  it 
had  grown  nearly  cold,  and  a  slight  coating  of  grease  floated  on 
its  surface.  Taking  a  spoon,  Marie-Anne  skimmed  the  broth 
carefully,  and  stirred  it  up.  Then,  being  thirsty,  she  drank  the 
liquid  almost  at  one  draft,  laid  the  bowl  on  the  mantelpiece, 
and  resumed  her  work. 

The  crime  was  perpetrated.  The  future  no  longer  depended 
on  Blanche  de  Courtornieu's  will.  Come  what  would,  she  was 
a  murderess.  But  though  she  was  conscious  of  her  crime,  the 
excess  of  her  jealous  hatred  prevented  her  from  realizing  its 
enormity.  She  said  to  herself  that  she  had  only  accomplished 
an  act  of  justice,  that  in  reality  her  vengeance  was  scarcely 
cruel  enough  for  the  wrongs  she  had  suffered,  and  that  nothing 
could  indeed  fully  atone  for  the  tortures  inflicted  on  her.  But 
in  a  few  moments  grievous  misgivings  took  possession  of  her 
mind.  Her  knowledge  of  the  effects  of  poison  was  extremely 
limited.  She  had  expected  to  see  Marie-Anne  fall  dead  before 
her,  as  if  stricken  down  by  a  thunderbolt.  But  no,  several  min- 
utes passed,  and  Marie-Anne  continued  her  preparations  for 
supper  as  if  nothing  had  occurred.     She  spread  a  white  cloth 


660       THE  HONOR  OF  THE  NAME 

over  the  table,  smoothed  it  with  her  hands,  and  placed  a  cruet- 
stand  and  salt-cellar  on  it.  Blanche's  heart  was  beating  so  vio- 
lently that  she  could  scarcely  realize  why  its  throbbings  were  not 
heard  in  the  adjoining  room.  Her  assurance  had  been  great, 
but  now  the  fear  of  punishment  which  usually  precedes  remorse 
crept  over  her  mind;  and  the  idea  that  her  victim  might  enter 
the  dressing-room  made  her  turn  pale  with  fear.  At  last  she 
saw  Marie-Anne  take  the  light  and  go  downstairs.  Blanche 
was  left  alone,  and  the  thought  of  escaping  again  occurred  to 
her;  but  how  could  she  possibly  leave  the  house  without  being 
seen?  Must  she  wait  there,  hidden  in  that  nook,  forever? 
"That  couldn't  have  been  poison.  It  doesn't  act,"  she  muttered 
in  a  rage. 

Alas !  it  did  act,  as  she  herself  perceived  when  Marie-Anne 
reentered  the  room.  The  latter  had  changed  frightfully  during 
the  brief  interval  she  had  spent  on  the  ground  floor.  Her  face 
was  livid  and  mottled  with  purple  spots,  her  distended  eyes 
glittered  with  a  strange  brilliancy,  and  she  let  a  pile  of  plates 
she  carried  fall  on  the  table  with  a  crash. 

"The  poison !  it  begins  to  act  at  last !"  thought  Blanche. 

Marie-Anne  stood  on  the  hearthrug,  gazing  wildly  round  her, 
as  if  seeking  for  the  cause  of  her  incomprehensible  sufferings. 
She  passed  and  repassed  her  hand  across  her  forehead,  which 
was  bathed  in  cold  sweat ;  she  gasped  for  breath,  and  then  sud- 
denly overcome  with  nausea,  she  staggered,  pressed  her  hands 
convulsively  to  her  breast,  and  sank  into  the  armchair,  crying: 
"Oh,  God  !  how  I  suffer !" 

Kneeling  by  the  door  of  the  dressing-room  which  was  only 
partly  closed,  Blanche  eagerly  watched  the  workings  of  the 
poison  she  had  administered.  She  was  so  near  her  victim  that 
she  could  distinguish  the  throbbing  of  her  temples,  and  some- 
times she  fancied  she  could  feel  on  her  own  cheek  her  rival's 
breath,  scorching  her  like  flame.  An  utter  prostration  followed 
Marie- Anne's  paroxysm  of  agony ;  and  if  it  had  not  been  for 
the  convulsive  working  of  her  mouth  and  labored  breathing,  it 
might  have  been  supposed  that  she  was  dead.  But  soon  the 
nausea  returned,  and  she  was  seized  with  vomiting.  Each  effort 
seemed  to  contract  her  body ;  and  gradually  a  ghastly  tint  crept 
over  her  face,  the  spots  on  her  cheeks  became  of  a  deeper  tint, 
her  eyes  seemed  as  if  they  were  about  to  burst  from  their 
sockets,  and  great  drops  of  perspiration  rolled  down  her  cheeks. 
Her  sufferings  must  have  been  intolerable.     She  moaned  feebly 


THE   HONOR   OF   THE   NAME  561 

at  times,  and  at  intervals  gave  vent  to  truly  heartrending 
shrieks.  Then  she  faltered  fragmentary  sentences;  she  begged 
piteously  for  water,  or  entreated  Heaven  to  shorten  her  tor- 
tures. "Ah,  it  is  horrible !  I  suffer  too  much !  My  God ! 
grant  me  death  !"  She  invoked  all  the  friends  she  had  ever 
known,  calling  for  aid  in  a  despairing  voice.  She  called  on 
Madame  d'Escorval,  the  abbe,  Maurice,  her  brother,  Chanloui- 
neau,  and  Martial ! 

Martial ! — that  name  more  than  sufficed  to  chase  all  pity  from 
Blanche's  heart.  "Go  on !  call  your  lover,  call !"  she  said  to 
herself,  bitterly.  "He  will  come  too  late."  And  as  Marie-Anne 
repeated  the  name,  in  a  tone  of  agonized  entreaty:  "Suffer!" 
continued  Blanche,  "suffer,  you  deserve  it !  You  imparted  to 
Martial  the  courage  to  forsake  me.  his  wife,  as  a  drunken 
lackey  would  abandon  the  lowest  of  degraded  creatures !  Die, 
and  my  husband  will  return  to  me  repentant."  No,  she  had 
no  pity.  She  felt  a  difficulty  in  breathing,  but  that  merely  re- 
sulted from  the  instinctive  horror  which  the  sufferings  of  others 
inspire — a  purely  physical  impression,  which  is  adorned  with 
the  fine  name  of  sensibility,  but  which  is,  in  reality,  the  grossest 
selfishness. 

And  yet,  Marie-Anne  was  sinking  perceptibly.  She  had  fallen 
on  to  the  floor,  during  one  of  her  attacks  of  sickness,  and  now 
she  even  seemed  unable  to  moan ;  her  eyes  closed,  and  after  a 
spasm  which  brought  a  bloody  foam  to  her  lips,  her  head  sank 
back,  and  she  lay  motionless  on  the  hearthrug. 

"It  is  over,"  murmured  Blanche,  rising  to  her  feet.  To  her 
surprise  her  own  limbs  trembled  so  acutely  that  she  could 
scarcely  stand.  Her  will  was  still  firm  and  implacable;  but  her 
flesh  failed  her.  She  had  never  even  imagined  a  scene  like  that 
she  had  just  witnessed.  She  knew  that  poison  caused  death ; 
but  she  had  not  suspected  the  agony  of  such  a  death.  She  no 
longer  thought  of  increasing  her  victim's  sufferings  by  upbraid- 
ing her.  Her  only  desire  now  was  to  leave  the  house,  the  very 
floor  of  which  seemed  to  scorch  her  feet.  A  strange,  inexplica- 
ble sensation  was  creeping  over  her ;  it  was  not  yet  fright,  but 
rather  the  stupor  that  follows  the  perpetration  of  a  terrible 
crime.  Still,  she  compelled  herself  to  wait  a  few  moments 
longer ;  then  seeing  that  Marie- Anne  still  remained  motionless, 
with  closed  eyes,  she  ventured  to  open  the  door  softly,  and 
enter  the  room  in  which  her  victim  was  lying.  But  she  had 
not  taken  three  steps  forward  before  Marie-Anne,  as  if  she  had 


562     THE  HONOR  OF  THE  NAME 

been  galvanized  by  an  electric  battery,  suddenly  rose  and  ex- 
tended her  arms  to  bar  her  enemy's  passage.  This  movement 
was  so  unexpected  and  so  appalling  that  Blanche  recoiled. 
"The  Marquise  de  Sairmeuse,"  faltered  Marie-Anne.  "You, 
Blanche — here !"  And  finding  an  explanation  of  her  sufferings 
in  the  presence  of  this  young  woman,  who  once  had  been  her 
friend,  but  who  was  now  her  bitterest  enemy,  she  exclaimed: 
"It  is  you  who  have  murdered  mc !" 

Blanche  de  Courtornieu's  nature  was  one  of  those  that  break 
but  never  bend.  Since  she  had  been  detected,  nothing  in  the 
world  would  induce  her  to  deny  her  guilt.  She  advanced  boldly, 
and  in  a  firm  voice  replied:  "Yes,  I  have  taken  my  revenge. 
Do  you  think  I  didn't  suffer  that  evening  when  you  sent  your 
brother  to  take  my  newly-wedded  husband  away,  so  that  I  have 
never  since  gazed  upon  his  face?" 

"Your  husband !  I  sent  my  brother  to  take  him  away !  I  do 
not  understand  you." 

"Do  you  dare  deny,  then,  that  you  are  not  Martial's  mis- 
tress?" 

"The  Marquis  de  Sairmeuse's  mistress !  Why,  I  saw  him 
yesterday  for  the  first  time  since  the  Baron  d'Escorval's  escape." 
The  effort  which  Marie-Anne  had  made  to  rise  and  speak  had 
exhausted  her  strength.     She  fell  back  in  the  armchair. 

But  Blanche  was  pitiless.  "You  only  saw  Martial  then,"  she 
said.  "Pray,  tell  me,  who  gave  you  this  costly  furniture,  these 
silk  hangings,  all  the  luxury  that  surrounds  you?" 

"Chanlouineau." 

Blanche  shrugged  her  shoulders.  "So  be  it,"  she  said,  with 
an  ironical  smile.  "But  you  are  not  waiting  for  Chanlouineau 
this  evening?  Have  you  warmed  these  slippers  and  laid  this 
table  for  Chanlouineau?  Was  it  Chanlouineau  who  sent  his 
clothes  by  a  peasant  named  Poignot?  You  see  that  I  know 
everything?"  She  paused  for  some  reply;  but  her  victim  was 
silent.  "Whom  are  you  waiting  for?"  insisted  Blanche.  "An- 
swer me !" 

"I  can  not !" 

"Ah,  of  course  not,  because  you  know  that  it  is  your 
lover  who  is  coming,  you  wretched  woman — my  husband, 
Martial !" 

Marie-Anne  was  considering  the  situation  as  well  as  her  in- 
tolerable sufferings  and  troubled  mind  would  permit.  Could 
she   name   the   persons   she   was  expecting?     Would   not   any 


THE   HONOR   OF   THE    NAME  563 

mention  of  the  Baron  d'Escorval  to  Blanche  ruin  and  betray 
him?  They  were  hoping  for  a  letter  of  license  for  a  revision 
of  judgment,  but  he  was  none  the  less  under  sentence  of  death, 
and  liable  to  be  executed  in  twenty-four  hours. 

"So  you  refuse  to  tell  me  whom  you  expect  here — at  mid- 
night," repeated  the  marquise. 

"I  refuse,"  gasped  Marie-Anne;  but  at  the  same  time  she 
was  seized  with  a  sudden  impulse.  Although  the  slightest 
movement  caused  her  intolerable  agony,  she  tore  her  dress 
open,  and  drew  a  folded  paper  from  her  bosom.  "I  am  not  the 
Marquis  de  Sairmeuse's  mistress,"  she  said,  in  an  almost  inaudi- 
ble voice.  "I  am  Maurice  d'Escorval's  wife.  Here  is  the  proof 
—read." 

Blanche  had  scarcely  glanced  at  the  paper  than  she  turned 
as  pale  as  her  victim.  Her  sight  failed  her ;  there  was  a  strange 
ringing  in  her  ears,  and  a  cold  sweat  started  from  every  pore 
in  her  skin.  This  paper  was  the  marriage  certificate  of  Mau- 
rice d'Escorval  and  Marie-Anne  Lacheneur,  drawn  up  by  the 
cure  of  Vigano,  witnessed  by  the  old  physician  and  Bavois.  and 
sealed  with  the  parish  seal.  The  proof  was  indisputable.  She 
had  committed  a  useless  crime;  she  had  murdered  an  innocent 
woman.  The  first  good  impulse  of  her  life  made  her  heart  beat 
more  quickly.  She  did  not  stop  to  consider;  she  forgot  the 
danger  to  which  she  exposed  herself,  and  in  a  ringing  voice  she 
cried :  "Help  !  help  !"" 

Eleven  o'clock  was  just  striking  in  the  country;  every  one 
was  naturally  abed,  and,  moreover,  the  nearest  farmhouse  was 
half  a  league  away.  Blanche's  shout  was  apparently  lost  in  the 
stillness  of  the  night.  In  the  garden  below  Aunt  Medea  per- 
haps heard  it ;  but  she  would  have  allowed  herself  to  be  cut  to 
pieces  rather  than  stir  from  her  place.  And  yet  there  was  one 
other  who  heard  that  cry  of  distress.  Had  Blanche  and  her 
victim  been  less  overwhelmed  with  despair,  they  would  have 
heard  a  noise  on  the  stairs,  which  at  that  very  moment  were 
creaking  under  the  tread  of  a  man,  who  was  cautiouslv  climb- 
ing  them.  But  he  was  not  a  savior,  for  he  did  not  answer  the 
appeal.  However,  even  if  there  had  been  help  at  hand,  it  would 
now  have  come  too  late. 

Marie-Anne  felt  that  there  was  no  longer  any  hope  for  her. 
and  that  it  was  the  chill  of  death  which  was  creeping  toward 
her  heart.  She  felt  that  her  life  was  fast  ebbing  away.  So, 
when  Blanche  turned  as  if  to  rush  out  in  search  of  assistance, 


564     THE  HONOR  OF  THE  NAME 

she  detained  her  with  a  gesture,  and  gently  called  her  by  her 
name.  The  murderess  paused.  "Do  not  summon  any  one," 
murmured  Marie-Anne ;  "it  would  do  no  good.  Let  me  at  least 
die  in  peace.     It  will  not  be  long  now." 

"Hush !  do  not  speak  so.  You  must  not — you  shall  not  die ! 
If  you  should  die — great  God !  what  would  my  life  be  after- 
ward !" 

Marie-Anne  made  no  reply.  The  poison  was  rapidly  com- 
pleting its  work.  The  sufferer's  breath  literally  whistled  as  it 
forced  its  way  through  her  inflamed  throat.  When  she  moved 
her  tongue,  it  scorched  her  palate  as  if  it  had  been  a  piece  of 
hot  iron;  her  lips  were  parched  and  swollen;  and  her  hands, 
inert  and  paralyzed,  would  no  longer  obey  her  will. 

But  the  horror  of  the  situation  restored  Blanche's  calmness. 
"All  is  not  yet  lost,"  she  exclaimed.  "It  was  in  that  great  box 
there  on  the  table  that  I  found  the  white  powder  I  poured  into 
the  bowl.  You  must  know  what  it  is;  you  must  know  the 
antidote." 

Marie-Anne  sadly  shook  her  head.  "Nothing  can  save  me 
now,"  she  murmured,  in  an  almost  inaudible  voice;  "but  I  don't 
complain.  Who  knows  the  misery  from  which  death  may  pre- 
serve me?  I  don't  crave  life;  I  have  suffered  so  much  during 
the  past  year ;  I  have  endured  such  humiliation ;  I  have  wept  so 
much  !  A  curse  was  on  me  !"  She  was  suddenly  endowed  with 
that  clearness  of  mental  vision  so  often  granted  to  the  dying. 
She  saw  how  she  had  wrought  her  own  undoing  by  consenting 
to  play  the  perfidious  part  her  father  had  assigned  her,  and  how 
she  herself  had  paved  the  way  for  the  slander,  crimes,  and 
misfortunes  of  which  she  had  been  the  victim. 

Her  voice  grew  fainter  and  fainter.  Worn  out  with  suffer- 
ing, a  sensation  of  drowsiness  stole  over  her.  She  was  falling 
asleep  in  the  arms  of  death.  But  suddenly  such  a  terrible 
thought  found  its  way  into  her  failing  mind  that  she  gasped 
with  agony:  "My  child!"  And  then,  regaining,  by  a  super- 
human effort,  as  much  will,  energy,  and  strength  as  the  poison 
would  allow  her,  she  straightened  herself  in  the  armchair,  and 
though  her  features  were  contracted  by  mortal  anguish,  yet 
with  an  energy  of  which  no  one  would  have  supposed  her  capa- 
ble, she  exclaimed:  "Blanche,  listen  to  me.  It  is  the  secret  of 
my  life  which  I  am  going  to  reveal  to  you;  no  one  suspects  it 
I  have  a  son  by  Maurice.  Alas !  many  months  have  elapsed 
since  my  husband  disappeared.    If  he  is  dead,  what  will  become 


THE   HONOR   OF   THE    NAME  565 

of  my  child?  Blanche,  you,  who  have  killed  me,  swear  to  me 
that  you  will  be  a  mother  to  my  child !" 

Blanche  was  utterly  overcome.  "I  swear !"  she  sobbed ;  "I 
swear !" 

"On  that  condition,  but  on  that  condition  alone,  I  pardon 
you.  But  take  care !  Do  not  forget  your  oath !  Blanche, 
Heaven  sometimes  allows  the  dead  to  avenge  themselves.  You 
have  sworn,  remember.  My  spirit  will  allow  you  no  rest  if  you 
do  not  fulfil  your  vow !" 

"I  will  remember,"  sobbed  Blanche;  "I  will  remember.  But 
the  child—" 

"Ah  !  I  was  afraid — cowardly  creature  that  I  was  !  I  dreaded 
the  shame — then  Maurice  insisted — I  sent  my  child  away — your 
jealousy  and  my  death  are  the  punishment  of  my  weakness. 
Poor  child !  abandoned  to  strangers !  Wretched  woman  that  I 
am  !    Ah  !  this  suffering  is  too  horrible.    Blanche,  remember — " 

She  spoke  again,  but  her  words  were  indistinct,  inaudible. 
Blanche  frantically  seized  the  dying  woman's  arm,  and  en- 
deavored to  arouse  her.  "To  whom  have  you  confided  your 
child  ?"  she  repeated ;  "to  whom  ?  Marie-Anne — a  word  more — 
a  single  word — a  name,  Marie-Anne!" 

The  unfortunate  woman's  lips  moved,  but  the  death-rattle 
already  sounded  in  her  throat;  a  terrible  convulsion  shook  her 
frame;  she  slid  down  from  the  chair,  and  fell  full  length  upon 
the  floor.  Marie-Anne  was  dead — dead,  and  she  had  not  dis- 
closed the  name  of  the  old  physician  at  Vigano  to  whom  she 
had  entrusted  her  child.  She  was  dead,  and  the  terrified  mur- 
deress stood  in  the  middle  of  the  room  as  rigid  and  motionless 
as  a  statue.  It  seemed  to  her  that  madness — a  madness  like  that 
which  had  stricken  her  father — was  working  in  her  brain.  She 
forgot  everything;  she  forgot  that  some  one  was  expected  at 
midnight;  that  time  was  flying,  and  that  she  would  surely  be 
discovered  if  she  did  not  fly.  But  the  man  who  had  entered  the 
house  when  she  cried  for  help  was  watching  over  her.  As  soon 
as  he  saw  that  Marie-Anne  had  breathed  her  last,  he  pushed 
against  the  door,  and  thrust  his  leering  face  into  the  room. 

"Chupin!"  faltered  Blanche. 

"In  the  flesh,"  he  responded.  "This  was  a  grand  chance  for 
you.  Ah,  ha!  The  business  riled  your  stomach  a  little;  but 
nonsense !  that  will  soon  pass  off.  But  we  must  not  dawdle 
here :  some  one  may  come  in.    Let  us  make  haste." 

Mechanically    the    murderess    stepped    forward,    but    Marie- 


566  THE   HONOR   OF   THE   NAME 

Anne's  dead  body  lay  between  her  and  the  door,  barring  the 
passage.  To  leave  the  room  it  was  necessary  to  step  over  her 
victim's  lifeless  form.  She  had  not  courage  to  do  so,  and 
recoiled  with  a  shudder.  But  Chupin  was  troubled  by  no  such 
scruples.  He  sprang  across  the  body,  lifted  Blanche  as  if  she 
had  been  a  child,  and  carried  her  out  of  the  house.  He  was 
intoxicated  with  joy.  He  need  have  no  fears  for  the  future 
now ;  for  Blanche  was  bound  to  him  by  the  strongest  of  chains 
— complicity  in  crime.  He  saw  himself  on  the  threshold  of  a 
life  of  constant  revelry.  All  remorse  anent  Lacheneur's  be- 
trayal had  departed.  He  would  be  sumptuously  fed,  lodged,  and 
clothed;  and,  above  all,  effectually  protected  by  an  army  of 
servants. 

While  these  agreeable  thoughts  were  darting  through  his 
mind,  the  cool  night  air  was  reviving  the  terror-stricken  Mar- 
quise de  Sairmeuse.  She  intimated  that  she  should  prefer  to 
walk,  and  accordingly  Chupin  deposited  her  on  her  feet  some 
twenty  paces  from  the  house.  Aunt  Medea  was  already  with 
them  after  the  fashion  of  a  dog  left  at  the  door  by  its  master 
while  the  latter  goes  into  the  house.  She  had  instinctively  fol- 
lowed her  niece,  when  she  perceived  the  old  poacher  carrying 
her  out  of  the  cottage. 

"We  must  not  stop  to  talk,"  said  Chupin.  "Come,  I  will  lead 
the  way."  And  taking  Blanche  by  the  arm,  he  hastened  toward 
the  grove.  "Ah !  so  Marie-Anne  had  a  child,"  he  remarked,  as 
they  hurried.  "She  pretended  to  be  such  a  saint!  But  where 
the  deuce  has  she  placed  it?" 
"I  shall  find  it,"  replied  Blanche. 

"Hum !  that  is  easier  said  than  done,"  quoth  the  old  poacher, 
thoughtfully. 

Scarcely  had  he  spoken  than  a  shrill  laugh  resounded  in  the 
darkness.  In  the  twinkling  of  an  eye  Chupin  had  released  his 
hold  on  Blanche's  arm,  and  assumed  an  attitude  of  defense. 
The  precaution  was  fruitless;  for  at  the  same  moment  a  man 
concealed  among  the  trees  bounded  upon  him  from  behind,  and, 
plunging  a  knife  four  times  into  his  writhing  body,  exclaimed: 
"Holy  Virgin !  now  is  my  vow  fulfilled !  I  shall  no  longer  have 
to  eat  with  my  fingers!" 

"Balstain  !  the  innkeeper !"  groaned  the  wounded  man.  sink- 
ing to  the  ground. 

Blanche  seemed  rooted  to  the  spot  with  horror;  but  Aunt 
Medea    for   once   in   her   life   had   some   energy    in    her    fear. 


THE    HONOR   OF   THE    NAME 


567 


"Come!"  she  shrieked,  dragging  her  niece  away.     "Come — he 
is  dead !" 

Not  quite,  for  the  old  traitor  had  sufficient  strength  remain- 
ing to  crawl  home  and  knock  at  the  door.  His  wife  and  young- 
est boy  were  sleeping  soundly,  and  it  was  his  eldest  son,  who 
had  just  returned  home,  who  opened  the  door.  Seeing  his 
father  prostrate  on  the  ground,  the  young  man  thought  he  was 
intoxicated,  and  tried  to  lift  him  and  carry  him  into  the  house, 
but  the  old  poacher  begged  him  to  desist.  "Don't  touch  me," 
said  he.  "It  is  all  over  with  me  !  but  listen :  Lacheneur's  daugh- 
ter has  just  been  poisoned  by  Madame  Blanche.  It  was  to  tell 
you  this  that  I  dragged  myself  here.  This  knowledge  is  worth 
a  fortune,  my  boy,  if  you  are  not  a  fool !"  And  then  he  died 
without  being  able  to  tell  his  family  where  he  had  concealed 
the  price  of  Lacheneur's  blood. 


T  T  will  be  recollected  that  of  all  those  who  witnessed  the 
*■  Baron  d'Escorval's  terrible  fall  over  the  precipice  below  the 
citadel  of  Montaignac,  the  Abbe  Midon  was  the  only  one  who 
did*not  despair.  He  set  about  his  task  with  more  than  courage, 
with  a  reverent  faith  in  the  protection  of  Providence,  remem- 
bering Ambroise  Pare's  sublime  phrase:  "I  dress  the  wound 
— God  heals  it."  That  he  was  right  to  hope  was  conclusively 
shown  by  the  fact  that  after  six  months'  sojourn  in  Father 
Poignot's  house,  the  baron  was  able  to  sit  up  and  even  to  limp 
about  with  the  aid  of  crutches.  On  reaching  this  stage  of 
recovery,  however,  when  it  was  essential  he  should  take  some 
little  exercise,  he  was  seriously  inconvenienced  by  the  diminu- 
tive proportions  of  Poignot's  loft,  so  that  he  welcomed  with 
intense  delight  the  prospect  of  taking  up  his  abode  at  the  Bor- 
derie  with  Marie- Anne ;  and  when  indeed  the  abbe  fixed  the  day 
for  moving,  he  grew  as  impatient  for  it  to  arrive  as  a  school- 
boy is  for  the  holidays.  "I  am  suffocating  here,"  he  said  to  his 
wife,  "literally  suffocating.  The  time  passes  slowly.  When 
will  the  happy  day  come?" 

14 — Vol.  II— fiab. 


568     THE  HONOR  OF  THE  NAME 

It  came  at  last.  The  morning  was  spent  in  packing  up  such 
things  as  they  had  managed  to  procure  dur'ng  their  stay  at  the 
farm ;  and  soon  after  nightfall  Poignot's  elder  son  began  carry- 
ing them  away.  "Everything  is  at  the  Borderie,"  said  the  hon- 
est fellow,  on  returning  from  his  last  trip,  "and  Mademoiselle 
Lacheneur  bids  the  baron  bring  a  good  appetite." 

"I  shall  have  one,  never  fear !"  responded  M.  d'Escorval 
gaily.    "We  shall  all  have  one." 

Father  Poignot  himself  was  busy  harnessing  his  best  horse 
to  the  cart  which  was  to  convey  the  baron  to  his  new  home. 
The  worthy  man  felt  sad  as  he  thought  that  these  guests,  for 
whose  sake  he  had  incurred  such  danger,  were  now  going  to 
leave  him.  He  felt  he  should  acutely  miss  them,  that  the  house 
would  seem  gloomy  and  deserted  after  they  had  left.  He  would 
allow  no  one  else  to  arrange  the  mattress  intended  for  M. 
d'Escorval  comfortably  in  the  cart;  and  when  he  had  done  this 
to  his  satisfaction,  he  murmured,  with  a  sigh:  "It's  time  to 
start !"  and  turned  to  climb  the  narrow  staircase  leading  to  the 
loft. 

M.  d'Escorval  with  a  patient's  natural  egotism  had  not 
thought  of  the  parting.  But  when  he  saw  the  honest  farmer 
coming  to  bid  him  good-by,  with  signs  of  deep  emotion  on  his 
face,  he  forgot  all  the  comforts  that  awaited  him  at  the  Bor- 
derie, in  the  remembrance  of  the  royal  and  courageous  hospi- 
tality he  had  received  in  the  house  he  was  about  to  leave.  The 
tears  sprang  to  his  eyes.  "You  have  rendered  me  a  service 
which  nothing  can  repay,  Father  Poignot,"  he  said,  with  intense 
feeling.    "You  have  saved  my  life." 

"Oh  !  we  won't  talk  of  that,  baron.  In  my  place,  you  would 
have  done  the  same — neither  more  nor  less." 

"I  shall  not  attempt  to  express  my  thanks,  but  I  hope  to  live 
long  enough  to  show  my  gratitude." 

The  staircase  was  so  narrow  that  they  had  considerable  diffi- 
culty in  carrying  the  baron  down ;  but  finally  they  had  him 
stretched  comfortably  on  his  mattress  in  the  cart ;  a  few  hand- 
fuls  of  straw  being  scattered  over  his  limbs  so  as  to  hide  him 
from  the  gaze  of  any  inquisitive  passers-by.  The  latter  was 
scarcely  to  be  expected,  it  is  true,  for  it  was  now  fully  eleven 
o'clock  at  night.  Parting  greetings  were  exchanged,  and  then 
the  cart  which  young  Poignot  drove  with  the  utmost  caution 
started  slowly  on  its  way. 

On    foot,    some    twenty    paces    in   the    rear,    came    Madame 


THE   HONOR   OF   THE    NAME  569 

d'Escorval,  leaning  on  the  abbe's  arm.  It  was  very  dark,  but 
even  if  they  had  been  in  the  full  sunshine,  the  former  cure  of 
Sairmeuse  might  have  encountered  any  of  his  old  parishioners 
without  the  least  danger  of  detection.  He  had  allowed  his  hair 
and  beard  to  grow ;  his  tonsure  had  entirely  disappeared,  and 
his  sedentary  life  had  caused  him  to  become  much  stouter.  He 
was  clad  like  all  the  well-to-do  peasants  of  the  neighborhood, 
his  face  being  partially  hidden  by  a  large  slouch-hat.  He  had 
not  felt  so  much  at  ease  for  months  past.  Obstacles  which  had 
originally  seemed  to  him  insurmountable  had  now  vanished, 
and  in  the  near  future  he  saw  the  baron's  innocence  proclaimed 
by  an  impartial  tribunal,  while  he  himself  was  reinstalled  in  the 
parsonage  of  Sairmeuse.  If  it  had  not  been  for  his  recollec- 
tion of  Maurice  he  would  have  had  nothing  to  trouble  his  mind. 
Why  had  young  D'Escorval  given  no  sign  of  life?  It  seemed 
impossible  for  him  to  have  met  with  any  misfortune  without 
hearing  of  it,  for  there  was  brave  old  Corporal  Bavois,  who 
would  have  risked  anything  to  come  and  warn  them  if  Maurice 
had  been  in  danger.  The  abbe  was  so  absorbed  in  these  reflec- 
tions that  he  did  not  notice  Madame  d'Escorval  was  leaning 
more  heavily  on  his  arm  and  gradually  slackening  her  pace. 
"I  am  ashamed  to  confess  it,"  she  said  at  last,  "but  I  can  go 
no  farther.  It  is  so  long  since  I  was  out  of  doors  that  I  have 
almost  forgotten  how  to  walk." 

"Fortunately  we  are  almost  there,"  replied  the  priest;  and 
indeed  a  moment  afterward  young  Poignot  drew  up  at  the 
corner  of  the  foot-path  leading  to  the  Borderie.  Telling  the 
baron  that  the  journey  was  ended,  he  gave  a  low  whistle,  like 
that  which  had  warned  Marie-Anne  of  his  arrival  a  few  hours 
before.  No  one  appeared  or  replied,  so  he  whistled  again  in 
a  louder  key,  and  then  a  third  time  with  all  his  might — still 
there  was  no  response.  Madame  d'Escorval  and  the  abbe  had 
now  overtaken  the  cart.  "It's  very  strange  that  Marie-Anne 
doesn't  hear  me,"  remarked  young  Poignot,  turning  to  them. 
"We  can't  take  the  baron  to  the  house  until  we  have  seen  her. 
She  knows  that  very  well.     Shall  I  run  up  and  warn  her?" 

"She's  asleep,  perhaps,"  replied  the  abbe;  "stay  with  your 
horse,  my  boy,  and  I'll  go  and  wake  her." 

He  certainly  did  not  feel  the  least  uneasiness.  All  was  calm 
and  still  outside,  and  a  bright  light  shone  through  the  windows 
of  the  upper  floor.  Still,  when  he  perceived  the  open  door,  a 
vague  presentiment  of  evil  stirred  his  heart.     "What  can  this 


570     THE  HONOR  OF  THE  NAME 

mean?"  he  thought.  There  was  no  light  in  the  lower  rooms, 
and  he  had  to  feel  for  the  staircase  with  his  hands.  At  last 
he  found  it  and  went  up.  Another  open  door  was  in  front  of 
him ;  he  stepped  forward  and  reached  the  threshold.  Then, 
so  suddenly  that  he  almost  fell  backward,  he  paused  horror- 
stricken  at  the  sight  before  him.  Poor  Marie-Anne  was  lying 
on  the  floor.  Her  eyes,  which  were  wide  open,  were  covered 
with  a  white  film;  her  tongue  was  hanging  black  and  swollen 
from  her  mouth.  "Dead!"  faltered  the  priest;  "dead!"  But 
this  could  not  be.  The  abbe  conquered  his  weakness,  and 
approaching  the  poor  girl,  he  took  her  by  the  hand.  "Poi- 
soned !"  he  murmured :  "poisoned  with  arsenic."  He  rose  to 
his  feet,  and  was  casting  a  bewildered  glance  around  the  room 
when  his  eyes  fell  on  his  medicine  chest  standing  open  on  a 
side-table.  He  rushed  toward  it,  took  out  a  vial,  uncorked  it, 
and  turned  it  over  on  the  palm  of  his  hand — it  was  empty. 
"I  was  not  mistaken !"  he  exclaimed. 

But  he  had  no  time  to  lose  in  conjectures.  The  first  thing 
to  be  done  was  to  induce  the  baron  to  return  to  the  farmhouse 
without  telling  him  of  the  terrible  misfortune  which  had  oc- 
curred. It  would  not  be  very  difficult  to  find  a  pretext.  Sum- 
moning all  his  courage,  the  priest  hastened  back  to  the  wagon, 
and  with  well-affected  calmness  told  M.  d'Escorval  that  it  would 
be  impossible  for  him  to  take  up  his  abode  at  the  Borderie  at 
present,  that  several  suspicious-looking  characters  had  been 
seen  prowling  about,  and  that  they  must  be  more  prudent  than 
ever  now,  so  as  not  to  render  Martial's  intervention  useless. 
At  last,  but  not  without  considerable  reluctance,  the  baron 
yielded.  "As  you  desire  it,  cure,"  he  sighed,  "I  must  obey. 
Come,  Poignot,  my  boy,  drive  me  back  to  your  father's  house." 

Madame  d'Escorval  took  a  seat  in  her  cart  beside  her  hus- 
band. The  priest  stood  watching  them  as  they  drove  off,  and 
it  was  not  until  the  sound  of  the  wheels  had  died  away  in 
the  distance  that  he  ventured  to  return  to  the  Borderie.  He 
was  climbing  the  stairs  again  when  he  heard  a  faint  moan  in 
the  room  where  Marie-Anne  was  lying.  The  sound  sent  all 
his  blood  wildly  rushing  to  his  heart,  and  with  one  bound  he 
had  reached  the  upper  floor.  Beside  the  corpse  a  young  man 
was  kneeling,  weeping  bitterly.  The  expression  of  his  face,  his 
attitude,  his  sobs  betrayed  the  wildest  despair.  He  was  so 
lost  in  grief  that  he  did  not  observe  the  abbe's  entrance.  Who 
was   this   mourner   who   had  found   his   way  to   the  house  of 


THE   HONOR   OF   THE    NAME  571 

death?  At  last,  however,  though  he  did  not  recognize  him, 
the  priest  divined  who  he  must  be.  "Jean !"  he  cried,  "Jean 
Lacheneur !"  The  young  fellow  sprang  to  his  feet  with  a 
pale  face  and  threatening  look.  "Who  are  you?"  he  asked 
vehemently.  "What  are  you  doing  here?  What  do  you  want 
with  me?" 

The  former  cure  of  Sairmeuse  was  so  effectually  disguised 
by  his  peasant  dress  and  long  beard  that  he  had  to  name 
himself.  "You,  Monsieur  Abbe,"  exclaimed  Jean.  "It  is  God 
who  has  sent  you  here !  Marie- Anne  can  not  be  dead !  You, 
who  have  saved  so  many  others,  will  save  her."  But  as  the 
priest  sadly  pointed  to  heaven,  the  young  fellow  paused,  and 
his  face  became  more  ghastly  looking  than  before.  He  under- 
stood now  that  there  was  no  hope.  "Ah !"  he  murmured  in 
a  desponding  tone,  "fate  shows  us  no  mercy.  I  have  been 
watching  over  Marie-Anne  from  a  distance;  and  this  evening 
I  was  coming  to  warn  her  to  be  cautious,  for  I  knew  she  was 
in  great  danger.  An  hour  ago,  while  I  was  eating  my  supper 
in  a  wine-shop  at  Sairmeuse,  Grollet's  son  same  in.  'Is  that 
you,  Jean?'  said  he.  'I  just  saw  Chupin  hiding  near  your 
sister's  house;  when  he  observed  me,  he  slunk  away.'  When 
I  heard  that,  I  hastened  here  like  a  crazy  man.  I  ran,  but 
when  fate  is  against  you.  what  can  you  do?  I  arrived  too 
late !" 

The  abbe  reflected  for  a  moment.  "Then  you  suppose  it 
was  Chupin?"  he  asked. 

"I  don't  suppose ;  I  feel  certain  that  it  was  he — the  miserable 
traitor ! — who  committed  this  foul  deed." 

"Still,  what  motive  could  he  have  had?" 

With  a  discordant  laugh  that  almost  seemed  a  yell,  Jean 
answered:  "Oh,  you  may  be  certain  that  the  daughter's  blood 
will  yield  him  a  richer  reward  than  did  the  father's.  Chupin 
has  been  the  instrument ;  but  it  was  not  he  who  conceived  the 
crime.  You  will  have  to  seek  higher  for  the  culprit,  much 
higher,  in  the  finest  chateau  of  the  country,  in  the  midst  of 
an  army  of  retainers  at  Sairmeuse." 

"Wretched  man,  what  do  you  mean?" 

"What  I  say."  And  he  coldly  added:  "Martial  de  Sairmeuse 
is  the  assassin." 

The  priest  recoiled.     "You  are  mad !"  he  said  severely. 

But  Jean  gravely  shook  his  head.  "If  I  seem  so  to  you,  sir," 
he  replied,  "it  is  only  because  you  are  ignorant  of  Martial's 


572     THE  HONOR  OF  THE  NAME 

wild  passion  for  Marie-Anne.  He  wanted  to  make  her  his 
mistress.  She  had  the  audacity  to  refuse  the  honor;  and  that 
was  a  crime  for  which  she  must  be  punished.  When  the  Mar- 
quis de  Sairmeuse  became  convinced  that  Lacheneur's  daughter 
would  never  be  his,  he  poisoned  her,  that  she  might  not  belong 
to  any  one  else."  All  efforts  to  convince  Jean  of  the  folly  of 
his  accusations  would  at  that  moment  have  been  vain.  No 
proofs  would  have  convinced  him.  He  would  have  closed  his 
eyes  to  all  evidence. 

"To-morrow,  when  he  is  more  calm,  I  will  reason  with  him," 
thought  the  abbe;  and  then  he  added  aloud:  "We  can't  allow 
the  poor  girl's  body  to  remain  here  on  the  floor.  Help  me, 
and  we  will  place  it  on  the  bed." 

Jean  trembled  from  head  to  foot,  and  his  hesitation  was  per- 
ceptible; but  at  last,  after  a  severe  struggle,  he  complied.  No 
one  had  ever  yet  slept  on  this  bed  which  Chanlouineau  had 
destined  for  Marie-Anne,  saying  to  himself  that  it  should  be 
for  her,  or  for  no  one.  And  Marie-Anne  it  was  who  rested 
there  the  first — sleeping  the  sleep  of  death.  When  the  sad  task 
was  accomplished,  Jean  threw  himself  into  the  same  armchair 
in  which  Marie-Anne  had  breathed  her  last,  and  with  his  face 
buried  in  his  hands,  and  his  elbows  resting  on  his  knees,  he 
sat  there  as  silent  and  motionless  as  the  statues  of  sorrow 
placed  above  the  last  resting  places  of  the  dead. 

In  the  mean  while  the  abbe  knelt  by  the  bedside  and  began 
reciting  the  prayers  for  the  departed,  entreating  God  to  grant 
peace  and  happiness  in  heaven  to  her  who  had  suffered  so 
much  on  earth.  But  he  prayed  only  with  his  lips,  for  in  spite 
of  all  his  efforts,  his  mind  would  persist  in  wandering.  He 
was  striving  to  solve  the  mystery  that  enshrouded  Marie-Anne's 
death.  Had  she  been  murdered?  Was  it  possible  that  she  had 
committed  suicide?  The  latter  idea  occurred  to  him  without 
his  having  any  great  faith  in  it;  but,  on  the  other  hand,  how 
could  her  death  possibly  be  the  result  of  crime?  He  had  care- 
fully examined  the  room,  and  had  discovered  nothing  that  be- 
trayed a  stranger's  visit.  All  he  could  prove  was  that  his  vial 
of  arsenic  was  empty,  and  that  Marie-Anne  had  been  poisoned 
by  absorbing  it  in  the  broth,  a  few  drops  of  which  were  left 
in  the  bowl  standing  on  the  mantelpiece.  "When  morning 
comes,"  thought  the  abbe,  "I  will  look  outside." 

Accordingly,  at  daybreak  he  went  into  the  garden  and  made 
a  careful  examination  of  the  premises.    At  first  he  saw  nothing 


THE   HONOR   OF   THE    NAME  573 

that  gave  him  the  least  clue,  and  he  was  about  to  abandon  his 
investigations  when,  on  entering  the  little  grove,  he  espied  a 
large  dark  stain  on  the  grass  a  few  paces  off.  He  went  nearer 
— it  was  blood  !  In  a  state  of  great  excitement,  he  summoned 
Jean,  to  inform  him  of  the  discovery. 

"Some  one  has  been  murdered  here,"  said  young  Lacheneur; 
"and  only  last  night,  for  the  blood  has  scarcely  had  time 
to  dry." 

"The  victim  must  have  lost  a  great  deal  of  blood,"  remarked 
the  priest;  "it  might  be  possible  to  discover  who  he  was  by 
following  these  stains." 

"Yes,  I  will  try,"  replied  Jean  with  alacrity.  "Go  into  the 
house,  sir;  I  will  soon  be  back  again." 

A  child  might  have  followed  the  trail  of  the  wounded  man, 
for  the  blood-stains  left  along  his  line  of  route  were  so  fre- 
quent and  distinct.  These  telltale  marks  led  to  Chupin's  hovel, 
the  door  of  which  was  closed.  Jean  rapped,  however,  without 
the  slightest  hesitation,  and  when  the  old  poacher's  eldest  son 
opened  the  door,  he  perceived  a  very  singular  spectacle.  The 
dead  body  had  been  thrown  on  to  the  ground,  in  a  corner  of 
the  hut,  the  bedstead  was  overturned  and  broken,  all  the  straw 
had  been  torn  from  the  mattress,  and  the  dead  man's  wife  and 
sons,  armed  with  spades  and  pickaxes,  were  wildly  overturn- 
ing the  beaten  soil  that  formed  the  hovel's  only  floor.  They  were 
seeking  for  the  hidden  treasure,  for  the  twenty  thousand  francs 
in  gold,  paid  for  Lacheneur's  betrayal !  "What  do  you  want  ?" 
asked  the  widow  roughly. 
"I  want  to  see  Father  Chupin." 

"Can't  you  see  that  he's  been  murdered,"  replied  one  of  the 
sons.  And  brandishing  his  pick  close  to  Jean's  head,  he  added: 
"And  you're  the  murderer,  perhaps.  But  that's  for  justice  to 
determine.  Now  decamp  if  you  don't  want  me  to  do  for 
you." 

Jean  could  scarcely  restrain  himself  from  punishing  young 
Chupin  for  his  threat,  but  under  the  circumstances  a  conflict 
was  scarcely  permissible.  Accordingly,  he  turned  without  an- 
other word,  hastened  back  to  the  Borderie.  Chupin's  death 
upset  all  his  plans,  and  greatly  irritated  him.  "I  swore  that 
the  wretch  who  betrayed  my  father  should  perish  by  my  hand," 
he  murmured ;  "and  now  I  am  deprived  of  my  vengeance.  Some 
one  has  cheated  me  out  of  it.  Who  could  it  be?  Can  Martial 
have  assassinated  Chupin  after  he  murdered  Marie- Anne?    Th? 


574     THE  HONOR  OF  THE  NAME 

best  way  to  assure  one's  self  of  an  accomplice's  silence  is  cer- 
tainly to  kill  him." 

Jean  had  reached  the  Borderie,  and  was  on  the  point  of  going 
upstairs  when  he  fancied  he  heard  some  one  talking  in  the  back 
room.  "That's  strange,"  he  said  to  himself.  "Who  can  it  be?" 
And  yielding  to  the  impulse  of  curiosity,  he  tapped  against  the 
communicating  door. 

The  abbe  instantly  made  his  appearance,  hurriedly  closing 
the  door  behind  him.     He  was  very  pale  and  agitated. 

"Who's  there?"  inquired  Jean  eagerly. 

"Why,  Maurice  d'Escorval  and  Corporal  Bavois." 

"My  God !" 

"And  it's  a  miracle  that  Maurice  has  not  been  upstairs." 

"But  whence  does  he  come  from?  Why  have  we  had  no 
news  of  him?" 

"I  don't  know.  He  has  only  been  here  five  minutes.  Poor 
boy !  after  I  told  him  his  father  was  safe,  his  first  words  were : 
And  Marie-Anne?'  He  loves  her  more  devotedly  than  ever. 
He  comes  home  with  his  heart  full  of  her,  confident  and  hope- 
ful; and  I  tremble — I  fear  to  tell  him  the  truth." 

"Yes,  it's  really  too  terrible!" 

"Now  I  have  warned  you;  be  prudent — and  come  in."  They 
entered  the  room  together;  and  both  Maurice  and  the  old  sol- 
dier greeted  Jean  warmly.  They  had  not  seen  one  another 
since  the  duel  at  La  Reche,  interrupted  by  the  arrival  of  the 
soldiers ;  and  when  they  separated  that  day  they  scarcely  ex- 
pected to  meet  again. 

Now  Maurice,  however,  was  in  the  best  of  spirits,  and  it  was 
with  a  smile  on  his  face  that  he  remarked :  "I  am  glad  you've 
come.  There's  nothing  to  fear  now."  Then  turning  to  the 
abbe,  he  remarked:  "But  I  just  promised  to  let  you  know  the 
reason  of  my  long  silence.  Three  days  after  we  crossed  the 
frontier — Corporal  Bavois  and  I — we  reached  Turin.  We  were 
tired  out.  We  went  to  a  small  inn,  and  they  gave  us  a  room 
with  two  beds.  While  we  were  undressing,  the  corporal  said 
to  me :  T  am  quite  capable  of  sleeping  two  whole  days  with- 
out waking,'  while  I  promised  myself  at  least  a  good  twelve 
hours'  rest;  but  we  reckoned  without  our  host,  as  you'll  see. 
It  was  scarcely  daybreak  when  we  were  suddenly  woke  up. 
There  were  a  dozen  men  in  our  room,  one  or  two  of  them  in 
some  official  costume.  They  spoke  to  us  in  Italian,  and  ordered 
us  to  dress  ourselves.    They  were  so  numerous  that  resistance 


THE   HONOR   OF   THE   NAME  575 

was  useless,  so  we  obeyed;  and  an  hour  after  we  were  both  in 
prison,  confined  in  the  same  cell.  You  may  well  imagine  what 
our  thoughts  were.  The  corporal  remarked  to  me,  in  that  cool 
way  of  his:  'It  will  require  four  days  to  obtain  our  extradi- 
tion, and  three  days  to  take  us  back  to  Montaignac — that's 
seven ;  then  there'll  be  one  day  more  to  try  us,  so  we've  in  all 
just  eight  days  to  live.'  Bavois  said  that  at  least  a  hundred 
times  during  the  first  five  or  six  days  of  our  confinement,  but 
five  months  passed  by,  and  every  night  we  went  to  bed  expect- 
ing they'd  come  for  us  on  the  following  morning.  But  they 
didn't  come.  We  were  kindly  treated.  They  did  not  take  away 
my  money;  and  they  willingly  sold  us  various  little  luxuries. 
We  were  allowed  two  hours  of  exercise  every  day  in  the  court- 
yard, and  the  keepers  even  lent  us  several  books  to  read.  In 
short,  I  shouldn't  have  had  any  particular  cause  for  complaint 
if  I  had  only  been  allowed  to  receive  or  to  forward  letters,  or 
if  I  had  been  able  to  communicate  with  my  father  or  Marie- 
Anne.  But  we  were  in  the  secret  cells,  and  were  not  allowed 
to  have  any  intercourse  with  the  other  prisoners.  At  length 
our  detention  seemed  so  strange  and  became  so  insupportable 
that  we  resolved  to  obtain  some  explanation  of  it  at  any  cost. 
We  changed  our  tactics.  We  had  hitherto  been  quiet  and  sub- 
missive :  but  now  we  became  as  violent  and  unmanageable  as 
possible.  The  whole  prison  resounded  with  our  cries  and  pro- 
testations ;  we  were  continually  sending  for  the  superintendent, 
and  claiming  the  intervention  of  the  French  ambassador.  These 
proceedings  at  last  had  the  desired  effect.  One  fine  afternoon 
the  governor  of  the  jail  released  us,  not  without  expressing  his 
regret  at  being  deprived  of  the  society  of  such  amiable  and 
charming  guests.  Our  first  act,  as  you  may  suppose,  was  to 
hasten  to  the  ambassador.  We  didn't  see  that  dignitary,  but 
his  secretary  received  us.  He  knit  his  brows  when  I  told  my 
story,  and  became  excessively  grave.  I  remember  each  word 
of  his  reply.  'Sir,'  said  he,  'I  can  assure  you  most  positively 
that  any  proceedings  instituted  against  you  in  France  have  had 
nothing  whatever  to  do  with  your  detention  here.'  And  I  ex- 
pressed my  astonishment  frankly.  'One  moment,'  he  added,  'I 
will  give  you  my  opinion.  One  of  your  enemies — I  leave  you 
to  discover  which — must  exert  a  powerful  influence  in  Turin. 
You  were  in  his  way,  perhaps,  and  he  had  you  imprisoned  by 
the  Piedmontese  police." 

Jean  Lacheneur  struck  the  table  beside  him  with  his  clenched 


576  THE   HONOR   OF   THE    NAME 

fist.  "Ah  !  the  secretary  was  right !"  he  exc'aimed.  "Maurice, 
it  was  Martial  de  Sairmeuse  who  caused  your  arrest — " 

"Or  the  Marquis  de  Courtornieu,"  interrupted  the  abbe  with 
a  warning  glance  at  Jean. 

In  a  moment  Maurice's  eyes  gleamed  brilliantly,  then,  shrug- 
ging his  shoulders  carelessly,  he  said:  "Never  mind;  I  don't 
wish  to  trouble  myself  any  more  about  the  past.  My  father 
is  well  again — that  is  the  main  thing.  We  can  easily  find  some 
way  of  getting  him  safely  across  the  frontier.  And  then  Marie- 
Anne  and  I — we  will  tend  him  so  devotedly  that  he  will  soon 
forget  it  was  my  rashness  that  almost  cost  him  his  life.  He 
is  so  good,  so  indulgent  for  the  faults  of  others.  We  will  go 
and  reside  in  Italy  or  Switzerland,  and  you  shall  accompany 
us,  Monsieur  le  Abbe,  and  you  as  well,  Jean.  As  for  you.  cor- 
poral, it's  already  decided  that  you  belong  to  our  family." 

While  Maurice  spoke  in  this  fashion,  so  hopefully,  so  confi- 
dently, Jean  and  the  abbe,  realizing  the  bitter  truth,  sought  to 
avert  their  faces;  but  they  could  not  conceal  their  agitation 
from  young  d'Escorval's  searching  glance.  "What  is  the  mat- 
ter?" he  asked  with  evident  surprise. 

They  trembled,  hung  their  heads,  but  did  not  say  a  word. 
Maurice's  astonishment  changed  to  a  vague,  inexpressible  fear. 
He  enumerated  all  the  misfortunes  which  could  possibly  have 
befallen  him. 

"What  has  happened?"  he  asked  in  a  husky  voice.  "My 
father  is  safe,  is  he  not?  You  said  that  my  mother  would  want 
nothing  more  if  I  were  only  by  her  side  again.  Is  it  Marie- 
Anne,  then — "    He  hesitated. 

"Courage,  Maurice,"  murmured  the  abbe.     "Courage !" 

The  young  fellow  tottered  as  if  he  were  about  to  fall.  He 
had  turned  intensely  pale.   "Marie-Anne  is  dead !"  he  exclaimed. 

Jean  and  the  abbe  were  silent. 

"Dead !"  repeated  Maurice ;  "and  no  secret  voice  warned  me ! 
Dead!    When?" 

"She  died  only  last  night,"  replied  Jean. 

Maurice  rose.  "Last  night?"  said  he.  "In  that  case,  then, 
she  is  still  here.  Where? — upstairs?"  And  without  waiting  for 
a  reply  he  darted  toward  the  staircase  so  quickly  that  neither 
Jean  nor  the  abbe  had  time  to  intercept  him.  With  three  bounds 
he  reached  the  room  above;  he  walked  straight  to  the  bed,  and 
with  a  firm  hand  turned  back  the  sheet  that  hid  his  loved  one's 
face.    But  at  the  same  moment  he  recoiled  with  a  heart-broken 


THE   HONOR   OF  THE   NAME  577 

cry.  What !  was  this  the  beautiful,  the  radiant  Marie-Anne — 
she  whom  he  had  loved  so  fervently !  He  did  not  recognize  her. 
He  could  not  recognize  these  distorted  features — that  swollen, 
discolored  face — these  eyes,  now  almost  hidden  by  the  purple 
swelling  round  them.  When  Jean  and  the  priest  entered  the 
room  they  found  him  standing  with  his  head  thrown  back, 
his  eyes  dilated  with  terror,  his  right  arm  rigidly  extended 
toward  the  corpse.  "Maurice,"  said  the  priest  gently,  "be 
calm.    Courage !" 

The  young  fellow  turned  with  an  expression  of  complete  be- 
wilderment upon  his  features.  "Yes,"  he  faltered ;  "that  is  what 
I  need — courage !"  He  staggered  as  he  spoke,  and  they  were 
obliged  to  support  him  to  an  armchair. 

"Be  a  man,"  continued  the  priest.  "Where  is  your  energy? 
To  live  is  to  suffer." 

He  listened,  but  did  not  seem  to  understand.  "Live  !"  he  mur- 
mured ;  "why  should  I  live  since  she  is  dead  ?" 

His  eyes  gleamed  so  strangely  that  the  abbe  was  alarmed. 
"If  he  does  not  weep,  he  will  most  certainly  lose  his  reason !" 
thought  the  priest.  Then  in  a  commanding  voice  he  added 
aloud.  "You  have  no  right  to  despair;  you  owe  a  sacred  duty 
to  your  child." 

The  same  remembrance  which  had  given  Marie-Anne  strength 
to  hold  even  death  itself  at  bay  for  a  moment  saved  Maurice 
from  the  dangerous  trance  into  which  he  was  sinking.  He 
shuddered  as  if  he  had  received  an  electric  shock,  and  spring- 
ing from  his  chair,  "That  is  true,"  he  cried.  "Take  me  to  my 
child !" 

"Not  just  now,  Maurice;  wait  a  little." 

"Where  is  it?    Tell  me  where  it  is." 

"I  can  not ;  I  do  not  know." 

An  expression  of  unspeakable  anguish  stole  over  Maurice's 
face,  and  in  a  broken  voice  he  said:  "What!  you  don't  know? 
Did  she  not  confide  in  you?" 

"No.    I  suspected  her  secret.    I  alone — " 

"You  alone!  Then  the  child  is  perhaps  dead.  Even  if  it  is 
living,  who  can  tell  where  it  is?" 

"We  shall  no  doubt  find  a  clue." 

"You  are  right,"  faltered  Maurice.  "When  Marie-Anne 
knew  that  her  life  was  in  danger,  she  could  not  have  forgotten 
her  little  one.  Those  who  cared  for  her  in  her  last  moments 
must  have  received  some  message  for  me.     I  must  see  those 


578     THE  HONOR  OF  THE  NAME 

who  watched  over  her.  Who  were  they?"  The  priest  averted 
his  face.  "I  asked  you  who  was  with  her  when  she  died,"  re- 
peated Maurice  in  a  sort  of  frenzy.  And,  as  the  abbe  remained 
silent,  a  terrible  light  dawned  on  the  young  fellow's  mind.  He 
understood  the  cause  of  Marie-Anne's  distorted  features  now. 
"She  perished  the  victim  of  a  crime!"  he  exclaimed.  "Some 
monster  killed  her.  If  she  died  such  a  death,  our  child  is  lost 
forever !  And  it  was  I  who  recommended,  who  commanded  the 
greatest  precautions !  Ah !  we  are  all  of  us  cursed !"  He  sank 
back  in  his  chair,  overwhelmed  with  sorrow  and  remorse,  and 
with  big  tears  rolling  slowly  down  his  cheeks. 

"He  is  saved !"  thought  the  abbe,  whose  heart  bled  at  the 
sight  of  such  intense  sorrow. 

Jean  Lacheneur  stood  by  the  priest's  side  with  gloom  upon 
his  face.  Suddenly  he  drew  the  Abbe  Midon  toward  one  of  the 
windows:  "What  is  this  about  a  child?"  he  inquired  harshly. 

The  priest's  face  flushed.  "You  have  heard,"  he  answered 
laconically. 

"Am  I  to  understand  that  Marie-Anne  was  Maurice's  mis- 
tress, and  that  she  had  a  child  by  him?  Is  that  the  case?  I 
won't,  I  can't,  believe  it !  She  whom  I  revered  as  a  saint ! 
What !  you  would  have  me  believe  that  her  eyes  lied — her  eyes 
so  chaste,  so  pure?  And  he — Maurice — he  whom  I  loved  as  a 
brother !  So  his  friendship  was  only  a  cloak,  which  he  assumed 
so  as  to  rob  us  of  our  honor !"  Jean  hissed  these  words  through 
his  set  teeth  in  such  low  tones  that  Maurice,  absorbed  in  his 
agony  of  grief,  did  not  overhear  him.  "But  how  did  she  con- 
ceal her  shame?"  he  continued.  "No  one  suspected  it — abso- 
lutely no  one.  And  what  has  she  done  with  her  child?  Did 
the  thought  of  disgrace  frighten  her?  Did  she  follow  the  ex- 
ample of  so  many  ruined  and  forsaken  women?  Did  she  mur- 
der her  own  child?  Ah,  if  it  be  alive,  I  will  find  it,  and  in  any 
case  Maurice  shall  be  punished  for  his  perfidy  as  he  deserves." 
He  paused ;  the  window  was  open,  and  the  sound  of  galloping 
horses  could  be  plainly  heard  approaching  along  the  adjacent 
highway.  Both  Jean  and  the  abbe  leaned  forward  and  looked 
out.  Two  horsemen  were  riding  toward  the  Borderie — the  first 
some  ten  yards  in  advance  of  the  other.  The  former  halted  at 
the  corner  of  the  garden  path,  threw  his  reins  to  his  follower — 
a  groom — and  then  strode  on  foot  toward  the  house.  On  recog- 
nizing this  visitor,  Jean  bounded  from  the  window  with  a  yell. 
He  clutched  Maurice  by  the  shoulders,  and,  shaking  him  vio- 


THE   HONOR   OF   THE    NAME  579 

lently,  exclaimed:  "Up!  here  comes  Martial,  Marie-Anne's  mur- 
derer !     Up !  he  is  coming !    He  is  at  our  mercy  !" 

Maurice  sprang  to  his  feet,  infuriated ;  but  the  abbe  darted 
to  the  door  and  intercepted  both  young  fellows  as  they  were 
about  to  leave  the  room.  "Not  a  word  !  not  a  threat !"  he  said, 
imperiously.  "I  forbid  it.  At  least  respect  the  presence  of 
death  J"  He  spoke  with  such  authority,  and  his  glance  was  so 
commanding,  that  both  Jean  and  Maurice  involuntarily  paused. 
Before  the  priest  had  time  to  add  another  word,  Martial  was 
there.  He  did  not  cross  the  threshold.  One  look  and  he  real- 
ized the  siutation.  He  turned  very  pale,  but  not  a  word  escaped 
his  lips.  Wonderful  as  was  his  usual  power  of  self-control  he 
could  not  articulate  a  syllable;  and  it  was  only  by  pointing  to 
the  bed  on  which  Marie-Anne's  lifeless  form  was  reposing  that 
he  asked  for  an  explanation. 

"She  was  infamously  poisoned  last  evening,"  sadly  replied 
the  abbe. 

Then  Maurice,  forgetting  the  priest's  demands,  stepped  for- 
ward. "She  was  alone  and  defenseless,"  he  said  vehemently. 
"I  have  only  been  at  liberty  during  the  last  two  days.  But  I 
know  the  name  of  the  man  who  had  me  arrested  at  Turin,  and 
thrown  into  prison.  They  told  me  the  coward's  name !  Yes,  it 
was  you,  you  infamous  wretch  !  Ah !  you  dare  not  deny  it ;  you 
confess  your  guilt,  you  scoundrel !" 

Once  again  the  abbe  interposed;  he  threw  himself  between 
the  rivals,  fearing  lest  they  should  come  to  blows.  But  the 
Marquis  de  Sairmeuse  had  already  resumed  his  usual  haughty 
and  indifferent  manner.  He  took  a  bulky  envelope  from  his 
pocket,  and  threw  it  on  the  table.  "This,"  said  he  coldly,  "is 
what  I  was  bringing  to  Mademoiselle  Lacheneur.  It  contains, 
first  of  all,  royal  letters  of  license  from  his  majesty  for  the 
Baron  d'Escorval,  who  is  now  at  liberty  to  return  to  his  old 
home.  He  is,  in  fact,  free  and  saved,  for  he  is  granted  a  new 
trial,  and  there  can  be  no  doubt  of  his  acquittal.  In  the  same 
envelope  you  will  also  find  a  decree  of  non-complicity  rendered 
in  favor  of  the  Abbe  Midon,  and  an  order  from  the  bishop  of 
the  diocese  reinstating  him  as  cure  of  Sairmeuse ;  and,  finally, 
Corporal  Bavois's  discharge  from  the  service,  drawn  up  in 
proper  form,  with  the  needful  memorandum  securing  his  right 
to  a  pension." 

He  paused,  and  as  his  hearers  stood  motionless  with  wonder, 
he  turned  and  approached  Marie-Anne's  bedside.     Then,  with 


580 


THE  HONOR  OF  THE  NAME 


his  hand  raised  to  heaven  over  the  lifeless  form  of  her  whom 
he  had  loved,  and  in  a  voice  that  would  have  made  the  mur- 
deress tremble  in  her  innermost  soul,  he  solemnly  exclaimed : 
"I  swear  to  you,  Marie-Anne,  that  I  will  avenge  you !"  For  a 
few  seconds  he  stood  motionless,  then  suddenly  he  stooped, 
pressed  a  kiss  on  the  dead  girl's  brow,  and  left  the  room. 

"And  you  think  that  man  can  be  guilty !"  exclaimed  the 
abbe.     "You  see,  Jean,  that  you  are  mad!" 

"And  this  last  insult  to  my  dead  sister  is  an  honor,  I  sup- 
pose?" said  Jean,  with  a  furious  gesture. 

"And  the  wretch  binds  my  hands  by  saving  my  father!"  ex- 
claimed Maurice. 

From  his  place  by  the  window,  the  abbe  saw  Martial  vault 
into  the  saddle.  But  the  marquis  did  not  take  the  road  to 
Montaignac.  It  was  toward  the  Chateau  de  Courtornieu  that 
he  now  hastened. 


BLANCHE'S  reason  had  sustained  a  frightful  shock,  when 
•*"*  Chupin  was  obliged  to  lift  and  carry  her  out  of  Marie- 
Anne's  room.  But  she  well-nigh  lost  consciousness  altogether 
when  she  saw  the  old  poacher  struck  down  by  her  side.  How- 
ever, as  will  be  remembered,  Aunt  Medea,  at  least,  had  some 
energy  in  her  fright.  She  seized  her  bewildered  niece's  arm, 
and  by  dint  of  dragging  and  pushing  had  her  back  at  the  cha- 
teau in  much  less  time  than  it  had  taken  them  to  reach  the 
Borderie.  It  was  half-past  one  in  the  morning  when  they 
reached  the  little  garden  gate,  by  which  they  had  left  the 
grounds.  No  one  in  the  chateau  had  noticed  their  long  absence. 
This  was  due  to  several  different  circumstances.  First  of  all, 
to  the  precautions  which  Blanche  herselt  had  taken  in  giving 
orders,  before  going  out,  that  no  one  should  come  to  her  room, 
on  any  pretext  whatever,  unless  she  rang.  Then  it  also  chanced 
to  be  the  birthday  of  the  marquis  s  valet  de  chambre,  and  the 
servants  had  dined  more  sumptuously  than  usual.  They  had 
toasts  and  songs  over  their  dessert;  and  at  the  finish  of  the 


THE    HONOR   OF   THE   NAME  S81 

repast,  they  amused  themselves  with  an  improvised  ball.  They 
were  still  dancing  when  Blanche  and  her  aunt  returned.  None 
of  the  doors  had  yet  been  secured  for  the  night,  and  the 
pair  succeeded  in  reaching  Blanche's  room  without  being 
observed.  When  the  door  had  been  securely  closed,  and 
there  was  no  longer  any  fear  of  listeners,  Aunt  Medea 
attacked  her  niece. 

"Now  will  you  explain  what  happened  at  the  Borderie;  and 
what  you  were  doing  there  ?"  she  inquired,  in  a  tone  of  unusual 
authority. 

Blanche  shuddered.  "Why  do  you  wish  to  know?"  she 
asked. 

"Because  I  suffered  agony  during  the  hours  I  was  waiting 
for  you  in  the  garden.  What  was  the  meaning  of  those  dread- 
ful cries  I  heard?  Why  did  you  call  for  help?  I  heard  a 
death-rattle  that  made  my  hair  stand  on  end  with  terror.  Why 
did  Chupin  have  to  bring  you  out  in  his  arms?"  She  paused 
for  a  moment,  and  then  finding  that  Blanche  did  not  reply: 
"You  don't  answer  me !"  she  exclaimed. 

The  young  marquise  was  longing  to  annihilate  her  dependent 
relative,  who  might  ruin  her  by  a  thoughtless  word,  and  whom 
she  would  ever  have  beside  her — a  living  memento  of  her  crime. 
However,  what  should  she  say?  Would  it  be  better  to  reveal 
the  truth,  horrible  as  it  was,  or  to  invent  some  plausible  ex- 
planation? If  she  confessed  everything  she  would  place  her- 
self at  Aunt  Medea's  mercy.  But,  on  the  other  hand,  if  she 
deceived  her  aunt,  it  was  more  than  probable  that  the  latter 
would  betray  her  by  some  involuntary  remark  when  she  heard 
of  the  crime  committed  at  the  Borderie?  Hence,  under  the 
circumstances,  the  wisest  plan,  perhaps,  would  be  to  speak  out 
frankly,  to  teach  her  relative  her  lesson,  and  try  and  imbue  her 
with  some  firmness.  Having  come  to  this  conclusion,  Blanche 
disdained  all  concealment.  "Ah,  well !"  she  said,  "I  was  jealous 
of  Marie-Anne.  I  thought  she  was  Martial's  mistress.  I  was 
half-crazed,  and  I  poisoned  her." 

She  expected  a  despairing  cry,  or  even  a  fainting  fit,  but, 
to  her  surprise,  Aunt  Medea  merely  shed  a  few  tears — such  as 
she  often  wept  for  any  trifle — and  exclaimed:  "How  terrible. 
What  if  it  should  be  discovered?"  In  point  of  fact,  stupid  as 
the  neglected  spinster  might  be,  she  had  guessed  the  truth  be- 
fore she  questioned  her  niece.  And  not  merely  was  she  pre- 
pared for  some  such  answer,  but  the  tyranny  she  had  endured 


582     THE  HONOR  OF  THE  NAME 

for  years  had  well-nigh  destroyed  all  the  real  moral  sensibility 
she  had  ever  possessed. 

On  noting  her  aunt's  comparative  composure,  Blanche 
breathed  more  freely.  She  never  imagined  that  her  impover- 
ished relative  was  already  meditating  some  sort  of  revenge  for 
all  the  slights  heaped  on  her  in  past  years;  but  felt  quite 
convinced  that  she  could  count  on  Aunt  Medea's  absolute  silence 
and  submission.  With  this  idea  in  her  head  she  began  to  relate 
all  the  circumstances  of  the  frightful  drama  enacted  at  the 
Borderie.  In  so  doing  she  yielded  to  a  desire  stronger  than 
her  own  will:  to  the  wild  longing  that  often  seizes  the  most 
hardened  criminal,  and  forces — irresistibly  impels  him  to  talk 
of  his  crimes,  even  when  he  distrusts  his  confidant.  But  when 
she  came  to  speak  of  the  proofs  which  had  convinced  her  of 
her  lamentable  mistake,  she  suddenly  paused  in  dismay. 

What  had  she  done  with  the  marriage  certificate  signed  by 
the  cure  of  Vigano,  and  which  she  remembered  holding  in  her 
hands?  She  sprang  up,  and  felt  in  the  pocket  of  her  dress. 
Ah,  she  had  it  safe.  It  was  there.  Without  again  unfolding 
it  she  threw  it  into  a  drawer,  and  turned  the  key. 

Aunt  Medea  wished  to  retire  to  her  own  room,  but  Blanche 
entreated  her  to  remain.  She  was  unwilling  to  be  left  alone — 
she  dared  not — she  was  afraid.  And  as  if  she  desired  to  silence 
the  inward  voice  tormenting  her,  she  talked  on  with  extreme 
volubility,  repeating  again  and  again  that  she  was  ready  to  do 
anything  in  expiation  of  her  crime,  and  vowing  that  she  would 
overcome  all  impossibilities  in  her  quest  for  Marie-Anne's  child. 
The  task  was  both  a  difficult  and  dangerous  one,  for  an  open 
search  for  the  child  would  be  equivalent  to  a  confession  of 
guilt.  Hence,  she  must  act  secretly,  and  with  great  caution. 
"But  I  shall  succeed,"  she  said.  "I  will  spare  no  expense." 
And  remembering  her  vow,  and  her  dying  victim's  threats,  she 
added :  "I  must  succeed.  I  swore  to  do  so,  and  I  was  forgiven 
under  those  conditions." 

In  the  mean  while.  Aunt  Medea  sat  listening  in  astonishment. 
It  was  incomprehensible  to  her  that  her  niece,  with  her  dread- 
ful crime  still  fresh  in  her  mind,  could  coolly  reason,  deliberate, 
and  make  plans  for  the  future.  "What  an  iron  will !"  thought 
the  dependent  relative ;  but  in  her  bewilderment  she  quite  over- 
looked one  or  two  circumstances  that  would  have  enlightened 
any  ordinary  observer. 

Blanche  was  seated  on  her  bed  with  her  hair  unbound;  her 


THE   HONOR   OF   THE    NAME  583 

eyes  were  glistening  with  delirium,  and  her  incoherent  words 
and  excited  gestures  betrayed  the  frightful  anxiety  that  was 
torturing  her.  And  she  talked  and  talked,  now  narrating,  and 
now  questioning  Aunt  Medea,  and  forcing  her  to  reply,  only 
that  she  might  escape  from  her  own  thoughts.  Morning  had 
already  dawned,  and  the  servants  could  be  heard  bustling  about 
the  chateau,  while  Blanche,  oblivious  of  everything  around  her, 
was  still  explaining  how,  in  less  than  a  year,  she  could  hope 
to  restore  Marie-Anne's  child  to  Maurice  d'Escorval.  She 
paused  abruptly  in  the  middle  of  a  sentence.  Instinct  had  sud- 
denly warned  her  of  the  danger  she  incurred  in  making  the 
slightest  change  in  her  habits.  Accordingly,  she  sent  Aunt 
Medea  away;  then,  at  the  usual  hour,  rang  for  her  maid.  It 
was  nearly  eleven  o'clock,  and  she  was  just  completing  her 
toilet,  when  the  ring  of  the  outer  bell  announced  a  visitor.  Al- 
most immediately  her  maid,  who  had  just  previously  left  her, 
returned,  evidently  in  a  state  of  great  excitement. 

"What  is  the  matter?"  inquired  Blanche,  eagerly.  "Who 
has  come?" 

"Ah,  madame — that  is,  mademoiselle,   if  you  only  knew — " 

"Will  you  speak  ?" 

"The  Marquis  de  Sairmeuse  is  downstairs  in  the  blue 
drawing-room ;  and  he  begs  mademoiselle  to  grant  him  a  few 
minutes'  conversation." 

Had  a  thunderbolt  riven  the  earth  at  her  feet,  the  murderess 
could  not  have  been  more  terrified.  Her  first  thought  was  that 
everything  had  been  discovered ;  for  what  else  could  have 
brought  Martial  there?  She  almost  decided  to  send  word  that 
she  was  not  at  home,  or  that  she  was  extremely  ill,  when  reason 
told  her  that  she  was  perhaps  alarming  herself  needlessly,  and 
that  in  any  case  the  worst  was  preferable  to  suspense.  "Tell 
the  marquis  that  I  will  be  with  him  in  a  moment,"  she  at  last 
replied. 

She  desired  a  few  minutes  solitude  to  compose  her  features, 
to  regain  her  self-possession,  if  possible,  and  conquer  the  ner- 
vous trembling  that  made  her  shake  like  a  leaf.  But  in  the 
midst  of  her  uneasiness  a  sudden  inspiration  brought  a  malicious 
smile  to  her  lip.  "Ah  !"  she  thought,  "my  agitation  will  seem 
perfectly  natural.  It  may  even  be  of  service."  And  yet,  as  she 
descended  the  grand  staircase,  she  could  not  help  saying  to  her- 
self: "Martial's  presence  here  is  incomprehensible." 

It  was  certainly  very  extraordinary;  and  he  himself  had  not 


584     THE  HONOR  OF  THE  NAME 

come  to  Courtornieu  without  considerable  hesitation.  But  it 
was  the  only  means  he  had  of  procuring  several  important  docu- 
ments which  were  indispensable  in  the  revision  of  M.  d'Escor- 
val's  case.  These  documents,  after  the  baron's  condemnation, 
had  been  left  in  the  Marquis  de  Courtornieu's  hands.  Now  that 
the  latter  had  gone  out  of  his  mind,  it  was  impossible  to  ask 
him  for  them;  and  Martial  was  obliged  to  apply  to  his  wife  for 
permission  to  search  for  them  among  her  father's  papers.  He 
had  said  to  himself  that  morning:  "I  will  carry  the  baron's 
letters  of  license  to  Marie-Anne,  and  then  I  will  push  on  to 
Courtornieu." 

He  arrived  at  the  Borderie  gay  and  confident,  his  heart  full 
of  hope ;  and  found  that  Marie- Anne  was  dead.  The  discovery 
had  been  a  terrible  blow  for  Martial ;  and  his  conscience  told 
him  that  he  was  not  free  from  blame;  that  he  had,  at  least, 
facilitated  the  perpetration  of  the  crime.  For  it  was  indeed 
he  who.  by  an  abuse  of  influence,  had  caused  Maurice's  arrest 
at  Turin.  But  though  he  was  capable  of  the  basest  perfidy 
when  his  love  was  at  stake,  he  was  incapable  of  virulent  ani- 
mosity. Marie-Anne  was  dead;  he  had  it  in  his  power  to  re- 
voke the  benefits  he  had  conferred,  but  the  thought  of  doing  so 
never  once  occurred  to  him.  And  when  Jean  and  Maurice  up- 
braided him,  his  only  revenge  was  to  overwhelm  them  by  his 
magnanimity.  When  he  left  the  Borderie,  pale  as  a  ghost,  his 
lips  still  cold  from  the  kiss  still  printed  on  the  dead  girl's  brow, 
he  said  to  himself:  "For  her  sake,  I  will  go  to  Courtornieu.  In 
memory  of  her,  the  baron  must  be  saved." 

By  the  expression  of  the  servants'  faces  as  he  leaped  from 
the  saddle  in  the  courtyard  of  the  chateau  and  asked  to  see 
Madame  Blanche,  he  was  again  reminded  of  the  sensation 
which  this  unexpected  visit  would  necessarily  cause.  How- 
ever, he  cared  little  for  it.  He  was  passing  through  a  crisis  in 
which  the  mind  can  conceive  no  further  misfortune,  and  be- 
comes indifferent  to  everything.  Still  he  trembled  slightly  when 
they  ushered  him  into  the  blue  drawing-room.  He  remem- 
bered the  room  well,  for  it  was  here  that  Blanche  had  been 
wont  to  receive  him  in  days  gone  by,  when  his  fancy  was 
wavering  between  her  and  Marie-Anne.  How  many  pleasant 
hours  they  had  passed  together  here !  He  seemed  to  see 
Blanche  again,  as  she  was  then,  radiant  with  youth,  gay  and 
smiling.  Her  manner  was  affected,  perhaps,  but  still  it  had 
seemed  charming  at  the  time. 


THE   HONOR   OF   THE   NAME  585 

At  this  very  moment,  Blanche  entered  the  room.  She  looked 
so  sad  and  careworn  that  her  husband  scarcely  knew  her.  His 
heart  was  touched  by  the  look  of  patient  sorrow  seemingly 
stamped  upon  her  features.  "How  much  you  must  have  suf- 
fered, Blanche,"  he  murmured,  scarcely  knowing  what  he  said. 

It  cost  her  an  effort  to  repress  her  secret  joy.  She  at  once 
realized  that  he  knew  nothing  of  her  crime;  and  noting  his 
emotion,  she  perceived  the  profit  she  might  derive  from  it.  "I 
can  never  cease  to  regret  having  displeased  you,"  she  replied, 
in  a  sad,  humble  voice.    "I  shall  never  be  consoled." 

She  had  touched  the  vulnerable  spot  in  every  man's  heart. 
For  there  is  no  man  so  skeptical,  so  cold,  or  so  heartless  but  his 
vanity  is  not  flattered  with  the  thought  that  a  woman  is  dying 
for  his  sake.  There  is  no  man  who  is  not  moved  by  such  a 
flattering  idea;  and  who  is  not  ready  and  willing  to  give,  at 
least,  a  tender  pity  in  exchange  for  such  devotion. 

"Is  it  possible  that  you  could  forgive  me?"  stammered  Mar- 
tial. The  wily  enchantress  averted  her  face  as  if  to  prevent 
him  from  reading  in  her  eyes  a  weakness  of  which  she  felt 
ashamed.  This  simple  gesture  was  the  most  eloquent  of  an- 
swers. But  Martial  said  no  more  on  this  subject.  He  asked 
for  permission  to  inspect  M.  de  Courtornieu's  papers  with  the 
view  of  finding  the  documents  he  required  for  M.  d'Escorval's 
case,  and  Blanche  readily  complied  with  his  request.  He  then 
turned  to  take  his  leave,  and  fearing  perhaps  the  consequences 
of  too  formal  a  promise  he  merely  added:  "Since  you  don't 
forbid  it,  Blanche,  I  will  return — to-morrow — another  day." 
However,  as  he  rode  back  to  Montaignac,  his  thoughts  were 
busy.  "She  really  loves  me,"  he  mused ;  "that  pallor,  that  weari- 
ness could  not  be  feigned.  Poor  girl !  she  is  my  wife,  after  all. 
The  reasons  that  influenced  me  in  my  quarrel  with  her  father 
exist  no  longer,  for  the  Marquis  de  Courtornieu  may  be  consid- 
ered as  dead." 

All  the  inhabitants  of  Sairmeuse  were  congregated  on  the 
market-place  when  Martial  rode  through  the  village.  They 
had  just  heard  of  the  murder  at  the  Border ie,  and  the  abbe 
was  now  closeted  with  the  magistrate,  relating  as  far  as  he 
could  the  circumstances  of  the  crime.  After  a  prolonged  in- 
quiry, it  was  eventually  reported  that  a  man  known  as  Chupin, 
a  notoriously  bad  character,  had  entered  the  house  of  Marie- 
Anne  Lacheneur,  and  taken  advantage  of  her  absence  to 
mingle  poison  with  her  food;  and  the  said  Chupin  had  been 


586 


THE  HONOR  OF  THE  NAME 


himself  assassinated  soon  after  his  crime  by  i  certain  Balstain, 
whose  whereabouts  were  unknown. 

However,  this  affair  soon  interested  the  district  far  less  than 
the  constant  visits  which  Martial  was  paying  to  Madame 
Blanche.  Shortly  afterward  it  was  rumored  that  the  Marquis 
and  the  Marquise  de  Sairmeuse  were  reconciled;  and  indeed  a 
few  weeks  later,  they  left  for  Paris  with  an  intention  of  resid- 
ing there  permanently.  A  day  or  two  after  their  departure, 
the  eldest  of  the  Chupins  also  announced  his  determination  of 
taking  up  his  abode  in  the  same  great  city.  Some  of  his  friends 
endeavored  to  dissuade  him,  assuring  him  that  he  would  cer- 
tainly die  of  starvation;  but  with  singular  assurance,  he  re- 
plied :  "On  the  contrary,  I  have  an  idea  that  I  shan't  want  for 
anything  as  long  as  I  live  there." 


HPIME  gradually  heals  all  wounds;  and  its  effacing  fingers 
■  spare  but  few  traces  of  events;  which  in  their  season  may 
have  absorbed  the  attention  of  many  thousand  minds.  What 
remained  to  attest  the  reality  of  that  fierce  whirlwind  of  passion 
which  had  swept  over  the  peaceful  valley  of  the  Oiselle?  Only 
a  charred  ruin  on  La  Reche,  and  a  grave  in  the  cemetery,  on 
which  was  inscribed:  "Marie- Anne  Lacheneur,  died  at  the  age 
of  twenty.  Pray  for  her !"  Recent  as  were  the  events  of  which 
that  ruin  and  that  gravestone  seemed  as  it  were  the  prologue  and 
the  epilogue,  they  were  already  relegated  to  the  legendary  past. 
The  peasantry  of  Sairmeuse  had  other  things  to  think  about — 
the  harvest,  the  weather,  their  sheep  and  cattle,  and  it  was  only 
a  few  old  men,  the  politicians  of  the  village,  who  at  times 
turned  their  attention  from  agricultural  incidents  to  remember 
the  rising  of  Montaignac.  Sometimes,  during  the  long  winter 
evenings,  when  they  were  gathered  together  at  the  local  hos- 
telry of  the  Boeuf  Couronne,  they  would  lay  down  their  greasy 
cards  and  gravely  discuss  the  events  of  the  past  year.  And 
they  never  failed  to  remark  that  almost  all  the  actors  of  that 
bloody  drama  at  Montaignac  had,  in  common  parlance,  "come 


THE   HONOR   OF   THE   NAME  587 

to  a  bad  end."  The  victors  and  the  vanquished  seemed  to  en- 
counter the  same  fate.  Lacheneur  had  been  beheaded ;  Chan- 
louineau,  shot ;  Marie- Anne,  poisoned ;  and  Chupin,  the  traitor, 
the  Due  de  Sairmeuse's  spy,  stabbed  to  death.  It  was  true  that 
the  Marquis  de  Courtornieu  lived,  or  rather  survived,  but  death 
would  have  seemed  a  mercy  in  comparison  with  such  a  total 
annihilation  of  intelligence.  He  had  fallen  below  the  level  of 
a  brute  beast,  which  at  least  is  endowed  with  instinct.  Since 
his  daughter's  departure  he  had  been  ostensibly  cared  for  by 
two  servants,  who  did  not  allow  him  to  give  them  much 
trouble,  for  whenever  they  wished  to  go  out  they  complacently 
confined  him,  not  in  his  room,  but  in  the  back  cellar,  so  as 
to  prevent  his  shrieks  and  ravings  from  being  heard  out- 
side. If  some  folks  supposed  for  a  while  that  the  Sairmeuses 
would  escape  the  fate  of  the  others,  they  were  grievously  mis- 
taken, for  it  was  not  long  before  the  curse  fell  upon  them 
as  well. 

One  fine  December  morning,  the  duke  left  the  chateau  to 
take  part  in  a  wolf-hunt  in  the  neighborhood.  At  nightfall,  his 
horse  returned,  panting,  covered  with  foam,  and  riderless. 
What  had  become  of  his  master?  A  search  was  instituted  at 
once,  and  all  night  long  a  score  of  men,  carrying  torches,  wan- 
dered through  the  woods,  shouting  and  "ailing  at  the  top  of 
their  voices.  Five  days  went  by,  and  the  search  for  the  missing 
man  was  almost  abandoned,  when  a  shepherd  lad,  pale  with 
fear,  came  to  the  chateau  to  tell  the  steward  that  he  had  dis- 
covered the  Due  de  Sairmeuse's  body — lying  all  bloody  and 
mangled  at  the  foot  of  a  precipice.  It  seemed  strange  that  so 
excellent  a  rider  should  have  met  with  ruch  a  fate;  and  there 
might  have  been  some  doubt  as  to  its  being  an  accident,  had  it 
not  been  for  the  explanation  given  by  several  of  his  grace's 
grooms.  "The  duke  was  riding  an  exceedingly  vicious  beast," 
these  men  remarked.  "She  was  always  taking  fright  and  shying 
at  everything." 

A  few  days  after  this  occurrence  Jean  Lacheneur  left  the 
neighborhood.  This  singular  fellow's  conduct  had  caused  con- 
siderable comment.  When  Marie-Anne  died,  although  he  was 
her  natural  heir,  he  at  first  refused  to  have  anything  to  do  with 
her  property.  "I  don't  want  to  take  anything  that  came  to  her 
through  Chanlouineau,"  he  said  to  every  one  right  and  left,  thus 
slandering  his  sister's  memory,  as  he  had  slandered  her  when 
alive.    Then,  after  a  short  absence  from  the  district,  and  with- 


588     THE  HONOR  OF  THE  NAME 

out  any  apparent  reason,  he  suddenly  charged  his  mind.  He 
not  only  accepted  the  property,  but  made  all  possible  haste  to 
obtain  possession  of  it.  He  excused  his  past  conduct  as  best 
he  could ;  but  if  he  was  to  be  believed,  instead  of  acting  in  his 
own  interest,  he  was  merely  carrying  his  sister's  wishes  into 
effect,  for  he  over  and  over  again  declared  that  whatever  price 
her  property  might  fetch  not  a  sou  of  its  value  would  go  into 
his  own  pockets.  This  much  is  certain,  as  soon  as  he  obtained 
legal  possession  of  the  estate,  he  sold  it,  troubling  himself  but 
little  as  to  the  price  he  received,  provided  the  purchasers  paid 
cash.  However,  he  reserved  the  sumptuous  furniture  of  the 
room  on  the  upper  floor  of  the  Borderie  and  burnt  it — from 
the  bedstead  to  the  curtains  and  the  carpet — one  evening  in  the 
little  garden  in  front  of  the  house.  This  singular  act  became 
the  talk  of  the  neighborhood,  and  the  villagers  universally 
opined  that  Jean  had  lost  his  head.  Those  who  hesitated  to 
agree  with  this  opinion,  expressed  it  a  short  time  afterward, 
when  it  became  known  that  Jean  Lacheneur  had  engaged  him- 
self with  a  company  of  strolling  players  who  stopped  at  Mon- 
taignac  for  a  few  days.  The  young  fellow  had  both  good 
advice  and  kind  friends.  M.  d'Escorval  and  the  abbe  had  ex- 
erted all  their  eloquence  to  induce  him  to  return  to  Paris,  and 
complete  his  studies;  but  in  vain. 

The  priest  and  the  baron  no  longer  had  to  conceal  themselves. 
Thanks  to  Martial  de  Sairmeuse,  they  were  now  installed,  the 
former  at  the  parsonage  and  the  latter  at  Escorval,  as  in  days 
gone  by.  Acquitted  at  his  new  trial,  reinstalled  in  possession 
of  his  property,  reminded  of  his  frightful  fall  only  by  a  slight 
limp,  the  baron  would  have  deemed  himself  a  fortunate  man 
had  it  not  been  for  his  great  anxiety  on  his  son's  account.  Poor 
Maurice  !  The  nails  that  secured  Marie-Anne's  coffin  ere  it  was 
lowered  into  the  sod  seemed  to  have  pierced  his  heart;  and  his 
very  life  now  seemed  dependent  on  the  hope  of  finding  his 
child.  Relying  already  on  the  Abbe  Midon's  protection  and  as- 
sistance, he  had  confessed  everything  to  his  father,  and  had 
even  confided  his  secret  to  Corporal  Bavois,  who  was  now  an 
honored  guest  at  Escorval;  and  all  three  had  promised  him 
their  best  assistance.  But  the  task  was  a  difficult  one,  and 
such  chances  of  success  as  might  have  existed  were  greatly 
diminished  by  Maurice's  determination  that  Marie-Anne's  name 
should  not  be  mentioned  in  prosecuting  the  search.  In  this  he 
acted  very  differently  to  Jean.     The  latter  slandered  his  mur- 


THE   HONOR   OF   THE   NAME  589 

dered  sister  right  and  left,  while  Maurice  sedulously  sought  to 
prevent  her  memory  being  tarnished. 

The  Abbe  Midon  did  not  seek  to  turn  Maurice  from  his  idea. 
"We  shall  succeed  all  the  same,"  he  said  kindly;  "with  time 
and  patience  any  mystery  can  be  solved."  He  divided  the  de- 
partment into  a  certain  number  of  districts;  and  one  of  the 
little  band  went  day  by  day  from  house  to  house  questioning 
the  inmates,  in  the  most  cautious  manner,  for  fear  of  arousing 
suspicion;  for  a  peasant  becomes  intractable  if  his  suspicions 
are  but  once  aroused.  However,  weeks  went  by,  and  still  the 
quest  was  fruitless.  Maurice  was  losing  all  hope.  "My  child 
must  have  died  on  coming  into  the  world,"  he  said,  again  and 
again. 

But  the  abbe  reassured  him.  "I  am  morally  certain  that  such 
was  not  the  case,"  he  replied.  "By  Marie-Anne's  absence  I 
can  tell  pretty  nearly  the  date  of  her  child's  birth.  I  saw  her 
after  her  recovery ;  she  was  comparatively  gay  and  smiling. 
Draw  your  own  conclusions." 

"And  yet  there  isn't  a  nook  or  corner  for  miles  round  which 
we  haven't  explored." 

"True ;  but  we  must  extend  the  circle  of  our  investigations." 

The  priest  was  now  only  striving  to  gain  time,  which,  as  he 
knew  full  well,  is  the  sovereign  balm  for  sorrow.  His  con- 
fidence had  been  very  great  at  first,  but  it  had  sensibly  dimin- 
ished since  he  had  questioned  an  old  woman,  who  had  the  repu- 
tation of  being  one  of  the  greatest  gossips  of  the  community. 
On  being  skilfully  catechised  by  the  abbe,  this  worthy  dame 
replied  that  she  knew  nothing  of  such  a  child,  but  that  there 
must  be  one  in  the  neighborhood,  as  this  was  the  third  time 
she  had  been  questioned  on  the  subject.  Intense  as  was  his  sur- 
prise, the  abbe  succeeded  in  concealing  it.  He  set  the  old 
gossip  talking,  and  after  two  hours'  conversation,  he  arrived  at 
the  conclusion  that  two  persons  in  addition  to  Maurice  were 
searching  for  Marie-Anne's  child.  Who  these  persons  were, 
and  what  their  aim  was,  were  points  which  the  abbe  failed  to 
elucidate.  "Ah,"  thought  he,  "after  all,  rascals  have  their  use 
on  earth.  If  we  only  had  a  man  like  Chupin  to  set  on  the 
trail  1" 

The  old  poacher  was  dead,  however,  and  his  eldest  son — the 
one  who  knew  Blanche's  secret — was  in  Paris.  Only  the  widow 
and  the  second  son  remained  at  Sairmeuse.  They  had  npt,  as 
yet,  succeeded  in  discovering  the  twenty  thousand  francs,  but 


5©0 


THE  HONOR  OF  THE  NAME 


the  fever  for  gold  was  still  burning  in  their  veins,  and  they 
persisted  in  their  search.  From  morn  till  night  the  mother  and 
son  toiled  on,  until  the  earth  round  their  hut  had  been  fully 
explored  to  the  depth  of  six  feet.  However,  a  peasant  passed 
by  one  day  and  made  a  remark  which  suddenly  caused  them 
to  abandon  their  search.  "Really,  my  boy,"  he  said,  addressing 
young  Chupin,  "I  didn't  think  you  were  such  a  fool  as  to  per- 
sist in  bird's-nesting  after  the  chick  was  hatched  and  had  flown. 
Your  brother  in  Paris  can  no  doubt  tell  you  where  the  treas- 
ure was  concealed." 

"Holy  Virgin !  you're  right !"  cried  the  younger  Chupin. 
"Wait  till  I  get  money  enough  to  take  me  to  Paris,  and 
we'll  see." 


A^ARTIAL  DE  SAIRMEUSE'S  unexpected  visit  to  the 
**•"■'•  Chateau  de  Courtornieu  had  alarmed  Aunt  Medea  even 
more  than  it  had  alarmed  Blanche.  In  five  minutes,  more 
ideas  passed  through  the  dependent  relative's  mind  than  during 
the  last  five  years.  In  fancy  she  already  saw  the  gendarmes 
at  the  chateau;  her  niece  arrested,  confined  in  the  Montaignac 
prison,  and  brought  before  the  Assize  Court.  She  might  her- 
self remain  quiet  if  that  were  all  there  was  to  fear!  But 
suppose  she  was  compromised,  suspected  of  complicity  as 
well,  dragged  before  the  judges,  and  even  accused  of  being 
the  only  culprit!  At  this  thought  her  anxiety  reached  a 
climax,  and  finding  the  suspense  intolerable,  she  ventured 
downstairs.  She  stole  on  tiptoe  into  the  great  ballroom,  and 
applying  her  ear  to  the  keyhole  of  the  door  leading  into  the 
blue  salon,  she  listened  attentively  to  Blanche  and  Martial's 
conversation.  What  she  heard  convinced  her  that  her  fears 
were  groundless.  She  drew  a  long  breath,  as  if  a  mighty 
burden  had  been  lifted  from  her  breast.  But  a  new  idea, 
which  was  to  grow,  flourish,  and  bear  fruit,  had  just  taken 
root  in  her  mind.  When  Martial  left  the  room,  she  at  once 
opened  the  door  by  which  she  was  standing,  and  entered  the 


THE   HONOR   OF   THE    NAME  591 

blue  reception-room,  thus  admitting  as  it  were  that  she  had 
been  a  listener.  Twenty-four  hours  earlier  she  would  not 
even  have  dreamed  of  committing  such  an  audacious  act. 
"Well."  she  exclaimed,  "Blanche,  we  were  frightened  .for 
nothing." 

Blanche  did  not  reply.  The  young  marquise  was  weighing 
in  her  mind  the  probable  consequences  of  all  these  events 
which  had  succeeded  each  other  with  such  marvelous  rapidity. 
"Perhaps  the  hour  of  my  revenge  is  nigh,"  she  murmured, 
as  if  communing  with  herself. 

"What  do  you  say?"  inquired  Aunt  Medea,  with  evident 
curiosity. 

"I  say,  aunt,  that  in  less  than  a  month  I  shall  be  the  Mar- 
quese  de  Sairmeuse  in  reality  as  well  as  in  name.  My  husband 
will  return  to  me,  and  then — oh  !  then." 

"God  grant  it !"  said  Aunt  Medea,  hypocritically.  In  her 
secret  heart  she  had  but  scant  faith  in  this  prediction,  and 
cared  very  little  whether  it  was  realized  or  not.  However, 
in  that  low  tone  which  accomplices  habitually  employ,  she 
ventured  to  add :  "If  what  you  say  proves  true,  it  will  only 
be  another  proof  that  your  jealousy  led  you  astray;  and  that — 
that  what  you  did  at  the  Borderie  was  a  perfectly  unnecessary 
act." 

Such  had  indeed  been  Blanche's  opinion ;  but  now  she  shook 
her  head,  and  gloomily  replied:  "You  are  wrong;  what  took 
place  at  the  Borderie  has  brought  my  husband  back  to  me 
again.  I  understand  everything  now.  It  is  true  that  Marie- 
Anne  was  not  his  mistress;  but  he  loved  her.  He  loved  her, 
and  her  repulses  only  increased  his  passion.  It  was  for  her 
sake  that  he  abandoned  me ;  and  while  she  lived  he  would 
never  have  thought  of  me.  His  emotion  on  seeing  me  was 
the  remnant  of  an  emotion  which  she  had  awakened.  His 
tenderness  was  only  the  expression  of  his  grief.  Whatever 
happens,  I  shall  only  have  her  leavings — the  leavings  of  what 
she  disdained  !"  The  young  marquise  spoke  bitterly,  her  eyes 
flashed,  and  she  stamped  her  foot  as  she  added:  "So  I  shan't 
regret  what  I  have  done !  no,  never — never !"  As  she  spoke 
she  felt  herself  again  brave  and  determined. 

But  the  horrible  fears  assailed  her  when  the  inquiry  into  the 
circumstances  of  the  murder  commenced.  Officials  had  been 
sent  from  Montaignac  to  investigate  the  affair.  They  exam- 
ined a  host  of  witnesses,  and  there  was  even  some  talk  of 

i5 — Vol.  II — Gab. 


592     THE  HONOR  OF  THE  NAME 

sending  to  Paris  for  one  of  those  detectives  skilled  in  unravel- 
ing all  the  mysteries  of  crime.  This  proipect  quite  terrified 
Aunt  Medea;  and  her  fear  was  so  apparent  that  it  caused 
Blanche  great  anxiety.  "You  will  end  by  betraying  us,"  she 
remarked,  one  evening. 

"Ah  !  I  can't  control  my  fears." 

"If  that  is  the  case,  don't  leave  your  room." 

"It  would  be  more  prudent,  certainly." 

"You  can  say  you  are  not  well;  your  meals  shall  be  served 
you   upstairs." 

Aunt  Medea's  face  brightened.  In  her  heart,  she  was 
delighted.  It  had  long  been  her  dream  and  ambition  to  have 
her  meals  served  in  her  own  room,  in  bed  in  the  morning  and 
on  a  little  table  by  the  fire  in  the  evening;  but  as  yet  she  had 
never  been  able  to  realize  this  fancy.  On  two  or  three  oc- 
casions, feeling  slightly  indisposed,  she  had  asked  to  have 
her  breakfast  brought  to  her  room,  but. her  request  had  each 
time  been  harshly  refused.  "If  Aunt  Medea  is  hungry,  she 
will  come  downstairs,  and  take  her  place  at  the  table  as 
usual,"  had  been  Blanche's  imperious  reply. 

It  was  hard,  indeed,  to  be  treated  in  this  way  in  a  chateau 
where  there  were  always  a  dozen  servants  idling  about.  But 
now,  in  obedience  to  the  young  marquise's  formal  orders,  the 
head  cook  himself  came  up  every  morning  into  Aunt  Medea's 
room,  to  receive  her  instructions;  and  she  was  at  perfect 
liberty  to  dictate  each  day's  bill  of  fare,  and  to  order  the 
particular  dishes  she  preferred.  This  change  in  the  dependent 
relative's  situation  awakened  many  strange  thoughts  in  her 
mind,  and  stifled  such  regret  as  she  had  felt  for  the  crime  at 
the  Borderie.  Still  both  she  and  her  niece  followed  the  inquiry 
which  had  been  set  on  foot  with  a  keen  interest.  They  ob- 
tained all  the  latest  information  concerning  the  investigation 
through  the  butler  of  the  chateau,  who  seemed  much  inter- 
ested in  the  case,  and  who  had  won  the  good-will  of  the 
Montaignac  police  agents,  by  making  them  familiar  with  the 
contents  of  his  wine  cellar.  It  was  from  this  major-domo 
that  Blanche  and  her  aunt  learned  that  all  suspicions  pointed 
to  the  deceased  Chupin,  who  had  been  seen  prowling  round 
about  the  Borderie  on  the  very  night  the  crime  was  com- 
mitted. This  testimony  was  given  by  the  same  young  peasant 
who  had  warned  Jean  Lacheneur  of  the  old  poacher's  doings. 
As  regards  the  motive  of  the  crime,  fully  a  score  of  persons 


THE   HONOR   OF   THE   NAME  593 

had  heard  Chupin  declare  that  he  should  never  enjoy  any 
peace  of  mind  as  long  as  a  single  Lacheneur  was  left  on 
earth.  So  thus  it  happened  that  the  very  incidents  which 
might  have  ruined  Blanche,  saved  her;  and  she  really  came 
to  consider  the  old  poacher's  death  as  a  providential  occur- 
rence, for  she  at  least  had  no  reason  to  suspect  that  he  had 
revealed  her  secret  before  expiring.  When  the  butler  told 
her  that  the  magistrate  and  police  agents  had  returned  to 
Montaignac,  she  could  scarcely  conceal  her  joy;  and  drawing 
a  long  breath  of  relief,  she  turned  toward  Aunt  Medea  with 
the  remark:  "Ah,  now  there's  nothing  more  to  be  feared." 

She  had,  indeed,  escaped  the  justice  of  man;  but  the  justice 
of  God  remained.  A  few  weeks  previously  the  thought  of 
divine  retribution  would  perhaps  have  made  Blanche  smile, 
for  she  then  considered  the  punishment  of  Providence  as  an 
imaginary  evil,  invented  to  hold  timorous  minds  in  check.  On 
the  morning  that  followed  her  crime,  and  after  her  long 
random  talk  with  Aunt  Medea,  she  almost  shrugged  her 
shoulders  at  the  thought  of  Marie-Anne's  dying  threats.  She 
remembered  her  promise;  and  yet,  despite  all  she  had  said, 
she  did  not  intend  to  fulfil  it.  After  careful  consideration,  she 
had  come  to  the  conclusion  that  in  trying  to  find  the  missing 
child  she  would  expose  herself  to  terrible  risks;  and  on  the 
other  hand  she  felt  certain  that  the  child's  father  would  dis- 
cover it.  So  she  dismissed  the  matter  from  her  mind,  and 
chiefly  busied  herself  with  what  Martial  had  said  during  his 
visit,  and  the  prospect  that  presented  itself  of  a  reconciliation. 

But  she  was  destined  to  realize  the  power  of  her  victim's 
threats  that  same  night.  Worn  out  with  fatigue,  she  retired 
to  her  own  room  at  an  early  hour,  and  jumped  into  bed,  ex- 
claiming ;  "I  must  sleep !"  But  sleep  had  fled.  Her  crime 
was  ever  in  her  thoughts;  and  rose  before  her  in  all  its  horror 
and  atrocity.  She  knew  that  she  was  lying  on  her  bed.  at 
Courtornieu;  and  yet  it  seemed  as  if  she  were  still  in  Chan- 
louineau's  house,  first  pouring  out  the  poison,  and  then  watch- 
ing its  effects,  while  concealed  in  the  dressing-room.  She  was 
struggling  against  the  idea;  exerting  all  her  strength  of  will 
to  drive  away  these  terrible  memories,  when  she  imagined 
she  heard  the  key  turn  in  the  lock.  Raising  her  head  from  the 
pillow  with  a  start,  she  fancied  she  could  perceive  the  door 
open  noiselessly,  and  then  Marie-Anne  glided  into  the  room 
like  a  fantom.     She  seated  herself  in  an  armchair  near  the 


594     THE  HONOR  OF  THE  NAME 

bed,  and  while  the  tears  rolled  down  her  cheeks,  she  looked 
sadly  yet  threateningly  around  her.  The  murderess  hid  her 
face  under  the  counterpane.  She  shivered  with  terror,  and  a 
cold  sweat  escaped  from  every  pore  in  her  skin.  For  this 
seemed  no  mere  apparition,  but  the  frightful  reality  itself. 
Blanche  did  not  submit  to  these  tortures  without  resisting. 
Making  a  vigorous  effort,  she  tried  to  reason  with  herself 
aloud,  as  if  the  sound  of  her  voice  would  reassure  her.  "I 
am  dreaming!"  she  said.  "The  dead  don't  return  to  life.  To 
think  that  I'm  childish  enough  to  be  frightened  at  fantoms 
which  only  exist  in  my  own  imagination." 

She  said  this,  but  the  vision  did  not  fade.  When  she  shut 
her  eyes  the  fantom  still  faced  her — even  through  her  closed 
eyelids,  and  through  the  coverlids  drawn  up  over  her  face. 
Say  what  she  would,  she  did  not  succeed  in  sleeping  till  day- 
break. And,  worst  of  all,  night  after  night,  the  same  vision 
haunted  her,  reviving  the  terror  which  she  forgot  during  the 
daytime  in  the  broad  sunlight.  For  she  would  regain  her 
courage  and  become  skeptical  again  as  soon  as  the  morning 
broke.  "How  foolish  it  is  to  be  afraid  of  something  that  does 
not  exist!"  she  would  remark,  railing  at  herself.  "To-night  I 
will  conquer  this  absurd  weakness."  But  when  evening  came 
all  her  resolution  vanished,  and  scarcely  had  she  retired  to 
her  room  than  the  same  fears  seized  hold  of  her,  and  the  same 
fantom  rose  before  her  eyes.  She  fancied  that  her  nocturnal 
agonies  would  cease  when  the  investigation  anent  the  murder 
was  over — that  she  would  forget  both  her  crime  and  promise; 
but  the  inquiry  finished,  and  yet  the  same  vision  haunted  her, 
and  she  did  not  forget.  Darwin  has  remarked  that  it  is  when 
their  safety  is  assured  that  great  criminals  really  feel  remorse, 
and  Blanche  might  have  vouched  for  the  truth  of  this  as- 
sertion, made  by  the  deepest  thinker  and  closest  observer 
of  the  age. 

And  yet  her  sufferings,  atrocious  as  they  were,  did  not  in- 
duce her  for  one  moment  to  abandon  the  plan  she  had  formed 
on  the  occasion  of  Martial's  visit.  She  played  her  part  so 
well  that,  moved  with  pity,  if  not  with  love,  he  returned  to 
see  her  frequently,  and  at  last,  one  day,  besought  her  to  allow 
him  to  remain.  But  even  this  triumph  did  not  restore  her 
peace  of  mind.  For  between  her  and  her  husband  rose  the 
dreadful  vision  of  Marie-Anne's  distorted  features.  She  knew 
only  too  well  that  Martial  had  no  love  to  give  her,  and  that 


THE   HONOR   OF   THE    NAME  595 

she  would  never  have  the  slightest  influence  over  him.  And 
to  crown  her  already  intolerable  sufferings  came  an  incident 
which  filled  her  with  dismay.  Alluding  one  evening  to  Marie- 
Anne's  death,  Martial  forgot  himself,  and  spoke  of  his  oath 
of  vengeance.  He  deeply  regretted  that  Chupin  was  dead,  he 
said,  for  he  should  have  experienced  an  intense  delight  in 
making  the  wretch  who  murdered  her  die  a  lingering  death 
in  the  midst  of  the  most  frightful  tortures.  As  he  spoke  his 
voice  vibrated  with  still  powerful  passion,  and  Blanche,  in 
terror  asked  herself  what  would  be  her  fate  if  her  husband 
ever  discovered  that  she  was  the  culprit — and  he  might  dis- 
cover it.  Now  it  was  that  she  began  to  regret  she  had  not 
kept  her  promise;  and  she  resolved  to  commence  the  search 
for  Marie-Anne's  child.  But  to  do  this  effectually  it  was 
essential  she  should  be  in  a  large  city — in  Paris,  for  instance — 
where  she  could  procure  discreet  and  skilful  agents.  Thus  it 
was  necessary  to  persuade  Martial  to  remove  to  the  capital. 
But  with  the  Due  de  Sairmeuse's  assistance  she  did  not  find 
this  a  very  difficult  task;  and  one  morning,  with  a  radiant 
face,  she  informed  Aunt  Medea  that  she  and  her  husband 
would  leave  Courtornieu  at  the  end  of  the  coming  week. 

In  the  midst  of  her  anxiety,  Blanche  had  failed  to  notice 
that  Aunt  Medea  was  no  longer  the  same.  The  change  in  the 
dependent  relative's  tone  and  manner  had,  it  is  true,  been  a 
gradual  one ;  it  had  not  struck  the  servants,  but  it  was  none 
the  less  positive  and  real,  and  now  it  showed  itself  continually. 
For  instance,  the  ofttime  tyrannized-over  chaperon  no  longer 
trembled  when  any  one  spoke  to  her,  as  formerly  had  been 
her  wont,  and  there  was  occasionally  a  decided  ring  of  inde- 
pendence in  her  voice.  If  visitors  were  present,  she  had  been 
used  to  remain  modestly  in  the  background,  but  now  she  drew 
her  chair  forward,  and  unhesitatingly  took  part  in  the  con- 
versation. At  table,  she  gave  free  expression  to  her  prefer- 
ences and  dislikes;  and  on  two  or  three  occasions  she  had 
ventured  to  differ  from  her  niece  in  opinion,  and  had  even 
been  so  bold  as  to  question  the  propriety  of  some  of  her  orders. 
One  day,  moreover,  when  Blanche  was  going  out,  she  asked 
Aunt  Medea  to  accompany  her;  but  the  latter  declared  she 
had  a  cold,  and  remained  at  home.  And,  on  the  following 
Sunday,  although  Blanche  did  not  wish  to  attend  vespers. 
Aunt  Medea  declared  her  intention  of  going;  and  as  it  rained 
she  requested  the  coachman  to  harness  the  horses  to  the  car- 


696     THE  HONOR  OF  THE  NAME 

riage,  which  was  done.  All  these  little  incidents  could  hare 
been  nothing  separately,  but  taken  together  they  plainly  showed 
that  the  once  humble  chaperon's  character  had  changed.  When 
her  niece  announced  that  she  and  Martial  were  about  to  leave 
the  neighborhood,  Aunt  Medea  was  greatly  surprised,  for  the 
project  had  never  been  discussed  in  her  presence.  "What! 
you  are  going  away,"  she  repeated;  "you  are  leaving  Cour- 
tornieu  ?" 

"And  without  regret." 

"And  where   are  you  going  to,  pray?" 

"To  Paris.  We  shall  reside  there  permanently;  that's 
decided.  The  capital's  the  proper  place  for  my  husband,  and, 
with  his  name,  fortune,  talents  and  the  king's  favor,  he  will 
secure  a  high  position  there.  He  will  repurchase  the  Hotel 
de  Sairmeuse,  and  furnish  it  magnificently,  so  that  we  shall 
have  a  princely  establishment." 

Aunt  Medea's  expression  plainly  indicated  that  she  was  suf- 
fering all  the  torments  of  envy.  "And  what  is  to  become 
of  me?"  she  asked,  in  plaintive  tones. 

"You — aunt!  You  will  remain  here;  you  will  be  mistress 
of  the  chateau.  A  trustworthy  person  must  remain  to  watch 
over  my  poor  father.  You  will  be  happy  and  contented  here, 
I  hope." 

But  no;  Aunt  Medea  did  not  seem  satisfied.  "I  shall  never 
have  courage  to  stay  all  alone  in  this  great  chateau,"  she 
whined. 

"You  foolish  woman !  won't  you  have  the  servants,  the  gar- 
deners, and  the  concierge  to  protect  you?" 

"That  makes  no  difference.  I  am  afraid  of  insane  people. 
When  the  marquis  began  to  rave  and  howl  this  evening,  I  felt 
as  if  I  should  go  mad  myself." 

Blanche  shrugged  her  shoulders.  "What  do  you  wish  then?" 
she  asked  sarcastically. 

"I  thought — I  wondered — if  you  wouldn't  take  me  with  you." 

"To  Paris !  You  are  crazy,  I  do  believe.  What  would  you 
do  there?" 

"Blanche,  I  entreat  you,  I  beseech  you,  to  do  so!" 

"Impossible,  aunt,  impossible !" 

Aunt  Medea  seemed  to  be  in  despair.  "And  what  if  I  told 
you  that  I  can't  remain  here — that  I  dare  not — that  I  should 
die!" 

Blanche  flushed  with  impatience.     "You  weary  me  beyond 


THE   HONOR   OF  THE   NAME  597 

endurance,"  she  said  roughly.  And  with  a  gesture  that  in- 
creased the  harshness  of  her  words,  she  added:  "If  Courtornieu 
displeases  you  so  much,  there  is  nothing  to  prevent  you  from 
seeking  a  home  more  to  your  taste.     You  are  free  and  of  age." 

Aunt  Medea  turned  very  pale,  and  bit  her  lips.  "That  is  to 
say,"  she  said  at  last,  "that  you  allow  me  to  take  my  choice 
between  dying  of  fear  at  Courtornieu  and  ending  my  days  in 
a  hospital.  Thanks,  my  niece,  thanks.  That  is  like  you.  I 
expected  nothing  less  from  you.  Thanks !"  She  raised  her 
head,  and  her  once  humble  eyes  gleamed  in  a  threatening  fash- 
ion. "Very  well !  this  decides  me,"  she  continued.  "I  en- 
treated you,  and  you  brutally  refused  my  request,  so  now  I 
command  you  and  I  say,  'I  will  go !'  Yes,  I  intend  to  go  with 
you  to  Paris — and  I  shall  go.  Ah !  so  it  surprises  you  to  hear 
poor,  meek,  much-abused  Aunt  Medea  speak  like  this;  but  I've 
endured  a  great  deal  in  silence  for  a  long  time,  and  now  I 
rebel.  My  life  in  this  house  has  been  like  life  in  hell.  It  is 
true  you've  given  me  shelter — fed  and  lodged  me,  but  you've 
taken  my  entire  life  in  exchange.  What  servant  ever  endured 
what  I've  had  to  endure?  Have  you  ever  treated  one  of  your 
maids  as  you  have  treated  me — your  own  flesh  and  blood  ?  And 
I  have  had  no  wages ;  on  the  contrary,  I  was  expected  to  be 
grateful  since  I  lived  by  your  tolerance.  Ah,  you  have  made 
me  pay  dearly  for  the  crime  of  being  poor.  How  you  have 
insulted  me — humiliated  me — trampled  me  under  foot !" 

The  rebellious  chaperon  paused  again.  The  bitter  rancor 
which  had  been  accumulating  in  her  heart  for  years  fairly 
choked  her ;  but  after  a  moment  she  resumed  in  a  tone  of 
irony:  "You  ask  me  what  /  should  do  in  Paris?  I  should  enjoy 
myself,  like  you.  You  will  go  to  court,  to  the  play — into  soci- 
ety, won't  you  ?  Very  well,  I  will  accompany  you.  I  will  attend 
these  fetes.  I  will  have  handsome  toilets,  too.  I  have  rarely 
seen  myself  in  anything  but  shabby  black  woolen  dresses.  Have 
you  ever  thought  of  giving  me  the  pleasure  of  possessing  a 
handsome  dress  ?  Twice  a  year,  perhaps,  you  have  given  me 
a  black  silk,  recommending  me  to  take  good  care  of  it.  But 
it  was  not  for  my  sake  that  you  went  to  this  expense.  It  was 
for  your  own  sake,  and  in  order  that  your  poor  relation  should 
do  honor  to  your  generosity.  You  dressed  me  in  it,  like  you 
put  your  lackeys  in  livery,  through  vanity.  And  I  endured 
all  this;  I  made  myself  insignificant  and  humble;  and  when  I 
was  buffeted  on  one  cheek,  I  offered  the  other.     For  after  all 


598     THE  HONOR  OF  THE  NAME 

I  must  live — I  must  have  food.  And  you.  Blanche,  how  often 
you  have  said  to  me  so  that  I  might  do  your  bidding,  'You 
must  obey  me  if  you  wish  to  remain  at  Courtornieu !'  And  I 
obeyed  you — I  was  forced  to  obey,  as  I  didn't  know  where  else 
to  go.  Ah  !  you  have  abused  my  poverty  in  every  way ;  but  now 
my  turn  has  come !" 

Blanche  was  so  amazed  that  she  could  scarcely  articulate  a 
syllable,  and  it  was  in  a  scarcely  audible  voice  that  at  last 
she  faltered :  "I  don't  understand  you,  aunt ;  I  don't  under- 
stand you." 

The  poor  dependent  shrugged  her  shoulders  as  her  niece  had 
done  a  few  moments  before.  "In  that  case,"  said  she  slowly, 
"I  may  as  well  tell  you,  that  since  you  have  made  me  your 
accomplice  against  my  will,  we  must  share  everything  in  com- 
mon. I  share  the  danger;  so  I  will  share  the  pleasure.  Sup- 
pose everything  should  be  discovered?  Do  you  ever  think  of 
that  ?  Yes,  I've  no  doubt  you  do,  and  that's  why  you  are  seek- 
ing diversion.  Very  well !  I  desire  diversion  also,  so  I  shall  go 
to  Paris  with  you." 

With  a  desperate  effort  Blanche  managed  to  regain  some 
degree  of  self-possession.  "And  if  I  still  said  no?"  she  coldly 
queried. 

"But  you  won't  say  no." 

"And  why  not,  if  you  please?" 

"Because—" 

"Will  you  go  to  the  authorities  and  denounce  me?" 

Aunt  Medea  shook  her  head.  "I  am  not  such  a  fool,"  she 
retorted.  "I  should  only  compromise  myself.  No.  I  shouldn't 
do  that ;  but  I  might,  perhaps,  tell  your  husband  what  hap- 
pened at  the  Borderie." 

Blanche  shuddered.  No  other  threat  could  have  had  such 
influence  over  her.  "You  shall  accompany  us,  aunt,"  said  she ; 
"I  promise  it."  And  then  in  a  gentle  voice  she  added:  "But 
it's  quite  unnecessary  to  threaten  me.  You  have  been  cruel, 
aunt,  and  at  the  same  time  unjust.  If  you  have  been  un- 
happy in  our  house,  you  have  only  yourself  to  blame.  Why 
haven't  you  ever  said  anything?  I  attributed  your  complais- 
ance to  your  affection  for  me.  How  was  I  to  know  that  a 
woman  so  quiet  and  modest  as  yourself  longed  for  fine  dresses. 
Confess  that  it  was  impossible.  Had  I  known —  But  rest  easy, 
aunt,  I  will  atone  for  my  neglect."  And  as  Aunt  Medea,  hav- 
ing   obtained    all    she    desired,    stammered    an    excuse,    "Non- 


THE   HONOR   OF   THE    NAME  599 

sense!"  rejoined  Blanche;  "let  us  forget  this  foolish  quarrel. 
You  forgive  me,  don't  you?"  And  the  two  ladies  embraced  each 
other  with  the  greatest  effusion,  like  two  friends  united  after  a 
misunderstanding. 

Neither  of  them,  however,  was  in  the  least  degree  deceived  by 
this  mock  reconciliation.  "It  will  be  best  for  me  to  keep  on  the 
alert,"  thought  the  dependent  relative.  "God  only  knows  with 
what  joy  my  dear  niece  would  send  me  to  join  Marie-Anne." 

Perhaps  a  similar  thought  flitted  through  Blanche's  mind. 
"I'm  bound  to  this  dangerous,  perfidious  creature  forever  now," 
she  reflected.  "I'm  no  longer  my  own  mistress;  I  belong  to 
her.  When  she  commands  me,  I  must  obey,  no  matter  what 
may  be  her  fancy — and  she  has  forty  years'  humiliation  and 
servitude  to  avenge."  The  prospect  of  such  a  life  made  the 
young  marquise  tremble ;  and  she  racked  her  brain  to  discover 
some  way  of  freeing  herself  from  such  intolerable  thraldom. 
Would  it  be  possible  to  induce  Aunt  Medea  to  live  independ- 
ently in  her  own  house,  served  by  her  own  servants?  Might 
she  succeed  in  persuading  this  silly  old  woman,  who  still  longed 
for  finery,  to  marry?  A  handsome  marriage  portion  will  always 
attract  a  husband.  However,  in  either  case,  Blanche  would 
require  money — a  large  sum  of  money,  which  no  one  must  be 
in  a  position  to  claim  an  account  of.  With  this  idea  she  took 
possession  of  over  two  hundred  and  fifty  thousand  francs,  in 
bank-notes  and  coin,  belonging  to  her  father,  and  put  away  in 
one  of  his  private  drawers.  This  sum  represented  the  Marquis 
de  Courtornieu's  savings  during  the  past  three  years.  No  one 
knew  he  had  laid  it  aside,  except  his  daughter;  and  now  that 
he  had  lost  his  reason,  Blanche  could  take  it  for  her  own  use 
without  the  slightest  danger.  "With  this,"  thought  she.  "I  can 
enrich  Aunt  Medea  whenever  I  please  without  having  recourse 
to  Martial." 

After  these  incidents  there  was  a  constant  exchange  of  deli- 
cate attentions  and  fulsome  affection  between  the  two  ladies. 
It  was  "my  dearest  little  aunt,"  and  "my  dearly  beloved  niece." 
from  morning  until  night ;  and  the  gossips  of  the  neighborhood, 
who  had  often  commented  on  the  haughty  disdain  with  which 
Blanche  treated  her  relative,  would  have  found  abundant  food 
for  comment  had  they  known  that  during  the  journey  to  Paris 
Aunt  Medea  was  protected  from  the  possibility  of  cold  by  a 
mantle  lined  with  costly  fur.  exactly  like  the  marquise's  own, 
and  that  instead  of  traveling  in  the  cumbersome  berlin  with 


600      THE  HONOR  OF  THE  NAME 

the  servants,  she  had  a  seat  in  the  postchaise  with  the  Marquis 
dc  Sairmeuse  and  his  wife. 

Before  their  departure  Martial  had  noticed  the  great  change 
which  had  come  over  Aunt  Medea  and  the  many  attentions 
which  his  wife  lavished  on  her,  and  one  day,  when  he  was  alone 
with  Blanche,  he  exclaimed  in  a  tone  of  good-natured  raillery: 
"What's  the  meaning  of  all  this  attachment?  We  shall  finish 
by  encasing  this  precious  aunt  in  cotton,  shan't  we?" 

Blanche  trembled  and  flushed.  "I  love  good  Aunt  Medea  so 
much  !"  said  she.  "I  never  can  forget  all  the  affection  and 
devotion  she  lavished  on  me  when  I  was  so  unhappy." 

It  was  such  a  plausible  explanation  that  Martial  took  no 
further  notice  of  the  matter;  and,  indeed,  just  then  his  mind 
was  fully  occupied.  The  agent  he  had  despatched  to  Paris  in 
advance,  to  purchase  the  Hotel  de  Sairmeuse,  if  it  were  pos- 
sible, had  written  asking  the  marquis  to  hasten  his  journey,  as 
there  was  some  difficulty  about  concluding  the  bargain.  "Plague 
take  the  fellow !"  angrily  said  Martial  on  receiving  this  news. 
"He  is  quite  stupid  enough  to  let  this  opportunity,  which  we've 
been  waiting  for  during  the  last  ten  years,  slip  through  his 
fingers.  I  shan't  find  any  pleasure  in  Paris  if  I  can't  own  our 
old  residence." 

He  was  so  impatient  to  reach  the  capital  that,  on  the  second 
day  of  their  journey,  he  declared  that  if  he  were  alone  he  would 
travel  all  night.  "Do  so  now,"  said  Blanche  graciously;  "I  don't 
feel  the  least  tired,  and  a  night  of  travel  does  not  frighten  me." 
So  they  journeyed  on  without  stopping,  and  the  next  morning 
at  about  nine  o'clock  they  alighted  at  the  Hotel  Meurice. 

Martial  scarcely  took  time  to  eat  his  breakfast.  "I  must  go 
and  see  my  agent  at  once,"  he  said  as  he  hurried  off.  "I  will 
soon  be  back."  Two  hours  afterward  he  reappeared  with  a 
radiant  face.  "My  agent  was  a  simpleton,"  he  exclaimed.  "Pie 
was  afraid  to  write  me  word  that  a  man,  on  whom  the  con- 
clusion of  the  sale  depends,  requires  a  bonus  of  fifty  thousand 
francs.  He  shall  have  it  and  welcome."  Then,  in  a  tone  of 
gallantry,  habitual  to  him  whenever  he  addressed  his  wife,  he 
added :  "Tt  only  remains  for  me  to  sign  the  papers,  but  I  won't 
do  so  unless  the  house  suits  you.  Tf  you  are  not  too  tired,  I 
would  like  you  to  visit  it  at  once.  Time  presses,  and  we  have 
many  competitors." 

This  visit  was,  of  course,  one  of  pure  form ;  but  Blanche 
would  have  been  hard  to  please  if  she  had  not  been  satisfied 


THE  HONOR   OF   THE   NAME 


601 


with  this  mansion,  then  one  of  the  most  magnificent  in  Paris, 
with  a  monumental  entrance  facing  the  Rue  de  Grenelle  St. 
Germain  and  large  umbrageous  gardens,  extending  to  the  Rue 
de  Varennes.  Unfortunately,  this  superb  dwelling  had  not  been 
occupied  for  several  years,  and  required  considerable  repair. 
"It  will  take  at  least  six  months  to  restore  everything,"  said 
Martial,  "perhaps  more;  though  in  three  months,  possibly,  a 
portion  of  it  might  be  arranged  very  comfortably." 

"It  would  be  living  in  one's  own  house,  at  least,"  observed 
Blanche,  divining  her  husband's  wishes. 

"Ah !  then  you  agree  with  me !  In  that  case,  you  may  rest 
assured  that  I  will  expedite  matters  as  swiftly  as  possible." 

In  spite,  or  rather  by  reason  of  his  immense  fortune,  the 
Marquis  de  Sairmeuse  knew  that  one  is  never  so  well,  nor  so 
quickly,  served  as  when  one  serves  one's  self,  and  so  he  re- 
solved to  take  the  matter  into  his  own  hands.  He  conferred 
with  the  architect,  interviewed  the  contractors,  and  hurried  on 
the  workmen.  As  soon  as  he  was  up  in  the  morning  he  started 
out  without  waiting  for  breakfast,  and  seldom  returned  before 
dinner.  Although  Blanche  was  compelled  to  pass  most  of  her 
time  indoors,  on  account  of  the  bad  weather,  she  was  not  in- 
clined to  complain.  Her  journey,  the  unaccustomed  sights  and 
sounds  of  Paris,  the  novelty  of  life  in  a  hotel,  all  combined  to 
divert  her  thoughts  from  herself.  She  forgot  her  fears,  a  sort 
of  haze  enveloped  the  terrible  scene  at  the  Borderie,  and  the 
clamors  of  conscience  were  sinking  into  faint  whispers.  Indeed 
the  past  seemed  fading  away,  and  she  was  beginning  to  enter- 
tain hopes  of  a  new  and  better  life,  when  one  day  a  servant 
knocked  at  the  door  and  said :  "There  is  a  man  downstairs  who 
wishes  to  speak  with  madame." 


T5LANCHE  was  reclining  on  a  sofa  listening  to  a  new  book 

which  Aunt  Medea  was  reading  aloud,  and  she  did  not  even 

raise  her  head  as  the  servant  delivered  his  message.    "A  man?" 

she  said  carelessly;  "what  man?"     She  was  expecting  no  one; 


602     THE  HONOR  OF  THE  NAME 

it  must  be  one  of  the  assistants  or  overseers  employed  by 
Martial. 

"I  can't  inform  madame  who  he  is,"  replied  the  servant.  "He 
is  quite  young;  he  is  dressed  like  a  peasant,  and  is,  perhaps, 
seeking  a  place." 

"It  is  probably  the  marquis  he  wishes  to  see." 

"Madame  will  excuse  me,  but  he  particularly  said  that  he 
wished  to  speak  with  her." 

"Ask  his  name  and  business  then.  Go  on,  aunt,"  she  added; 
"we  have  been  interrupted  in  the  most  interesting  part." 

But  Aunt  Medea  had  not  time  to  finish  the  page  before  the 
servant  returned.  "The  man  says  madame  will  understand  his 
business  when  she  hears  his  name." 

"And  his  name?" 

"Chupin." 

It  seemed  as  if  a  bombshell  had  burst  into  the  room.  Aunt 
Medea  dropped  her  book  with  a  shriek,  and  sank  back,  half 
feinting  in  her  chair.  Blanche  sprang  up  with  a  face  as  color- 
less as  her  white  cashmere  morning  dress,  her  eyes  dazed,  and 
her  lips  trembling.  "Chupin,"  she  repeated,  as  if  she  almost 
hoped  the  servant  would  tell  her  she  had  not  understood  him 
correctly ;  "Chupin  !"  Then,  angrily,  she  added :  "Tell  this  man 
I  won't  see  him,  I  won't  see  him,  do  you  hear?"  But  before 
the  servant  had  time  to  bow  and  retire,  the  young  marquise 
changed  her  mind.  "One  moment,"  said  she ;  "on  reflection  I 
think  I  will  see  him.     Bring  him  up." 

The  servant  then  withdrew,  and  the  two  ladies  looked  at  each 
other  in  silent  consternation.  "It  must  be  one  of  Chupin's  sons," 
faltered  Blanche  at  last. 

"No  doubt;  but  what  does  he  desire." 

"Money,  probably." 

Aunt  Medea  raised  her  eyes  to  heaven.  "God  grant  that  he 
knows  nothing  of  your  meetings  with  his  father !"  said  she. 

"You  are  not  going  to  despair  in  advance,  are  you,  aunt? 
We  shall  know  everything  in  a  few  minutes.  Pray  remain 
calm.  Turn  your  back  to  us;  look  out  of  the  window  into  the 
street  and  don't  let  him  see  your  face." 

Blanche  was  not  deceived.  This  unexpected  visitor  was  in- 
deed Chupin's  eldest  son ;  the  one  to  whom  the  dying  poacher 
had  confided  his  secret.  Since  his  arrival  in  Paris,  the  young 
fellow  had  been  running  in  every  direction,  inquiring  every- 
where and  of  everybody  for  the  Marquis  de  Sairmeuse's  address. 


THE   HONOR   OF   THE    NAME  603 

At  last  he  obtained  it ;  and  he  lost  no  time  in  presenting  him- 
self at  the  Hotel  Meurice.  He  was  now  awaiting  the  result  of 
his  application  at  the  entrance  downstairs,  where  he  stood  whis- 
tling, with  his  hands  in  his  pockets,  when  the  servant  returned 
and  bade  him  follow.  Chupin  obeyed;  but  the  servant,  who 
was  on  fire  with  curiosity,  loitered  by  the  way  in  hope  of 
obtaining  from  this  country  youth  some  explanation  of  the 
surprise,  not  to  say  fright,  with  which  Madame  de  Sairmeuse 
had  greeted  the  mention  of  his  name.  "I  don't  say  it  to  flatter 
you,  my  boy,"  he  remarked,  "but  your  name  produced  a  great 
effect  on  madame."  The  prudent  peasant  carefully  concealed 
the  joy  he  felt  on  receiving  this  information.  "How  does  she 
happen  to  know  you?"  continued  the  servant.  "Are  you  both 
from  the  same  place?" 

"I  am  her  foster-brother." 

The  servant  did  not  believe  this  reply  for  a  moment,  and  as 
they  had  now  reached  the  marquise's  apartment,  he  opened  the 
door  and  ushered  Chupin  into  the  room.  The  latter  had  pre- 
pared a  little  story  beforehand,  but  he  was  so  dazzled  by  the 
magnificence  around  him  that  for  a  moment  he  stood  motionless 
with  staring  eyes  and  gaping  mouth.  His  wonder  was  increased 
by  a  large  mirror  opposite  the  door,  in  which  he  could  survey 
himself  from  head  to  foot,  and  by  the  beautiful  flowers  on  the 
carpet,  which  he  feared  to  crush  with  his  heavy  boots. 

After  a  moment,  Blanche  decided  to  break  the  silence. 
"What  do  you  want  of  me?"  she  asked. 

In  a  rambling  fashion  young  Chupin  then  explained  that  he 
had  been  obliged  to  leave  Sairmeuse  on  account  of  the  numerous 
enemies  he  had  there,  that  he  had  been  unable  to  find  his 
father's  hidden  treasure,  and  that  he  was  consequently  without 
resources. 

"That'll  do,"  interrupted  Blanche,  and  then  in  far  from  a 
friendly  manner,  she  remarked :  "I  don't  at  all  understand  why 
you  should  apply  to  me.  You  and  all  the  rest  of  your  family 
have  anything  but  an  enviable  reputation  at  Sairmeuse;  still, 
as  you  are  from  that  part  of  the  country,  I  am  willing  to  aid 
you  a  little  on  condition  you  don't  apply  to  me  again." 

Chupin  listened  to  this  homily  with  a  half  cringing,  half  im- 
pudent air;  but  when  Blanche  had  finished  he  raised  his  head, 
and  proudly  said :  "I  don't  ask  for  alms." 

"What  do  ask  for.  then  ?" 

"My  dues  " 


604     THE  HONOR  OF  THE  NAME 

Blanche's  heart  sank,  and  yet  she  had  courage  enough  to 
glance  disdainfully  at  Chupin,  and  reply :  "What !  do  I  owe  you 
anything?" 

"You  don't  owe  me  anything  personally,  madame ;  but  you 
owe  a  heavy  debt  to  my  deceased  father.  Whose  service  did 
he  perish  in  ?  Poor  old  man !  he  loved  you  devotedly.  His 
last  words  were  about  you.  'A  terrible  thing  has  just  happened 
at  the  Borderie,  my  boy,'  said  he.  'The  young  marquise  hated 
Marie-Anne,  and  she  has  poisoned  her.  If  it  hadn't  been  for 
me  she  would  have  been  lost.  I  am  about  to  die,  so  let  the 
whole  blame  rest  on  me;  for  it  won't  hurt  me  when  I'm  under 
the  sod,  and  it  will  save  the  young  lady.  And  by  and  by  she 
will  reward  you;  so  that  as  long  as  you  keep  the  secret  you 
will  want  for  nothing.' "  Great  as  was  young  Chupin's  im- 
pudence he  paused  abruptly,  amazed  by  the  air  of  perfect  com- 
posure with  which  Blanche  listened  to  him.  In  face  of  such 
wonderful  dissimulation  he  almost  doubted  the  truth  of  his 
father's  story. 

The  marquise's  self-possession  was  indeed  surprising.  She 
felt  that  if  she  once  yielded  she  would  always  be  at  this  wretch's 
mercy,  as  she  already  was  at  Aunt  Medea's.  "In  other  words," 
said  she  calmly,  "you  accuse  me  of  having  murdered  Mademoi- 
selle Lacheneur ;  and  you  threaten  to  denounce  me  if  I  don't 
yield  to  your  demands."  Chupin  nodded  his  head  in  acquies- 
cence. "Very  well !"  added  Blanche,  "since  that's  the  case,  you 
may  go." 

It  seemed,  indeed,  that  by  audacity  she  might  win  this  dan- 
gerous game  on  which  her  future  peace  depended.  Chupin, 
greatly  abashed,  was  standing  before  her  undecided  what  course 
to  pursue,  when  Aunt  Medea,  who  was  listening  by  the  window, 
turned  in  affright,  exclaiming:  "Blanche!  your  husband — Mar- 
tial !    He  is  coming!" 

The  game  was  lost.  Blanche  fancied  her  husband  entering  and 
finding  Chupin  there,  conversing  with  him,  and  so  discovering 
everything!  Her  brain  whirled;  she  yielded.  Hastily  thrust- 
ing her  purse  into  Chupin's  hand,  she  dragged  him  through  an 
inner  door  to  the  servants'  staircase.  "Take  this,"  she  said  in 
a  hoarse  whisper.  "I  will  see  you  again.  And  not  a  word — 
not  a  word  to  my  husband,  remember !" 

She  had  been  wise  to  yield  in  time.  When  she  returned  to 
the  drawing-room  she  found  Martial  there.  He  was  gazing  on 
the  ground,  and  held  an  open  letter  in  his  hand.    But  he  raised 


THE    HONOR    OF   THE    NAME  605 

his  head  when  his  wife  entered  the  room,  and  she  could  detect 
signs  of  great  emotion  in  his  features.  "What  has  happened?" 
she  faltered. 

Martial  did  not  remark  her  troubled  manner.  "My  father 
is  dead,  Blanche,"  he  replied. 

"The  Due  de  Sairmeuse  !   Good  heavens  !  how  did  it  happen?" 

"He  was  thrown  from  his  horse  in  the  forest  near  the  San- 
guille  rocks." 

"Ah !  it  was  there  where  my  poor  father  was  nearly  mur- 
dered." 

"Yes,  the  very  place." 

There  was  a  moment's  silence.  Martial's  affection  for  his 
father  had  not  been  very  deep,  and  he  was  well  aware  that 
the  duke  had  but  little  love  for  him.  Hence  he  was  astonished 
at  the  bitter  grief  he  felt  on  hearing  of  his  death.  "From  this 
letter,  which  was  forwarded  by  a  messenger  from  Sairmeuse," 
he  continued,  "I  gather  that  everybody  believes  it  to  have  been 
an  accident;  but  I — I — " 

"Well?" 

"I  believe  he  was  murdered." 

An  exclamation  of  horror  escaped  Aunt  Medea,  and  Blanche 
turned  pale.    "Murder!"  she  whispered. 

"Yes,  Blanche ;  and  I  could  name  the  murderer.  Oh  !  I  am 
not  deceived.  My  father's  murderer  is  the  same  man  who  tried 
to  kill  the  Marquis  de  Courtornieu — " 

"Jean  Lacheneur !" 

Martial  gravely  bowed  his  head.     It  was  his  only  reply. 

"And  will  you  not  denounce  him?  Will  you  not  demand 
justice?" 

Martial's  face  grew  gloomy.  "What  good  would  it  do?"  he 
replied.  "I  have  no  material  proofs  to  furnish,  and  justice 
requires  unimpeachable  evidence."  Then,  as  if  communing  with 
his  own  thoughts,  rather  than  addressing  his  wife,  he  added, 
despondingly :  "The  Due  de  Sairmeuse  and  the  Marquis  de 
Courtornieu  have  reaped  what  they  sowed.  The  blood  of  mur- 
dered innocence  always  calls  for  vengeance.  Sooner  or  later 
the  guilty  must  expiate  their  crimes." 

Blanche  shuddered.  Each  word  found  an  echo  in  her  own 
soul.  Had  her  husband  intended  his  words  for  her,  he  would 
scarcely  have  expressed  himself  differently.  "Martial,"  said 
she,  trying  to  arouse  him  from  his  gloomy  reverie;  "Martial!" 

But  he  did  not  seem  to  hear  her,  and  it  was  in  the  same  tone 


606     THE  HONOR  OF  THE  NAME 

that  he  continued:  "These  Lacheneurs  were  happy  and  honored 
before  our  arrival  at  Sairmeuse.  Their  corduct  was  above  all 
praise;  their  probity  amounted  to  heroism.  We  might  have 
made  them  our  faithful  and  devoted  friends.  It  was  our  duty, 
as  well  as  our  interest,  to  have  done  so.  But  we  did  not 
understand  it;  we  humiliated,  ruined,  exasperated  them.  It 
was  a  fault  for  which  we  must  atone.  Who  knows  but  what 
in  Jean  Lacheneur's  place  I  should  have  done  exactly  what  he 
has  done  ?"  He  was  again  silent  for  a  moment ;  then,  with  one 
of  those  sudden  inspirations  that  sometimes  enable  one  almost 
to  read  the  future,  he  resumed:  "I  know  Jean  Lacheneur.  I 
can  fathom  his  hatred,  and  I  know  that  he  lives  only  in  the 
hope  of  vengeance.  It  is  true  that  we  are  very  high  and  he 
is  very  low,  but  that  matters  little.  We  have  everything  to 
fear.  Our  millions  form  a  rampart  around  us,  but  he  will  know 
how  to  open  a  breach.  And  no  precautions  will  save  us.  At 
the  very  moment  when  we  feel  ourselves  secure,  he  will  be 
ready  to  strike.  What  he  will  attempt,  I  don't  know;  but  his 
will  be  a  terrible  revenge.  Remember  my  words,  Blanche,  if 
ruin  ever  overtakes  our  house,  it  will  be  Jean  Lacheneur's 
work." 

Aunt  Medea  and  her  niece  were  too  horror-stricken  to  articu- 
late a  word,  and  for  five  minutes  no  sound  broke  the  stillness 
save  Martial's  monotonous  tread,  as  he  paced  up  and  down  the 
room.  At  last  he  paused  before  his  wife.  "I  have  just  ordered 
post-horses,"  he  said.  "You  will  excuse  me  for  leaving  you 
here  alone.  I  must  go  to  Sairmeuse  at  once,  but  I  shall  not  be 
absent  more  than  a  week." 

He  left  Paris  a  few  hours  later,  and  Blanche  became  a  prey 
to  the  most  intolerable  anxiety.  She  suffered  more  than  she 
had  done  during  the  days  that  immediately  followed  her  crime. 
It  was  not  against  fantoms  that  she  had  to  shield  herself  now ; 
Chupin  existed,  and  his  voice,  even  if  it  were  not  as  terrible 
as  the  voice  of  conscience,  might  make  itself  heard  at  any 
moment.  If  she  had  known  where  to  find  him,  she  would  have 
gone  to  him,  and  endeavored,  by  the  payment  of  a  large  sum 
of  money,  to  persuade  him  to  leave  France.  But  he  had  left 
the  hotel  without  giving  her  his  address.  Then  again  Martial's 
gloomy  apprehensions  combined  to  increase  her  fears,  and  the 
mere  thought  of  Jean  Lacheneur  made  her  shrink  with  terror. 
She  could  not  rid  herself  of  the  idea  that  Jean  suspected  her 
guilt,  and  was  watching  her,  waiting  for  revenge.     Her  wish 


THE    HONOR   OF   THE    NAME  607 

to  find  Marie-Anne's  child  now  became  stronger  than  ever;  it 
seemed  to  her  that  the  abandoned  infant  might  be  a  protection 
to  her  some  day.  However,  where  could  she  find  an  agent  in 
whom  she  could  confide  ?  At  last  she  remembered  that  she  had 
heard  her  father  speak  of  a  detective  named  Chefteux  as  an 
exceedingly  shrewd  fellow,  capable  of  anything,  even  of  hon- 
esty if  he  were  well  paid.  This  man  was  really  a  perfect 
scoundrel,  one  of  Fouche's  vilest  instruments,  who  had  served 
and  betrayed  all  parties,  and  who,  at  last,  after  the  most  bare- 
faced perjury,  had  been  dismissed  from  the  police  force.  He 
had  then  established  a  private  inquiry  office,  and  after  some 
little  search  Blanche  ascertained  that  he  lived  in  the  Place 
Dauphine.  One  morning,  taking  advantage  of  her  husband's 
absence,  she  donned  her  simplest  dress,  and,  accompanied  by 
Aunt  Medea,  repaired  to  Chefteux's  residence.  He  proved  to 
be  a  middle-aged  man  of  medium  height  and  inoffensive  mien, 
and  he  cleverly  affected  an  air  of  good  humor.  He  ushered  his 
client  into  a  neatly  furnished  drawing-room,  and  Blanche  at 
once  told  him  that  she  was  a  married  woman ;  that  she  lived 
with  her  husband  in  the  Rue  St.  Denis;  and  that  one  of  her 
sisters  who  had  lately  died  had  been  led  astray  by  a  man  who 
had  disappeared.  A  child  was  living,  however,  whom  she  was 
very  anxious  to  find.  In  short,  she  narrated  an  elaborate  story 
which  she  had  prepared  in  advance,  and  which,  after  all,  sounded 
very  plausible.  Chefteux.  however,  did  not  believe  a  word  of 
it;  for  as  soon  as  it  was  finished  he  tapped  Blanche  familiarly 
on  the  shoulder,  and  remarked:  "In  short,  my  dear,  we  had  our 
little  escapades  before  our  marriage." 

Blanche  shrank  back  as  if  some  venomous  reptile  had  touched 
her.  To  be  treated  in  this  fashion !  she — a  Courtornieu,  now 
Duchess  de  Sairmeuse !  "I  think  you  are  laboring  under  a 
wrong  impression,"  she  haughtily  replied. 

He  made  haste  to  apologize ;  but  while  listening  to  the  further 
details  he  asked  for,  he  could  not  help  remarking  to  himself : 
'"What  eyes !  what  a  voice  ! — they  can't  belong  to  a  denizen  of 
the  Rue  Saint-Denis!"  His  suspicions  were  confirmed  by  the 
reward  of  twenty  thousand  francs,  which  Blanche  imprudently 
promised  him  in  case  of  success,  and  by  the  five  hundred  francs 
which  she  paid  in  advance.  "And  where  shall  I  have  the  honor 
of  writing  to  you,  madame?"  he  inquired. 

"Nowhere,"  replied  Blanche.  "I  shall  be  passing  by  here 
from  time  to  time,  and  I  will  call." 


608     THE  HONOR  OF  THE  NAME 

When  the  two  women  left  the  house,  Chefteux  followed  them. 
"For  once,"  thought  he,  "I  believe  that  fortune  smiles  on  me." 
To  discover  his  new  client's  name  and  rank  was  but  child's 
play  for  Fouche's  former  pupil;  and  indeed  his  task  was  all  the 
easier  since  they  had  no  suspicion  whatever  of  his  designs. 

Blanche,  who  had  heard  his  powers  of  discernment  so  highly 
praised,  was  confident  of  success,  and  all  the  way  back  to  the 
hotel  she  was  congratulating  herself  on  the  step  she  had  taken. 
"In  less  than  a  month,"  she  said  to  Aunt  Medea,  "we  shall  have 
the  child ;  and  it  will  be  a  protection  to  us." 

But  the  following  week  she  realized  the  extent  of  her  im- 
prudence. On  visiting  Chefteux  again,  she  was  received  with 
such  marks  of  respect  that  she  at  once  saw  she  was  known. 
Still,  she  would  have  made  another  attempt  to  deceive  the 
detective,  but  he  checked  her.  "First  of  all,"  he  said,  with  a 
good-humored  smile,  "I  ascertain  the  identity  of  the  persons 
who  honor  me  with  their  confidence.  It  is  a  proof  of  my  ability, 
which  I  give  gratis.  But  madame  need  have  no  fears.  I  am 
discreet  by  nature  and  by  profession.  Many  ladies  of  the  high- 
est rank  are  in  the  position  of  Madame  la  Duchesse." 

So  Chefteux  still  believed  that  the  Duchess  de  Sairmeuse  was 
searching  for  her  own  child.  She  did  not  try  to  convince  him 
to  the  contrary,  for  it  was  better  he  should  believe  this  than 
suspect  the  truth. 

Blanche's  position  was  now  truly  pitiable.  She  found  herself 
entangled  in  a  net,  and  each  movement,  far  from  freeing  her, 
tightened  the  meshes  round  her.  Three  persons  were  ac- 
quainted with  the  secret  which  threatened  her  life  and  honor ; 
and  under  these  circumstances,  how  could  she  hope  to  prevent 
it  from  becoming  more  widely  known  ?  She  was,  moreover,  at 
the  mercy  of  three  unscrupulous  masters;  and  at  a  word,  a 
gesture,  or  a  look  from  them,  her  haughty  spirit  must  bow  in 
meek  subservience.  And  her  time,  moreover,  was  no  longer 
at  her  own  disposal;  for  Martial  had  returned,  and  they  had 
taken  up  their  abode  at  the  Hotel  de  Sairmeuse,  where  the 
young  duchess  was  compelled  to  live  under  the  scrutiny  of 
fifty  servants,  more  or  less  interested  in  watching  her,  in 
criticizing  her  acts,  and  discovering  her  thoughts.  Aunt  Medea, 
it  is  true,  was  of  great  assistance.  Blanche  purchased  a  new 
dress  for  her  whenever  she  bought  one  for  herself,  took  her 
about  with  her  on  all  occasions,  and  the  dependent  relative 
expressed  her  satisfaction  in  the  most  enthusiastic  terms,  de- 


THE    HONOR   OF   THE    NAME  609 

daring  her  willingness  to  do  anything  for  her  benefactress. 
Nor  did  Chefteux  give  Blanche  much  more  annoyance.  Every 
three  months  he  presented  a  memorandum  of  investigation  ex- 
penses, which  usually  amounted  to  some  ten  thousand  francs; 
and  so  long  as  she  paid  him  it  was  plain  he  would  be  silent. 
He  had  given  her  to  understand,  however,  that  he  should  ex- 
pect an  annuity  of  twenty-four  thousand  francs;  and  once, 
when  Blanche  remarked  that  he  must  abandon  the  search  if 
nothing  had  been  discovered  at  the  end  of  two  years :  "Never," 
replied  he ;  "I  shall  continue  the  search  as  long  as  I  live." 

In  addition  to  these  two  there  was  Chupin,  who  proved  a 
constant  terror.  Blanche  had  been  compelled  to  give  him 
twenty  thousand  francs  to  begin  with.  He  declared  that  his 
younger  brother  had  come  to  Paris  in  pursuit  of  him,  accusing 
him  of  having  stolen  their  father's  hoard,  and  demanding  his 
share  with  his  knife  in  his  hand.  There  had  been  a  battle, 
and  it  was  with  his  head  bound  up  in  blood-stained  linen  that 
Chupin  made  his  appearance  before  Blanche.  "Give  me  the 
sum  that  the  old  man  buried,"  said  he,  "and  I  will  allow  my 
brother  to  think  I  stole  it.  It  is  not  very  pleasant  to  be  re- 
garded as  a  thief,  when  one's  an  honest  man,  but  I  will  bear 
it  for  your  sake.  If  you  refuse,  however,  I  shall  be  compelled 
to  tell  him  where  I've  obtained  my  money,  and  how."  Natu- 
rally enough  Blanche  complied  with  this  demand,  for  how 
could  she  do  otherwise? 

If  her  tormentor  possessed  all  his  father's  vices,  depravity, 
and  cold-blooded  perversity,  he  had  certainly  not  inherited  the 
parental  intelligence  or  tact.  Instead  of  taking  the  precautions 
which  his  interests  required,  he  seemed  to  find  a  brutal  pleasure 
in  compromising  the  duchess.  He  was  a  constant  visitor  at  the 
Hotel  de  Sairmeuse.  He  called  at  all  hours,  morning,  noon, 
and  night,  without  in  the  least  troubling  himself  about  Martial. 
And  the  servants  were  amazed  to  see  their  haughty  mistress 
unhesitatingly  leave  everything  to  receive  this  suspicious-look- 
ing character,  who  smelled  so  strongly  of  tobacco  and  alcohol. 
One  evening,  while  a  grand  entertainment  was  progressing  at 
the  Hotel  de  Sairmeuse,  he  made  his  appearance,  half  drunk, 
and  imperiously  ordered  the  servants  to  go  and  tell  Madame 
Blanche  that  he  was  there,  waiting  for  her.  She  hastened  to 
him  in  her  magnificent  evening  dress,  her  face  white  with  ragj 
and  shame  beneath  her  tiara  of  diamonds.  And  when,  in  her 
exasperation,  she  refused  to  give  the  wretch  what  he  demanded : 


610     THE  HONOR  OF  THE  NAME 

"So  that's  to  say  I'm  to  starve  while  you  are  reveling  here !" 
he  exclaimed.  "I  am  not  such  a  fool.  Give  me  some  money  at 
once,  or  I  will  tell  everything  I  know  on  the  spot !"  What 
could  she  do?  She  was  obliged  to  yield,  as  she  had  always 
done  before.  And  yet  he  grew  more  and  more  insatiable  every 
day.  Money  filtered  through  his  fingers  as  fast  as  water  filters 
through  a  sieve.  But  he  did  not  think  of  raising  his  vices  to  the 
height  of  the  fortune  which  he  squandered.  He  did  not  even 
provide  himself  with  decent  clothing,  and  from  his  appearance 
he  might  have  been  supposed  to  be  a  penniless  beggar.  One 
night  he  was  arrested  for  fomenting  a  row  in  a  low  drinking- 
den,  and  the  police,  surprised  at  finding  so  much  gold  in  such 
a  beggarly-looking  rascal's  possession,  accused  him  of  being  a 
thief.  But  he  mentioned  the  name  of  the  Duchesse  de  Sair- 
meuse,  and  on  the  following  morning — Martial  fortunately  was 
in  Vienna  at  the  time — an  inspector  of  police  presented  himself 
at  the  mansion  in  the  Rue  de  Grenelle,  and  Blanche  had  to 
undergo  the  humiliation  of  confessing  that  she  had  given  a 
large  sum  of  money  to  this  man,  whose  family  she  had  known, 
and  who,  she  added,  had  once  rendered  her  an  important 
service. 

Sometimes  her  pertinacious  tormentor  changed  his  tactics. 
For  instance,  he  declared  that  he  disliked  coming  to  the  Hotel 
de  Sairmeuse,  as  the  servants  treated  him  as  if  he  were  a  men- 
dicant ;  so  whenever  he  required  money  he  would  write.  And 
effectively,  every  week  or  so,  there  came  a  letter  bidding 
Blanche  bring  such  a  sum,  to  such  a  place,  and  at  such  an 
hour.  And  the  proud  duchess  was  always  punctual  at  the  ren- 
dezvous. Soon  afterward  the  rascal  met,  heaven  knows  where ! 
a  certain  Aspasie  Clapard,  to  whom  he  took  a  violent  fancy, 
and  although  she  was  much  older  than  himself,  he  wished  to 
marry  her.  It  was  Blanche  who  paid  for  the  wedding  feast. 
Then  Chupin  again  announced  his  desire  of  establishing  him- 
self in  business,  having  resolved,  he  said,  to  live  by  his  own 
exertions.  So  he  purchased  a  wine  merchant's  stock,  which 
the  duchess  paid  for,  and  which  he  drank  in  no  time.  Next,  his 
wife  gave  birth  to  a  child,  and  Madame  de  Sairmeuse  must  pay 
for  the  baptism  as  she  had  paid  for  the  wedding,  only  too 
happy  that  Chupin  did  not  require  her  to  stand  as  godmother 
to  little  Polyte,  which  idea  he  had  at  first  entertained.  On  two 
occasions  Blanche  accompanied  her  husband  to  Vienna  and  to 
London,  where  he  went  on  important  diplomatic  missions.     She 


THE   HONOR   OF   THE    NAME 


611 


remained  abroad  during  three  years,  and  during  all  that  time 
she  received  at  least  one  letter  every  week  from  Chupin.  Ah ! 
many  a  time  she  envied  her  victim's  lot !  What  was  Marie- 
Anne's  death  compared  with  the  life  she  led  !  Her  sufferings 
were  measured  by  years,  Marie-Anne's  by  minutes ;  and  she 
said  to  herself,  again  and  again,  that  the  tortures  of  poison 
could  not  be  so  intolerable  as  was  her  agony. 


IT  may  be  asked  how  it  was  that  Martial  had  failed  to  dis- 
cover  or  to  suspect  this  singular  state  of  affairs;  but  a  mo- 
ment's reflection  will  explain  his  ignorance.  The  head  of  a 
family,  whether  he  dwells  in  an  attic  or  in  a  palace,  is  always 
the  last  to  know  what  is  going  on  in  his  own  home.  He  does 
not  even  suspect  circumstances,  with  which  every  one  else  is 
fully  acquainted ;  and,  in  Martial's  case,  the  life  he  led  was 
scarcely  likely  to  lead  him  to  the  truth ;  for  after  all  he  and 
his  wife  were  virtually  strangers  to  one  another.  His  manner 
toward  her  was  perfect,  full  of  deference  and  chivalrous  cour- 
tesy; but  they  had  nothing  in  common  except  a  name  and  cer- 
tain interests.  Each  lived  his  own  life.  They  met  only  at 
dinner,  or  at  the  entertainments  they  gave — which  were  consid- 
ered the  most  brilliant  of  Parisian  society.  The  duchess  had 
her  own  apartments,  her  private  servants,  carriages,  horses,  and 
table.  At  five-and-twenty.  Martial,  the  last  descendant  of  the 
great  house  of  Sairmeuse — a  man  on  whom  destiny  had  appar- 
ently lavished  every  blessing — who  was  young,  who  possessed 
unbounded  wealth,  and  a  brilliant  intellect,  found  himself  lit- 
erally overburdened  with  ennui.  Marie-Anne's  death  had  de- 
stroyed all  his  hopes  of  happiness ;  and  realizing  the  emptiness 
of  his  life,  he  sought  to  fill  the  void  with  bustle  and  excitement. 
He  threw  himself  headlong  into  politics,  striving  to  find  some 
relief  from  his  despondency  in  the  pleasures  of  power  and 
satisfied  ambition. 

It  is  only  just  to  say  that  Blanche  had  remained  superior  to 
circumstances;  and  that  she  had  played  the  part  of  a  happy, 


612     THE  HONOR  OF  THE  NAME 

contented  woman  with  consummate  skill.  Her  frightful  suf- 
ferings and  anxiety  never  marred  the  haugnty  serenity  of  her 
features.  She  soon  won  a  place  as  one  of  the  queens  of  Paris- 
ian society;  and  plunged  into  dissipation  with  a  sort  of  frenzy. 
Was  she  endeavoring  to  divert  her  mind?  Did  she  hope  to 
overpower  thought  by  excessive  fatigue  ?  To  Aunt  Medea  alone 
did  Blanche  reveal  her  secret  heart.  "I  am  like  a  culprit  who 
has  been  bound  to  the  scaffold,  and  abandoned  there  by  the  exe- 
cutioner to  live,  as  it  were,  till  the  ax  falls  of  its  own  accord." 
And  the  ax  might  fall  at  any  moment.  A  word,  a  trifle,  an 
unlucky  chance — she  dared  not  say  "a  decree  of  Providence," 
and  Martial  would  know  everything.  Such,  in  all  its  unspeak- 
able horror,  was  the  position  of  the  beautiful  and  envied  Du- 
chesse  de  Sairmeuse.  "She  must  be  perfectly  happy,"  said  the 
world ;  but  she  felt  herself  sliding  down  the  precipice  to  the 
awful  depths  below.  Like  a  shipwrecked  mariner  clinging  to 
a  floating  spar,  she  scanned  the  horizon  with  a  despairing  eye, 
and  could  only  see  the  threatening  clouds  that  betokened  the 
coming  tempest.  Once  it  happened  that  six  weeks  went  by 
without  any  news  coming  from  Chupin.  A  month  and  a  half ! 
What  had  become  of  him?  To  Madame  Blanche  this  silence 
was  as  ominous  as  the  calm  that  precedes  the  storm.  A  line  in 
a  newspaper  solved  the  mystery,  however.  Chupin  was  in 
prison.  After  drinking  more  heavily  than  usual  one  evening, 
he  had  quarreled  with  his  brother,  and  killed  him  by  a  blow  on 
the  head  with  an  iron  bar.  Lacheneur's  blood  was  being  visited 
on  his  betrayer's  children.  Chupin  was  tried,  condemned  to 
twenty  years'  hard  labor,  and  sent  to  Brest.  But  this  sentence 
afforded  the  duchess  no  relief.  The  culprit  had  written  to  her 
from  his  Paris  prison ;  and  he  found  the  means  to  write  to  her 
from  Brest.  He  confided  his  letters  to  comrades,  whose  terms 
of  imprisonment  had  expired,  and  who  came  to  the  Hotel  de 
Sairmeuse  demanding  an  interview  with  the  duchess.  And  she 
received  them.  They  told  her  all  the  miseries  they  had  endured 
"out  there";  and  usually  ended  by  requesting  some  slight 
assistance. 

One  morning  a  man  whose  desperate  manner  quite  fright- 
ened her  brought  the  duchess  this  laconic  note:  "I  am  tired  of 
starving  here ;  I  wish  to  make  my  escape.  Come  to  Brest ;  you 
can  visit  the  prison,  and  we  will  decide  on  some  plan.  If  you 
refuse  to  do  this,  I  shall  apply  to  the  duke,  who  will  obtain 
my  pardon  in  exchange  for  what  I  will  tell  him."    Blanche  was 


THE   HONOR   OF   THE    NAME  613 

dumb  with  horror.  It  was  impossible,  she  thought,  to  sink 
lower  than  this. 

"Well !"  said  the  returned  convict,  harshly.  'What  answer 
shall  I  take  to  my  comrade?'' 

"1  will  go — tell  him  I  will  go !"  she  said,  driven  to  despera- 
tion. And  in  fact  she  made  the  journey,  and  visited  the  prison, 
but  without  finding  Chupin.  There  had  been  a  revolt  the  pre- 
vious week,  the  troops  had  fired  on  the  prisoners,  and  Chupin 
had  been  killed.  Still  the  duchess  dared  not  rejoice,  for  she 
feared  that  her  tormentor  had  told  his  wife  the  secret  of  his 
power. 

Indeed  the  widow — the  Aspasie  Clapard  already  mentioned 
— promptly  made  her  appearance  at  the  house  in  the  Rue  de 
Grenelle;  but  her  manner  was  humble  and  supplicating.  She 
had  often  heard  her  dear  dead  husband  say  that  madame  was 
his  benefactress,  and  now  she  came  to  beg  a  little  aid  to  enable 
her  to  open  a  small  wine-shop.  Her  son  Polyte — ah  !  such  a 
good  son!  just  eighteen  years  old,  and  such  a  help  to  his  poor 
mother — had  found  a  little  house  in  a  good  situation  for  busi- 
ness, and  if  they  only  had  three  or  four  hundred  francs — 
Blanche  cut  the  story  short  by  handing  her  supplicant  a  five 
hundred-franc  note.  "Either  that  woman's  humility  is  a  mask," 
thought  the  duchess,  "or  her  husband  has  told  her  nothing." 

Five  days  later  Polyte  Chupin  presented  himself.  They 
needed  three  hundred  francs  more  before  they  could  commence 
business,  he  said,  and  he  came  on  behalf  of  his  mother  to 
entreat  the  kind  lady  to  advance  them  that  amount.  But  being 
determined  to  discover  exactly  how  she  was  situated,  with  re- 
gard to  the  widow,  the  duchess  curtly  refused,  and  the  young 
fellow  went  off  without  a  word.  Evidently  the  mother  and 
son  were  ignorant  of  the  facts.  Chupin's  secret  had  died  with 
him. 

This  happened  early  in  January.  Toward  the  close  of  Feb- 
ruary, Aunt  Medea  contracted  inflammation  of  the  lungs  on 
leaving  a  fancy  ball,  which  she  attended  in  an  absurd  cos- 
tume, in  spite  of  all  the  attempts  which  her  niece  made  to  dis- 
suade her.  Her  passion  for  dress  killed  her.  Her  illness  lasted 
only  three  days ;  but  her  sufferings,  physical  and  mental,  were 
terrible.  Constrained  by  fear  of  death  to  examine  her  own 
conscience,  she  saw  plainly  enough  that  profiting  by  her  niece's 
crime  had  been  as  culpable  as  if  she  had  actually  aided  her  in 
committing  it.     Aunt  Medea  had  been  very  devout  in  former 


614      THE  HONOR  OF  THE  NAME 

years,  and  now  her  superstitious  fears  were  reawakened  and 
intensified.  Her  faith  returned,  followed  by  a  train  of  terrors. 
"I  am  lost,  I  am  lost !"  she  cried,  tossing  to  and  fro  on  her 
bed ;  writhing  and  shrieking  as  if  she  already  saw  hell  opening 
to  engulf  her.  She  called  on  the  Holy  Virgin  and  all  the 
saints  to  protect  her.  She  entreated  Heaven  to  grant  her  time 
for  repentance  and  expiation ;  and  she  even  begged  to  see  a 
priest,  swearing  she  would  make  a  full  confession. 

Paler  than  the  dying  woman,  but  still  implacable,  Blanche 
watched  over  her,  aided  by  one  of  her  maids  in  whom  she  had 
most  confidence.  "If  this  lasts  long,  I  shall  be  ruined,"  she 
thought.  "I  shall  be  obliged  to  call  for  assistance,  and  she  will 
betray  me." 

But  it  did  not  last  long.  The  patient's  delirium  was  followed 
by  such  utter  prostration  that  it  seemed  as  if  each  moment 
would  be  her  last.  But  toward  midnight  she  revived  a  little, 
and  in  a  voice  of  intense  feeling,  she  faltered :  "You  have  had 
no  pity  on  me,  Blanche.  You  have  deprived  me  of  all  hope 
in  the  life  to  come.  Heaven  will  punish  you.  You  will  die 
like  a  dog  yourself,  and  alone  without  a  word  of  Christian  coun- 
sel or  encouragement.  I  curse  you  !"  And  she  expired,  just  as 
the  clock  was  striking  two. 

The  time  when  Blanche  would  have  given  almost  anything 
to  know  that  Aunt  Medea  was  under  the  ground  had  long  since 
passed  away.  Now  the  poor  old  woman's  death  deeply  affected 
her.  She  had  lost  an  accomplice  who  had  often  consoled  her, 
and  she  had  gained  nothing  in  return.  Every  one  who  was  inti- 
mately acquainted  with  the  Duchesse  de  Sairmeuse  noticed  her 
dejection,  and  was  astonished  by  it.  "Is  it  not  strange,"  re- 
marked her  friends,  "that  the  duchess — such  a  very  superior 
woman — should  grieve  so  much  for  that  absurd  relative  of 
hers?"  But  Blanche's  dejection  was  due  in  great  measure  to 
the  sinister  prophecies  faltered  by  her  dying  aunt,  to  whom  for 
self-protection  she  had  denied  the  last  consolations  of  religion. 
And  as  her  mind  reviewed  the  past  she  shuddered  as  the  Sair- 
meuse peasants  had  done,  when  thinking  of  the  fatality  which 
pursued  those  who  had  shed,  or  helped  to  shed,  so  much  inno- 
cent blood.  What  misfortunes  had  overtaken  them  all — from 
Chupin's  sons  to  her  father,  the  Marquis  de  Courtornieu,  in 
whose  mind  not  one  spark  of  reason  had  gleamed  for  ten  long 
years  before  his  death.  The  Baron  and  the  Baroness  d'Escor- 
val  and  old  Corporal  Bavois  had  departed  this  life  within  a 


THE   HONOR   OF   THE   NAME  615 

month  of  each  other  the  previous  year,  mourned  by  every  one, 
so  that  of  all  the  people  of  diverse  condition  who  had  been  con- 
nected with  the  troubles  of  Montaignac,  Blanche  knew  of  only 
four  who  were  still  alive:  Maurice  d'Escorval,  who  having 
studied  the  law,  was  now  an  investigating  magistrate  attached 
to  the  tribunal  of  the  Seine ;  the  Abbe  Midon,  who  had  come 
to  Paris  with  Maurice,  and  Martial  and  herself. 

There  was  another  person  at  the  recollection  of  whom  she 
trembled,  and  whose  name  she  dared  not  utter.  This  was  Jean 
Lacheneur,  Marie-Anne's  brother.  He  had  disappeared,  and 
so  completely  that  it  might  have  been  fancied  he  was  dead,  but 
an  inward  voice,  more  powerful  than  reason,  told  Blanche  that 
this  enemy  was  still  alive,  watching  for  his  hour  of  vengeance. 
More  troubled  by  her  presentiments  now  than  she  had  been  by 
Chupin's  persecutions  in  days  gone  by,  Madame  de  Sairmeuse 
decided  to  apply  to  Chefteux  in  order  to  ascertain,  if  possible, 
what  she  had  to  expect.  Fouche's  former  agent  had  not  wavered 
in  his  devotion  to  the  duchess.  Every  three  months  he  pre- 
sented his  bill,  which  was  paid  without  discussion ;  and  to  ease 
his  conscience,  he  sent  one  of  his  men  two  or  three  times  a 
year  to  prowl  round  Sairmeuse  for  a  while.  Animated  by  the 
hope  of  a  magnificent  reward,  the  spy  promised  his  client,  and 
— what  was  more  to  the  purpose — promised  himself,  that  he 
would  discover  this  dreaded  enemy.  He  started  in  quest  of 
him,  and  had  already  begun  to  collect  proofs  of  Jean's  exist- 
ence, when  his  investigations  abruptly  came  to  a  close.  One 
morning  a  man's  body,  literally  hacked  to  pieces,  was  found 
in  an  old  well  not  far  from  Sairmeuse.  It  was  Chefteux,  who 
had  been  murdered  by  some  one  who  remained  unknown. 
When  Blanche  read  this  news  in  a  local  journal  she  felt  as  a 
culprit  might  feel  on  hearing  his  death-warrant  read.  "The 
end  is  near,"  she  murmured.     "Lacheneur  is  coming." 

The  duchess  was  not  mistaken.  Jean  had  told  the  truth 
when  he  declared  that  he  was  not  disposing  of  his  sister's 
estate  for  his  own  benefit.  In  his  opinion,  Marie-Anne's  for- 
tune must  be  consecrated  to  one  sacred  purpose ;  and  he  would 
not  divert  the  slightest  portion  of  it  to  his  personal  require- 
ments. He  was  absolutely  penniless  when  the  manager  of  a 
traveling  theatrical  company  sojourning  at  Montaignac  engaged 
him  for  a  consideration  of  forty-five  francs  a  month.  From 
that  day  he  lived  the  precarious  life  of  a  strolling  player.  He 
was  poorly  paid,  and  often  reduced  to  abject  poverty  by  lack 

10 — Voi.  li — Gab. 


610     THE  HONOR  OF  THE  NAME 

of  engagements,  or  the  impecuniosity  of  managers.  His  hatred 
had  lost  none  of  its  virulence ;  but  to  wreak  the  vengeance  he 
wished  to  wreak,  he  must  have  time  and  money  at  his  disposal. 
But  how  could  he  accumulate  money  when  he  was  often  too  poor 
even  to  appease  his  hunger?  Still  he  did  not  renounce  his 
hopes.  His  was  a  rancor  which  was  only  intensified  by  years. 
He  was  biding  his  time  while  he  watched  from  the  depths  of 
his  misery  the  brilliant  fortunes  of  the  house  of  Sairmeuse. 
He  had  waited  sixteen  years,  when  one  of  his  friends  procured 
him  an  engagement  in  Russia.  The  engagement  was  nothing; 
but  during  his  stay  at  St.  Petersburg  the  poor  comedian  was 
fortunate  enough  to  obtain  an  interest  in  a  theatrical  enterprise, 
from  which  he  realized  a  clear  profit  of  a  hundred  thousand 
francs  in  less  than  six  years.  "Now,"  said  he,  "I  can  give  up 
this  life,  for  I  have  money  enough  to  begin  the  struggle."  And 
six  weeks  later  he  arrived  at  his  native  village. 

Before  carrying  any  of  his  designs  into  execution,  he  went 
to  Sairmeuse  to  visit  Marie-Anne's  grave,  the  sight  of  which 
he  felt  would  fan  his  smoldering  animosity,  and  give  him  all 
the  determination  he  needed  as  the  cold,  stern  avenger  of  crime. 
This  was  his  only  motive  in  going,  but,  on  the  very  evening 
of  his  arrival  he  learned  through  a  garrulous  old  peasant  woman 
that  ever  since  his  departure — that  is  to  say,  for  a  period  of 
twenty  years — two  parties  had  been  making  persistent  inquiries 
for  a  child  which  had  been  placed  somewhere  in  the  neighbor- 
hood. Jean  knew  that  it  was  Marie-Anne's  child  they  were 
seeking,  and  why  they  had  not  succeeded  in  finding  it.  But 
why  were  there  two  persons  prosecuting  these  investigations? 
One  was  Maurice  d'Escorval,  of  course,  but  who  was  the  other? 
This  information  induced  Jean  to  prolong  his  stay  at  Sair- 
meuse, where  he  tarried  a  whole  month.  By  the  expiration  of 
that  time  he  had  traced  the  inquiries,  which  he  could  not  at 
first  comprehend,  to  one  of  Chefteux's  agents.  Through  the 
latter,  he  reached  Fouche's  former  spy  himself;  and  finally  suc- 
ceeded in  discovering  that  the  second  search  had  been  instituted 
by  no  less  a  person  than  the  Duchesse  de  Sairmeuse.  This  dis- 
covery bewildered  him.  How  could  Blanche  have  known  that 
Marie-Anne  had  given  birth  to  a  child ;  and,  knowing  it,  what 
possible  interest  could  she  have  had  in  finding  this  abandoned 
babe,  now  grown  to  manhood?  These  two  questions  puzzled 
Jean  considerably,  and  he  could  give  them  no  satisfactory  an- 
swer.    "Chupin's  son  could  tell  me  perhaps,"  he  thought,  "but 


THE   HONOR   OF   THE   NAME  617 

to  obtain  information  from  that  quarter,  I  must  pretend  to  be 
reconciled  to  the  sons  of  the  wretch  who  betrayed  my  father." 

However,  the  traitor's  children  had  been  dead  for  several 
years,  and  after  a  long  search,  Jean  only  found  the  Widow 
Chupin,  nee  Aspasie  Clapard,  and  her  son  Polyte.  They  were 
keeping  a  drinking-den  not  far  from  the  Rue  des  Chateau-des- 
Rentiers;  and  their  establishment,  known  as  the  Poivriere,  en- 
joyed anything  but  an  enviable  reputation.  Lacheneur  cau- 
tiously questioned  the  widow  and  her  son.  He  asked  them  if 
they  knew  of  the  crime  at  the  Borderie — if  they  had  heard  that 
grandfather  Chupin  had  committed  murder  and  had  been  assas- 
sinated in  his  turn — if  they  had  ever  been  told  of  an  abandoned 
child,  and  of  searches  prosecuted  to  find  it.  But  neither  of 
these  two  had  ever  been  at  Sairmeuse  in  their  lives,  and  when 
Lacheneur  mentioned  his  name  in  hopes  it  might  recall  some 
recollection,  they  declared  they  had  never  heard  it  before.  Jean 
was  about  to  take  his  departure,  despondently  enough,  when 
Mother  Chupin,  probably  in  the  hope  of  pocketing  a  few  pence, 
began  to  deplore  her  present  misery,  which  was,  she  declared, 
all  the  harder  to  bear  as  she  had  wanted  for  nothing  during  her 
poor  husband's  lifetime,  for  he  had  always  obtained  as  much 
money  as  he  wanted  from  a  lady  of  high  degree,  called  the 
Duchesse  de  Sairmeuse. 

Lacheneur  uttered  such  a  frightful  oath  that  the  old  woman 
and  her  son  started  back  in  astonishment.  He  saw  at  once 
the  close  connection  between  Blanche's  search  for  the  child 
and  her  generosity  to  Chupin.  "It  was  she  who  poisoned 
Marie-Anne,"  he  said  to  himself.  "It  must  have  been  through 
my  sister  herself  that  she  became  aware  of  the  child's  exist- 
ence. She  loaded  the  young  Chupin  with  favors  because  he 
knew  the  crime  she  had  committed — that  crime  in  which  his 
father  had  been  only  an  accomplice." 

He  remembered  Martial's  oath  at  the  murdered  girl's  bed- 
side, and  his  heart  overflowed  with  savage  exultation.  For 
he  could  already  see  his  two  enemies,  the  last  of  the  Sair- 
meuses  and  the  last  of  the  Courtornieus,  consummating  his 
work  of  vengeance  themselves.  However,  after  all,  this  was 
mere  conjecture;  he  must  at  any  price  ascertain  whether  his 
suppositions  were  correct.  Drawing  from  his  pocket  several 
pieces  of  gold,  and,  throwing  them  on  the  table,  he  said:  "I 
am  rich;  if  you  will  obey  me  and  keep  my  secret,  your  fortune 
is  made." 


61S 


THE  HONOR  OF  THE  NAME 


A  shrill  cry  of  delight  from  mother  and  son  outweighed 
any  protestations  of  obedience.  The  Widow  Chupin  knew 
how  to  write,  and  Lacheneur  then  dictated  this  letter  to  her: 
"Madame  la  Duchesse — I  shall  expect  you  at  my  establishment 
to-morrow  between  twelve  and  four  o'clock.  It  is  on  business 
connected  with  the  Borderie.  If  at  five  o'clock  I  have  not 
seen  you,  I  shall  carry  to  the  post  a  letter  for  the  duke." 

"And  if  she  comes,  what  am  I  to  say  to  her?"  asked  the 
astonished   widow. 

"Nothing;  you  will  merely  ask  her  for  money." 

"If  she  comes,  it  is  as  I  have  guessed,"  he  reflected. 

She  came.  Hidden  in  the  loft  of  the  Poivriere,  Jean, 
through  an  opening  in  the  floor,  saw  the  duchess  hand  Mother 
Chupin  a  bank-note.  "Now,  she  is  in  my  power !"  he  thought 
exultantly.  "And  I  will  drag  her  through  sloughs  of  degra- 
dation before  I  deliver  her  up  to  her  husband's  vengeance !" 


A  FEW  lines  of  the  article  consecrated  to  Martial  in  the 
"General  Biography  of  Men  of  the  Time,"  fittingly  epito- 
mize the  history  of  his  public  life.  "Martial  de  Sairmeuse," 
says  the  writer,  "placed  at  the  service  of  his  party  a  highly 
cultivated  intellect,  unusual  penetration,  and  extraordinary 
abilities.  A  leader  at  the  time  when  political  passion  was 
raging  highest,  he  had  the  courage  to  assume  the  sole  re- 
sponsibility of  the  most  unpopular  measures.  But  the  hostility 
he  encountered,  the  danger  in  which  he  placed  the  throne, 
compelled  him  to  retire  from  office,  leaving  behind  him  ani- 
mosities which  will  only  be  extinguished  with  his  life."  In 
thus  summing  up  Martial's  public  career,  his  biographer  omits 
to  say  that  if  the  Due  de  Sairmeuse  was  wrong  in  his  policy 
— and  that  depends  entirely  on  the  point  of  view  from  which 
his  conduct  is  regarded — he  was  doubly  wrong,  since  he  was 
not  possessed  of  that  ardent  conviction  verging  on  fanaticism 
which  makes  men  fools,  heroes,  and  martyrs.  He  was  not 
even  truly   ambitious.     When  those  associated  with  him  wit- 


THE   HONOR   OF   THE   NAME  619 

nessed  his  passionate  struggles  and  unceasing  activity,  they 
thought  him  actuated  by  an  insatiable  thirst  for  power.  But, 
in  reality,  he  cared  little  or  nothing  for  it.  He  considered 
its  burdens  heavy;  its  compensations  slight.  His  pride  was 
too  lofty  to  feel  any  satisfaction  in  applause ;  and  flattery  dis- 
gusted him.  Often,  during  some  brilliant  fete,  his  acquaint- 
ances and  subordinates,  finding  him  thoughtful  and  pre- 
occupied, respectfully  refrained  from  disturbing  him.  "His 
mind  is  occupied  with  momentous  questions,"  they  fancied. 
"Who  can  tell  what  important  decisions  may  result  from  his 
reverie?"  But  in  this  surmise  they  were  mistaken.  And 
indeed,  at  that  very  moment  when  royal  favor  filled  his  rivals' 
hearts  with  envy,  when  occupying  the  highest  position  a 
subject  can  aspire  to,  and  it  seemed  he  could  have  nothing 
left  to  wish  for  in  this  world.  Martial  was  saying  to  himself: 
•'What  an  empty  life !  What  weariness  and  vexation  of  spirit ! 
To  live  for  others — what  a  mockery !" 

He  looked  at  his  wife,  radiant  in  her  beauty,  worshiped 
like  a  queen,  and  sighed.  He  thought  of  her  who  was  dead — 
Marie-Anne — the  only  woman  he  had  ever  loved.  She  was 
never  absent  from  his  mind,  and  after  all  these  years  he  saw 
her  yet,  stretched  cold,  rigid,  lifeless,  on  the  canopied  bed- 
stead, in  that  luxurious  room  at  the  Borderie.  Time,  far  from 
effacing  from  his  heart  the  image  of  the  fair  girl  whose 
beauty  unwittingly  had  wrought  such  wo — had  only  intensified 
youthful  impressions,  endowing  the  lost  idol  with  almost  super- 
human grace  of  person  and  character.  Ah !  if  fate  had  but 
given  him  Marie-Anne  for  his  wife !  Thus  said  Martial, 
again  and  again,  picturing  the  happiness  which  then  would 
have  been  his.  They  would  have  remained  at  Sairmeuse. 
They  would  have  had  children  playing  round  them !  And  he 
would  not  be  condemned  to  this  continual  warfare — to  this 
hollow,  unsatisfying,  restless  life.  The  truly  happy  are  not 
those  who  parade  their  dignities  and  opulence  before  the  eyes 
of  the  multitude.  They  rather  hide  themselves  from  the 
curious  gaze,  and  they  are  right :  for  here  on  earth  happiness 
is  almost  a  crime.  So  thought  Martial:  and  he.  *  the  envied 
statesman,  often  said  to  himself,  with  a  feeling  of  vexation: 
•'To  love,  and  to  be  loved — that  is  everything!  All  else  is 
vanity."' 

He  had  really  tried  to  love  his  wife :  he  had  done  his  best 
to  resuscitate   the  feeling  of  admiration  with  which  she  had 


620     THE  HONOR  OF  THE  NAME 

inspired  him  at  their  first  meeting;  but  he  had  not  succeeded. 
It  seemed  as  if  there  was  between  them  a  wall  of  ice  which 
nothing  could  melt,  and  which  only  grew  and  expanded  as  time 
went  on.  "Why  is  it?"  he  wondered,  again  and  again.  "It 
is  incomprehensible.  There  are  days  when  I  could  swear  she 
loves  me.  Her  character,  formerly  so  irritable,  is  entirely 
changed ;  she  is  gentleness  itself."  But  still  he  could  not 
conquer  his  aversion ;  it  was  stronger  than  his  own  will. 

These  unavailing  regrets,  the  disappointment  and  sorrow  that 
preyed  upon  his  mind,  undoubtedly  aggravated  the  bitterness 
and  severity  of  Martial's  policy.  At  least  he  knew  how  to 
fall  nobly.  He  passed,  even  without  a  change  of  countenance, 
from  all  but  omnipotence  to  a  position  so  compromising  that 
his  very  life  was  endangered.  On  perceiving  his  antechambers, 
formerly  thronged  with  flatterers  and  place-hunters,  now  empty 
and  deserted,  he  laughed — naturally,  sincerely,  without  the  least 
affectation.  "The  ship  is  sinking,"  said  he;  "the  rats  have 
deserted  it."  He  did  not  even  turn  pale  when  the  mob  gathered 
outside  his  house,  hurling  stones  at  his  windows,  and  hooting 
and  cursing  the  fallen  statesman ;  and  when  Otto,  his  faithful 
valet  de  chambre,  entreated  him  to  assume  a  disguise,  and  make 
his  escape  through  the  gardens,  he  quietly  replied :  "By  no 
means !  I  am  simply  odious ;  I  don't  wish  to  become  ridiculous !" 
They  could  not  even  dissuade  him  from  going  to  a  window 
and  looking  down  on  the  rabble  in  the  street  below.  A  singular 
idea  had  just  occurred  to  him.  "If  Jean  Lacheneur  is  still 
alive,"  he  thought,  "how  much  he  would  enjoy  this !  And  if 
he  is  alive,  no  doubt  he  is  there  in  the  foremost  rank,  urging 
on  the  crowd."  And  he  wished  to  see.  But  Jean  Lacheneur 
was  in  Russia  at  that  epoch. 

The  excitement  eventually  subsided ;  and  the  Hotel  de  Sair- 
meuse  was  not  seriously  threatened.  However,  Martial  real- 
ized that  it  would  be  better  for  him  to  go  away  for  a  while, 
and  allow  people  to  forget  him.  He  did  not  ask  the  duchess 
to  accompany  him.  "The  fault  has  been  mine  entirely,"  he 
said  to  her,  "and  it  would  be  most  unjust  to  make  you  suffer 
for  it  by  cbnde»«ing  you  to  exile.  Remain  here;  I  think  it 
will  be  much  better  for  you  to  remain."  She  did  not  offer 
to  go  with  him,  although  she  longed  to  do  so,  but  then  she 
dared  not  leave  Paris.  She  knew  that  she  must  remain  in 
order  to  secure  her  persecutor's  silence.  On  the  two  occa- 
sions  when   she   had  left  Paris  before,   everything  was  near 


THE    HONOR   OF   THE   NAME  621 

being  discovered,  and  yet  then  she  had  had  Aunt  Medea  to 
take  her  place.  Martial  went  away,  accompanied  only  by  his 
servant,  Otto.  In  intelligence,  this  man  was  decidedly  superior 
to  his  position;  he  was  indeed  decently  well-off,  and  he  had  a 
hundred  reasons — one,  by  the  way,  was  a  very  pretty  one — for 
desiring  to  remain  in  Paris;  but  his  master  was  in  trouble, 
and  so  he  did  not  hesitate.  During  four  years  the  Due  de 
Sairmeuse  wandered  through  Europe,  always  chafing  beneath 
the  burden  of  a  life  no  longer  animated  by  interest  or  sus- 
tained by  hope.  He  remained  for  a  time  in  London,  then  he 
went  to  Vienna,  and  afterward  to  Venice.  One  day  he  was 
seized  by  an  irresistible  desire  to  see  Paris  again,  and  he  re- 
turned. It  was  not  a  very  prudent  step,  perhaps,  for  his  bitter- 
est enemies — personal  enemies,  whom  he  had  mortally  offended 
and  persecuted — were  in  power;  but  still  he  did  not  hesitate. 
Besides,  how  could  they  injure  him,  since  he  had  no  favors 
to  ask,  no  cravings  of  ambition  to  satisfy? 

The  exile  which  had  weighed  so  heavily  on  him,  the  lone- 
liness he  had  endured,  had  softened  his  nature  and  inclined  his 
heart  to  tenderness ;  and  he  returned  firmly  resolved  to  over- 
come his  aversion  to  his  wife,  and  seek  a  reconciliation.  "Old 
age  is  coming,"  he  thought.  "If  I  have  not  the  love  of  youth 
by  my  fireside,  I  may  at  least  have  a  friend."  Blanche  was 
astonished  by  his  manner  toward  her  when  he  returned.  She 
almost  believed  she  had  found  again  the  Martial  of  the  old 
days  at  Courtornieu,  but  the  realization  of  the  dream,  so  fondly 
cherished  and  so  long  deferred,  now  proved  only  another  tor- 
ture added  to  all  the  others.  Still,  Martial  was  striving  to 
carry  his  plan  into  execution,  when  one  day  the  following  brief 
note  came  to  him  through  the  post:  "Monsieur  le  Due — If  I 
were  in  your  place,  I  would  watch  my  wife." 

It  was  only  an  anonymous  letter,  and  yet  on  perusing  it 
Martial's  blood  mounted  to  his  forehead.  "Can  she  have  a 
lover?"  he  thought.  Then  reflecting  on  his  own  conduct  toward 
his  wife  since  their  marriage,  he  said  to  himself:  "And  if  she 
has,  what  right  have  I  to  complain?  Did  I  not  tacitly  give 
her  back  her  liberty?"  However,  he  was  greatly  troubled;  and 
yet  he  did  not  once  think  of  playing  the  spy. 

A  few  mornings  afterward,  at  about  eleven  o'clock,  he  was 
returning  from  a  ride  on  horseback,  and  was  not  thirty  paces 
from  the  Hotel  de  Sairmeuse  when  he  suddenly  perceived  a 
lady  hurriedly  emerge  from  the  house.     She  was  very  plainly 


622      THE  HONOR  OF  THE  NAME 

dressed — entirely  in  black — but  her  whole  appearance  recalled 
that  of  the  duchess  in  a  striking  fashion.  "That's  certainly 
my  wife,"  thought  Martial,  "but  why  is  she  dressed  in  that 
fashion?"  Then,  yielding  to  a  sudden  impulse,  he  walked  his 
horse  up  the  Rue  de  Grenelle  behind  the  woman  in  black. 
Blanche  it  was.  She  was  tripping  swiftly  over  the  pavement, 
keeping  her  face  shrouded  by  a  thick  veil,  and  she  never  once 
turned  her  head.  On  reaching  the  Rue  Taranne,  she  spoke 
hurriedly  to  a  cab-driver  on  the  stand,  and  then  sprang  into 
his  vehicle.  The  Jehu  was  already  on  his  box,  and  he  at  once 
gave  his  bony  horse  such  a  vigorous  cut  of  the  whip  that  it 
was  evident  he  had  just  been  promised  a  princely  gratuity. 
The  cab  had  already  turned  into  the  Rue  du  Dragon,  and  Mar- 
tial, ashamed  of  what  he  had  already  done  and  irresolute  as 
to  what  he  should  do  now,  was  still  tarrying  at  the  corner  of 
the  Rue  des  Saint-Peres,  where  he  had  originally  stopped 
his  horse.  Scarcely  daring  to  entertain  the  suspicions  that 
flitted  across  his  mind,  he  tried  to  deceive  himself.  "After 
all,"  he  muttered,  "it  is  of  no  use  advancing.  The  cab's  a 
long  way  off  by  now,  and  I  couldn't  overtake  it."  Still  he 
mechanically  gave  his  horse  the  rein,  and  when  he  reached  the 
Croix  Rouge  he  espied  Blanche's  vehicle  among  a  crowd  of 
others.  He  recognized  it  by  its  green  body  and  wheels  striped 
with  white.  This  decided  him.  The  cab-driver  had  just  man- 
aged to  extricate  himself  from  the  block  which  traffic  so  fre- 
quently causes  hereabout,  and  whipping  up  his  horse  once  more 
turned  literally  at  a  gallop  up  the  Rue  du  Vieux  Colombier — 
leading  into  the  Place  St.  Sulpice.  Thence  he  took  the  short- 
est cut  to  gain  the  outer  boulevards. 

Martial's  thoughts  were  busy  as  he  trotted  along  a  hundred 
yards  or  so  behind  the  vehicle.  "She's  in  a  terrible  hurry,"  he 
said  to  himself.  "But  this  is  scarcely  the  quarter  for  a  lover's 
rendezvous."  The  cab  had  indeed  now  reached  the  squalid 
region  extending  beyond  the  Place  d'ltalie.  It  turned  into  the 
Rue  du  Chateau  des  Rentiers  and  soon  drew  up  before  a  tract 
of  waste  ground.  The  Duchesse  de  Sairmeuse  then  hastily 
alighted,  and,  without  stopping  to  look  to  the  right  or  to  the 
left,  hurried  across  the  open  space.  Martial  had  prudently 
paused  in  the  rear.  Not  far  from  him  he  espied  a  man  sit- 
ting on  a  block  of  stone  and  apparently  immersed  in  the  task 
of  coloring  a  clay  pipe.  "Will  you  hold  my  horse  a  moment?" 
inquired  Martial. 


THE   HONOR   OF   THE   NAME  623 

"Certainly,"  answered  the  man,  rising  to  his  feet.  He  wore 
a  workman's  blouse  and  a  long  beard,  and  his  aspect  altogether 
was  scarcely  prepossessing.  Had  Martial  been  less  preoccu- 
pied, his  suspicions  might  have  been  aroused  by  the  malicious 
smile  that  curved  the  fellow's  lips;  and  had  he  scrutinized  him 
closely,  he  would  perhaps  have  recognized  him.  For  the  seem- 
ing vagrant  was  Jean  Lacheneur.  Since  forwarding  that  anony- 
mous letter  to  the  Due  de  Sairmeuse,  he  had  compelled  the 
duchess  to  multiply  her  visits  to  the  Widow  Chupin's  den,  and 
on  each  occasion  he  had  watched  for  her  arrival.  "So,  if  her 
husband  decides  to  follow  her  I  shall  know  it,"  he  thought. 
It  was  indispensable  for  the  success  of  his  plans  that  Blanche* 
should  be  watched  by  her  husband.  For  from  among  a  thou- 
sand schemes  of  revenge,  Jean  had  chosen  the  most  frightful 
his  fevered  brain  could  conceive.  He  longed  to  see  the  haughty 
Duchesse  de  Sairmeuse  subjected  to  the  vilest  ignominy,  and 
Martial  in  the  hands  of  the  lowest  of  the  low.  He  pic- 
tured a  bloody  struggle  in  this  miserable  den ;  the  sudden 
arrival  of  the  police,  summoned  by  himself,  and  the  indis- 
criminate arrest  of  all  the  parties  present.  He  gloated  over 
the  thought  of  a  trial  in  which  the  crime  committed  at  the 
Borderie  would  be  brought  to  light;  he  saw  the  duke  and  the 
duchess  in  prison,  and  the  great  names  of  Sairmeuse  and  Cour- 
tornieu  shrouded  in  eternal  disgrace.  And  he  believed  that 
nothing  was  wanting  to  insure  the  success  of  his  plans.  He 
had  two  miserable  wretches  who  were  capable  of  any  crime 
at  his  disposal ;  and  an  unfortunate  youth  named  Gustave,  whom 
poverty  and  cowardice  had  made  his  willing  slave,  was  in- 
tended to  play  the  part  of  Marie-Anne's  son.  These  three 
accomplices  had  no  suspicions  of  Lacheneur's  real  intentions, 
while,  as  for  the  Widow  Chupin  and  her  son,  if  they  suspected 
some  infamous  plot,  all  they  really  knew  in  regard  to  it  was 
the  duchess's  name.  Moreover,  Jean  held  Polyte  and  his  mother 
completely  under  his  control  by  the  wealth  he  had  promised 
them  if  they  served  him  faithfully.  If  Martial  decided  to  fol- 
low his  wife  into  the  Poivriere  the  first  time  he  watched  her, 
Jean  had,  moreover,  so  arranged  matters  that  the  duke  would 
at  first  suppose  that  Blanche  had  been  led  there  by  charity. 
"But  he  will  not  go  in,"  thought  the  seeming  vagrant,  as,  hold- 
ing Martial's  horse  some  little  distance  off,  he  looked  in  the 
direction  of  the  hovel.     "Monsieur  le  Due  it  too  cunning  for  that." 

And  Martial  did  not  go  in.    Though  he  was  horrified  when 


624      THE  HONOR  OF  THE  NAME 

he  saw  his  wife  enter  so  vile  a  den,  as  if  she  were  at  home 
there,  he  said  to  himself  that  he  should  learn  nothing  by  fol- 
lowing her.  He,  therefore,  contented  himself  by  making  a 
thorough  examination  of  the  hovel  from  outside,  and  then  re- 
mounting his  horse,  and  throwing  Lacheneur  a  silver  coin,  he 
started  back  home  at  a  gallop.  He  was  completely  mystified: 
he  did  not  know  what  to  think,  what  to  imagine,  what  to  be- 
lieve. But,  at  the  same  time,  he  was  fully  resolved  to  fathom 
the  mystery;  and  as  soon  as  he  returned  home  he  sent  Otto 
out  in  search  of  information.  He  could  confide  everything  to 
this  devoted  servant  from  whom  he  had  no  secrets.  At  four 
o'clock  in  the  afternoon  the  faithful  valet  de  chambre  returned 
with  an  expression  of  consternation  on  his  face.  "What  is  it?" 
asked  Martial,  divining  some  great  misfortune. 

"Ah,  sir,  the  mistress  of  that  wretched  den  is  the  widow  of 
Chupin's  son — " 

Martial's  face  turned  ghastly  pale.  He  knew  life  well  enough 
to  understand  that  since  the  duchess  had  been  compelled  to 
submit  to  these  people's  power,  they  must  be  masters  of  some 
secret  which  she  was  anxious  at  any  price  to  keep  unrevealed. 
But  what  secret  could  it  be?  The  years  which  had  furrowed 
Martial's  brow  had  not  cooled  the  ardor  of  his  blood.  He  was, 
as  he  had  always  been,  a  man  of  impulse,  and  so,  without  paus- 
ing, he  rushed  to  his  wife's  apartments. 

"Madame  has  just  gone  downstairs  to  receive  the  Comtesse 
de  Mussidan  and  the  Marquise  d'Arlange,"  said  the  maid  whom 
he  met  on  the  landing. 

"Very  well ;  I  will  wait  for  her  here.     You  may  retire." 

So  saying.  Martial  entered  Blanche's  dressing-room.  It  was 
in  disorder,  for,  after  returning  from  the  Poivriere,  the  duchess 
was  still  engaged  at  her  toilet  when  visitors  were  announced. 
The  wardrobe  doors  stood  open,  two  or  three  chairs  were  en- 
cumbered with  wearing  apparel,  and  Blanche's  watch,  her  purse, 
and  several  bunches  of  keys  were  lying  on  the  dressing  table 
and  the  mantelpiece.  Martial  did  not  sit  down.  His  self-pos- 
session was  returning.  "I  will  commit  no  -  act  of  folly,"  he 
thought;  "if  I  question  her,  I  shall  learn  nothing.  I  must  be 
silent  and  watchful." 

He  was  about  to  retire,  when,  on  glancing  round  the  room, 
he  noticed  a  large  casket,  inlaid  with  silver,  which  had  belonged 
to  his  wife  ever  since  she  was  a  girl,  and  which  accompanied 
her  everywhere.     "That,  no  doubt,  contains  the  solution  of  the 


THE   HONOR   OF   THE    NAME  625 

mystery,"  he  said  to  himself.  This  was  one  of  those  moments 
when  a  man  obeys  the  dictates  of  passion  without  pausing  to 
reflect.  Seeing  the  keys  on  the  mantelpiece,  he  seized  them, 
and  endeavored  to  find  one  that  would  fit  the  lock  of  the  casket. 
The  fourth  key  opened  it.  It  was  full  of  papers.  With  feverish 
haste,  Martial  examined  their  contents.  He  had  thrown  aside 
several  unimportant  letters,  when  he  came  to  a  bill  that  read 
as  follows :  "Search  made  for  Madame  de  Sairmeuse's  child. 
Expenses  for  the  third  quarter  of  the  year  18 — ."  Martial's 
brain  reeled.     A  child !     His  wife  had  a  child  !     But  he  read 

on :  "For  the  services  of  two  agents  at  Sairmeuse,  .     For 

expenses  attending  my  own  journey.  .     Divers  gratuities. 

.     Etc.,  etc."    The  total  amounted  to  six  thousand  francs ; 

and  it  was  receipted  "Chefteux."  With  a  sort  of  cold  rage. 
Martial  continued  his  examination  of  the  casket's  contents,  and 
found  a  miserably  written  note,  which  said :  "Two  thousand 
francs  this  evening,  or  I  will  tell  the  duke  the  history  of  the 
affair  at  the  Borderie."  Then  there  were  several  more  of 
Chefteux's  bills;  next,  a  letter  from  Aunt  Medea,  in  which  she 
spoke  of  prison  and  remorse ;  and,  finally,  at  the  bottom  of  the 
casket,  he  found  the  marriage  certificate  of  Marie-Anne  Lache- 
neur  and  Maurice  d'Escorval,  drawn  up  by  the  cure  of  Vigano 
and  signed  by  the  old  physician  and  Corporal  Bavois. 

The  truth  was  as  clear  as  daylight.  Stunned,  frozen  with 
horror,  Martial  scarcely  had  strength  enough  to  place  the  let- 
ters in  the  casket  again  and  restore  it  to  its  place.  Then  he 
tottered  back  to  his  own  room,  clinging  to  the  walls  for  sup- 
port. "It  was  she  who  murdered  Marie-Anne,"  he  murmured. 
He  was  confounded,  terror-stricken,  by  the  perfidy  of  this 
woman  who  was  his  wife — by  her  criminal  audacity,  cool 
calculation  and  assurance,  and  her  marvelous  powers  of 
dissimulation. 

Still  he  swore  he  would  discover  everything,  either  through 
the  duchess  or  through  the  Widow  Chupin ;  and  he  ordered 
Otto  to  procure  him  a  costume  such  as  was  generally  worn 
by  the  frequenters  of  the  Poivriere.  He  did  not  know  how 
soon  he  might  have  need  of  it.  This  happened  early  in  Feb- 
ruary, and  from  that  moment  Blanche  did  not  take  a  single 
step  without  being  watched.  Not  a  letter  reached  her  that  her 
husband  had  not  previously  read.  And  she  had  not  the  slight- 
est suspicion  of  the  constant  supervision  to  which  she  was  sub- 
jected.    Martial  did  not  leave  his  room;  he  pretended  to  be  ill. 


626     THE  HONOR  OF  THE  NAME 

He  felt  he  could  not  meet  his  wife  and  remain  silent.  He  re- 
membered the  oath  of  vengeance  which  lie  had  sworn  over 
Marie-Anne's  lifeless  form  only  too  well.  However,  the  watch 
which  Otto  kept  over  the  duchess,  and  the  perusal  of  the  let- 
ters addressed  to  her,  did  not  yield  any  fresh  information,  and 
for  this  reason :  Polyte  Chupin  had  been  arrested  on  a  charge  of 
theft,  and  this  accident  caused  a  delay  in  the  execution  of 
Lacheneur's  plans. 

But  at  last  the  latter  prepared  everything  for  Shrove  Sunday, 
the  20th  of  February.  On  the  previous  day,  in  accordance  with 
her  instructions,  the  Widow  Chupin  wrote  to  the  duchess  that 
she  must  come  to  the  Poivriere  on  Sunday  night  at  eleven 
o'clock.  On  that  same  evening  Jean  was  to  meet  his  accom- 
plices at  a  ball  at  the  Rainbow — a  wine-shop  bearing  a  very 
unenviable  reputation — and  give  them  their  final  instructions. 
These  accomplices  were  to  open  the  scene ;  he  was  only  to 
appear  at  the  denouement.  "All  is  well  arranged;  the  mech- 
anism will  work  of  its  own  accord,"  he  said  to  himself.  But,  as 
is  already  known,  the  "mechanism,"  as  he  styled  it,  failed  to  act. 

On  receiving  the  Widow  Chupin's  summons,  Blanche  revolted 
for  a  moment.  The  lateness  of  the  hour,  the  distance,  the  iso- 
lation of  the  appointed  meeting-place,  frightened  her.  Still, 
she  was  obliged  to  submit,  and  on  Sunday  evening  she  fur- 
tively left  the  house,  accompanied  by  Camille,  the  same  maid 
who  had  been  present  when  Aunt  Medea  died.  The  duchess 
and  Camille  were  attired  like  women  of  the  lowest  order,  and 
felt  no  fear  of  being  recognized.  And  yet  a  man  was  watch- 
ing who  quickly  followed  them.  This  was  Martial.  He  had 
perused  the  note  appointing  this  rendezvous  even  before  his 
wife,  and  had  disguised  himself  in  the  costume  Otto  had  pro- 
cured for  him — that  of  a  laborer  about  the  quays.  Then,  in 
hope  of  making  himself  absolutely  unrecognizable,  he  had  soiled 
and  matted  his  hair  and  beard ;  his  hands  were  grimed  with  dirt ; 
and  he  really  seemed  to  belong  to  the  class  of  which  he  wore 
the  attire.  Otto  had  begged  to  be  allowed  to  accompany  his 
master;  but  the  duke  refused,  remarking  that  his  revolver  would 
prove  quite  sufficient  protection.  He  knew  Otto  well  enough, 
however,  to  feel  certain  he  would  disobey  him. 

Ten  o'clock  was  striking  when  Blanche  and  Camille  left  the 
house,  and  it  did  not  take  them  five  minutes  to  reach  the  Rue 
Taranne.  There  was  only  one  cab  on  the  stand,  which  they 
at  once  hired.     This  circumstance  drew  from  Martial  an  oath 


THE   HONOR   OF   THE    NAME  627 

worthy  of  his  costume.  But  he  reflected  that,  since  he  knew 
where  to  find  his  wife,  a  slight  delay  in  obtaining  a  vehicle 
would  not  matter.  He  soon  found  one,  and,  thanks  to  a  gra- 
tuity of  ten  francs,  the  driver  started  off  to  the  Rue  du  Cha- 
teau-des-Rentiers  as  fast  as  his  horse  could  go.  However,  the 
duke  had  scarcely  alighted  before  he  heard  the  rumbling  of 
another  vehicle,  which  pulled  up  abruptly  a  little  distance  be- 
hind. "Otto  is  evidently  following  me,"  he  thought.  And  he 
then  started  across  the  open,  space  in  the  direction  of  the 
Poivriere.  The  prevailing  silence  and  absence  of  life  were 
rendered  still  more  oppressive  by  a  chill  fog  which  heralded 
an  approaching  thaw.  Martial  stumbled  and  slipped  at  almost 
every  step  he  took  over  the  rough,  snow-covered  ground ;  but 
at  last  through  the  mist  he  distinguished  a  building  in  the  dis- 
tance. This  was  the  Poivriere.  The  light  burning  inside  fil- 
tered through  the  heart-shaped  apertures  cut  in  the  upper  part 
of  the  shutters,  and  it  almost  seemed  as  if  a  pair  of  lurid  eyes 
were  striving  to  peer  through  the  fog. 

Could  it  really  be  possible  that  the  Duchesse  de  Sairmeuse 
was  there !  Martial  cautiously  approached  the  window,  and, 
clinging  to  the  hinges  of  the  shutters,  raised  himself  up  so 
that  he  could  glance  through  one  of  the  apertures.  Yes,  there 
was  no  mistake.  His  wife  and  Camille  were  seated  at  a  table 
before  a  large  punch-bowl,  in  the  company  of  two  ragged,  leer- 
ing scoundrels,  and  a  soldier  of  youthful  appearance.  In  the 
centre  of  the  room  stood  the  Widow  Chupin,  with  a  small  glass 
in  her  hand.  She  was  talking  with  great  volubility,  and  punc- 
tuating her  sentences  with  occasional  sips  of  brandy.  The  im- 
pression this  scene  produced  on  Martial  was  so  acute  that  his 
hold  relaxed  and  he  dropped  to  the  ground.  A  ray  of  pity 
stole  into  his  soul,  for  he  vaguely  realized  the  frightful  suffer- 
ing which  had  been  the  murderess's  chastisement.  But  he 
wished  for  another  glance,  and  so  once  more  he  lifted  himself 
up  to  the  opening  and  looked  in.  The  old  woman  had  dis- 
appeared; the  young  soldier  had  risen  from  the  table,  and  was 
talking  and  gesticulating  earnestly.  Blanche  and  Camille  were 
listening  to  him  with  the  closest  attention.  The  two  men 
who  were  sitting  face  to  face,  with  their  elbows  on  the  table, 
were  looking  at  each  other;  and  Martial  saw  them  exchange 
a  significant  glance.  He  was  not  wrong.  The  scoundrels  were 
plotting  "a  rich  haul."  Blanche,  who  had  dressed  herself  with 
much  care,  and  to  render  her  disguise  perfect  had  encased  her 


628     THE  HONOR  OF  THE  NAME 

feet  in  large,  coarse  shoes,  that  were  causing  her  well-nigh 
intolerable  agony — Blanche  had  neglected  to  remove  her  superb 
diamond  earrings.  She  had  forgotten  them,  but  Lacheneur's 
accomplices  had  noticed  them,  and  were  now  glancing  at  them 
with  eyes  that  glittered  more  brilliantly  than  the  diamonds 
themselves.  While  awaiting  Lacheneur's  coming,  these  wretches, 
as  had  been  agreed  upon,  were  playing  the  part  which  he  had 
imposed  upon  them.  For  this  and  their  assistance  afterward 
they  were  to  receive  a  certain  sum  of  money.  But  they  were 
thinking  that  this  sum  did  not  represent  a  quarter  of  the  value 
of  these  jewels,  and  their  looks  only  too  plainly  said:  "What 
if  we  could  secure  them  and  go  off  before  Lacheneur  comes !" 
The  temptation  was  too  strong  to  be  resisted.  One  of  the 
scoundrels  suddenly  rose,  and  seizing  the  duchess  by  the  back 
of  the  neck,  forced  her  head  down  on  the  table.  The  dia- 
monds would  have  been  at  once  torn  from  her  ears  if  it  had 
not  been  for  Camille,  who  bravely  came  to  her  mistress's  assist- 
ance. Martial  could  endure  no  more.  He  sprang  to  the  door 
of  the  hovel,  opened  it,  and  entered,  bolting  it  behind  him. 

"Martial !"  "Monsieur  le  Due !"  cried  Blanche  and  Camille 
in  the  same  breath,  for,  despite  his  disguise,  they  had  both 
recognized  him.  Their  exclamations  turned  the  momentary 
stupor  of  their  assailants  into  fury;  and  both  ruffians  pre- 
cipitated themselves  on  Martial,  determined  to  kill  him.  But, 
springing  to  one  side,  the  duke  avoided  them.  He  had  his 
revolver  in  his  hand ;  he  fired"  twice,  and  both  the  scoundrels 
fell.  However,  he  was  not  yet  safe,  for  the  young  soldier 
rushed  forward  and  attempted  to  disarm  him.  Then  began  a 
furious  struggle,  in  the  midst  of  which  Martial  did  not  leave 
off  crying,  in  a  panting  voice,  "Fly !  Blanche,  fly !  Otto  is 
not  far  off.    The  name — save  the  honor  of  the  name !" 

The  two  women  obeyed  him,  making  their  escape  through 
the  back  door,  which  opened  into  the  garden;  and  they  had 
scarcely  done  so  before  a  violent  knocking  was  heard  at  the 
front  entry.  The  police  were  coming!  This  increased  Mar- 
tial's frenzy;  and  in  a  supreme  effort  to  free  himself  from 
his  assailant,  he  hurled  him  backward  so  violently  that,  strik- 
ing his  head  against  a  corner  of  the  table,  the  young  soldier 
fell  on  to  the  floor,  and  lay  there  to  all  appearance  dead.  In 
the  mean  while,  the  Widow  Chupin,  who  had  hastened  from 
the  room  above  on  hearing  the  uproar,  was  shrieking  on  the 
staircase,  while  at  the  front  door  a  voice  was  crying:  "Open 


THE   HONOR   OF   THE    NAME 


629 


in  the  name  of  the  law!"  Martial  might  have  fled;  but  if  he 
fled  the  duchess  might  be  captured,  for  he  would  certainly  be 
pursued.  He  saw  the  peril  at  a  glance,  and  determined  to 
remain.  Shaking  the  Widow  Chupin  by  the  arm,  he  said  to 
her  in  an  imperious  voice:  "If  you  know  how  to  hold  your 
tongue  you  shall  have  a  hundred  thousand  francs."  Then, 
drawing  a  table  before  the  door  opening  into  the  back  room, 
he  intrenched  himself  behind  it  as  a  rampart,  and  awaited  the 
enemy's  approach. 

The  next  moment  the  door  was  forced  open,  and  a  squad  of 
police  agents,  headed  by  Inspector  Gevrol,  entered  the  room. 
"Surrender!"  cried  the  inspector. 

Martial  did  not  move;  his  revolver  was  turned  toward  the 
intruders.  "If  I  can  parley  with  them  and  hold  them  in  check 
only  two  minutes,  all  may  yet  be  saved,"  he  thought.  He 
obtained  the  required  delay ;  then  throwing  his  weapon  to  the 
ground,  he  was  about  to  bound  through  the  back  door  when 
a  police  agent,  who  had  gone  round  to  the  rear  of  the  house, 
seized  him  about  the  body  and  threw  him  to  the  floor.  From 
this  side  he  expected  only  assistance,  hence  he  exclaimed: 
"Lost !     It  is  the   Prussians  who  are  coming !" 

In  the  twinkling  of  an  eye  he  was  bound ;  and  two  hours 
later  he  was  an  inmate  of  the  station-house  at  the  Place  d'ltalie. 
He  had  played  his  part  so  perfectly  that  he  had  deceived  even 
Gevrol.  His  assailants  were  dead,  and  he  could  rely  upon  the 
Widow  Chupin.  But  he  knew  that  the  trap  had  been  set  for 
him  by  Jean  Lacheneur;  and  he  read  a  whole  volume  of  sus- 
picion in  the  eyes  of  the  young  officer  who  had  cut  off  his 
retreat,  and  who  was  called  Lecoq  by  his  companions. 


'  I  'HE  Due  de  Sairmeuse  was  one  of  those  men  who  remain 
*  superior  to  circumstances.  He  was  possessed  of  vast  ex- 
perience and  great  natural  shrewdness.  His  mind  was  quick 
to  act  and  fertile  in  resources.  But  when  he  found  himself 
immured  in  the  damp  and  loathsome  station-house  at  the  Place 


630     THE  HONOR  OF  THE  NAME 

d'ltalie,  after  the  terrible  scene  we  have  just  recalled,  he  felt 
inclined  to  relinquish  all  hope.  He  knew  that  justice  does  not 
trust  to  appearances,  and  that  when  an  investigating  magistrate 
finds  himself  in  the  presence  of  a  mystery,  he  does  not  rest  until 
he  has  fathomed  it.  He  knew  only  too  well,  moreover,  that  if 
his  identity  were  established  the  authorities  would  endeavor  to 
discover  the  reason  that  had  led  him  to  the  Poivriere ;  now  he 
could  scarcely  doubt  but  what  this  reason  would  soon  be  dis- 
covered, and  in  that  case  the  crime  at  the  Borderie,  and  the 
duchess's  guilt,  would  undoubtedly  be  made  public.  This  meant 
the  Assize  Court  for  the  woman  who  bore  his  name — imprison- 
ment, perhaps  execution ;  at  all  events,  a  frightful  scandal,  dis- 
honor, eternal  disgrace !  And  the  power  he  had  wielded  in 
former  days  was  a  positive  disadvantage  to  him  now,  when  his 
past  position  was  filled  by  his  political  adversaries.  Among 
them  were  two  personal  enemies,  whose  vanity  he  once  had 
wounded,  and  who  had  never  forgiven  him.  They  would  cer- 
tainly not  neglect  the  present  opportunity  for  revenge.  At  the 
thought  of  such  an  ineffaceable  stain  on  the  great  name  of 
Sairmeuse,  which  was  his  pride  and  glory,  reason  almost  for- 
sook him.  "My  God,  inspire  me,"  he  murmured.  "How  shall 
I  save  the  honor  of  the  name?" 

He  saw  but  one  chance  of  salvation — death.  They  now  be- 
lieved him  to  be  one  of  the  miserable  loafers  who  haunt  the 
suburbs  of  Paris ;  if  he  were  dead  they  would  not  trouble  them- 
selves about  his  identity.  "It  is  the  only  way!"  he  thought,  and 
he  was  indeed  endeavoring  to  find  some  means  of  committing 
suicide  when  suddenly  he  heard  a  bustle  outside  his  cell.  A 
few  moments  afterward  the  door  was  opened  and  a  man  was 
thrust  in — a  man  who  staggered  a  few  steps,  fell  heavily  on 
to  the  floor,  and  then  began  to  snore.  The  new  arrival  was 
apparently  only  some  vulgar  drunkard. 

A  minute  or  so  elapsed,  and  then  a  vague,  strange  hope 
touched  Martial's  heart — no,  he  must  be  mistaken — and  yet — 
yes,  certainly  this  drunkard  was  Otto — Otto  in  disguise,  and 
almost  unrecognizable !  It  was  a  bold  ruse  and  no  time  must  be 
lost  in  profiting  by  it.  Martial  stretched  himself  on  a  bench,  as  if 
to  sleep,  and  in  such  a  way  that  his  head  was  close  to  Otto's. 
"The  duchess  is  out  of  danger,"  murmured  the  faithful  servant. 

"For  to-day,  perhaps.  But  to-morrow,  through  me,  every- 
thing will  be  discovered." 

"Have  you  told  them  who  you  are?" 


THE   HONOR   OF   THE   NAME  631 

"No;  all  the  police  agents  but  one  took  me  for  a  vagabond." 

"You  must  continue  to  personate  that  character." 

"What  good  will  it  do?  Jean  Lacheneur  will  betray  me." 
But  Martial,  though  he  little  knew  it,  had  no  need  to  fear 
Lacheneur  for  the  present,  at  least.  A  few  hours  previously, 
on  his  way  in  the  dark  from  the  Rainbow  to  the  Poivriere, 
Jean  had  fallen  to  the  bottom  of  a  stone  quarry,  and  fractured 
his  skull.  The  laborers,  on  returning  to  their  work  early  in  the 
morning,  found  him  lying  there  senseless ;  and  that  very  mo- 
ment they  were  carrying  him  to  the  hospital. 

Although  Otto  also  was  ignorant  of  this  circumstance,  he 
did  not  seem  discouraged.  "There  will  be  some  way  of  getting 
rid  of  Lacheneur,"  said  he,  "if  you  will  only  sustain  your  pres- 
ent character.  An  escape  is  an  easy  matter  when  a  man  has 
millions  at  his  command." 

"Thev  will  ask  me  who  I  am,  where  I've  come  from,  and  how 
I've  lived." 

"You  speak  English  and  German,  don't  you?  Tell  them  that 
you  have  just  returned  from  foreign  parts;  that  you  were  a 
foundling,  and  that  you  have  always  lived  a  roving  life." 

"How  can  I  prove  that?" 

Otto  drew  a  little  nearer  his  master,  and  said,  impressively: 
"We  must  agree  on  our  plans,  for  success  depends  on  a  perfect 
understanding  between  us.  I  have  a  sweetheart  in  Paris — and 
no  one  knows  of  our  connection.  She  is  as  sharp  as  steel.  Her 
name  is  Milner,  and  she  keeps  the  Hotel  de  Mariembourg,  in 
the  Rue  Saint-Quentin.  You  can  say  that  you  arrived  here 
from  Leipsic  on  Sunday;  that  you  went  to  that  hotel,  that  you 
left  your  trunk  there,  and  that  it  has  a  card  nailed  to  the  top 
with  your  name — say  May,  foreign  artist." 

"Capital !"  said  Martial,  approvingly.  And  then,  with  ex- 
traordinary quickness  and  precision,  they  agreed,  point  by  point, 
on  their  plan  of  defense.  When  everything  had  been  arranged, 
Otto  pretended  to  awake  from  the  heavy  sleep  of  intoxication; 
he  clamored  to  be  released,  and  the  keeper  finally  opened  the 
door  and  set  him  at  liberty.  Before  leaving  the  station-house, 
however,  he  succeeded  in  throwing  a  note  to  the  Widow  Chu- 
pin,  who  was  imprisoned  in  the  opposite  cell.  So,  when  Lecoq, 
after  his  skilful  investigations  at  the  Poivriere,  rushed  to  the 
Place  d'ltalie,  panting  with  hope  and  ambition,  he  found  him- 
self outwitted  by  these  men,  who  were  inferior  to  him  in  pene- 
tration, but  whose  tact  was  superior  to  his  own. 


632      THE  HONOR  OF  THE  NAME 

Martial's  plans  being  fully  formed,  he  intended  to  carry  them 
out  with  absolute  perfection  of  detail,  and,  after  his  removal  to 
the  Depot,  he  was  preparing  himself  for  the  investigating 
magistrate's  visit,  when  Maurice  d'Escorval  entered  his  cell. 
They  recognized  each  other.  They  were  both  terribly  agitated, 
and  the  examination  was  an  examination  only  in  name.  After 
Maurice's  departure  Martial  attempted  to  destroy  himself;  for 
he  had  no  faith  in  his  former  enemy's  generosity.  But  when 
he  found  M.  Segmuller  occupying  Maurice's  place  the  next 
morning,  he  really  believed  that  he  was  saved. 

Then  began  that  struggle  between  the  magistrate  and  Lecoq 
on  one  side,  and  the  prisoner  on  the  other — a  struggle  in  which 
neither  conquered.  Martial  knew  that  Lecoq  was  the  only  per- 
son he  had  to  fear,  still  he  bore  him  no  ill-will.  Faithful  to 
his  nature,  which  compelled  him  to  be  just  even  to  his  ene- 
mies, he  could  not  help  admiring  the  astonishing  penetration 
and  perseverance  of  this  young  police  agent,  who,  undismayed 
by  the  obstacles  surrounding  him,  struggled  on,  unassisted,  to 
reach  the  truth.  But  Lecoq  was  always  outwitted  by  Otto,  the 
mysterious  accomplice,  who  seemed  to  know  his  every  move- 
ment in  advance.  At  the  Morgue,  at  the  Hotel  de  Mariem- 
bourg,  with  Toinon,  the  wife  of  Polyte  Chupin,  as  well  as  with 
Polyte  himself,  Lecoq  was  always  just  a  little  too  late.  He 
detected  the  secret  correspondence  between  the  prisoner  and 
his  accomplice,  and  he  was  even  ingenious  enough  to  discover 
the  key  to  it,  but  this  served  no  purpose.  A  man,  who  had  seen 
a  rival,  or  rather  a  future  master,  in  Lecoq — in  short,  Gevrol 
— had  betrayed  him.  If  his  efforts  to  arrive  at  the  truth  through 
the  jeweler  and  the  Marquise  d'Arlange  had  failed,  it  was 
only  because  Blanche  had  not  purchased  the  diamond  earrings 
she  wore  at  the  Poivriere  at  any  shop,  but  from  one  of  her 
friends,  the  Baroness  de  Watchau.  And  finally,  if  no  one  in 
Paris  had  missed  the  Due  de  Sairmeuse,  it  was  because — thanks 
to  an  understanding  between  the  duchess,  Otto,  and  Camille — 
no  other  inmates  of  the  Hotel  de  Sairmeuse  suspected  his  ab- 
sence. All  the  servants  supposed  that  the  duke  was  confined 
to  his  room  by  illness.  His  breakfast  and  dinner  were  taken 
up  to  his  private  apartments  every  day;  and  soups  and  tisanes 
were  prepared  ostensibly  for  his  benefit. 

So  the  weeks  went  by,  and  Martial  was  expecting  to  be  sum- 
moned before  the  Assize  Court  and  condemned  under  the  name 
of  May,  when  he  was  afforded  an  opportunity  to  escape.    Too 


THE   HONOR   OF   THE    NAME 


633 


shrewd  not  to  discern  the  trap  that  had  been  set  for  him,  it 
was  only  after  horrible  hesitation  that  he  decided  to  alight  from 
the  prison-van,  determined  to  run  the  risk,  and  commending 
himself  for  protection  to  his  lucky  star.  And  he  decided 
wisely,  for  that  same  night  he  leaped  over  his  own  garden  wall, 
leaving  an  escaped  convict,  Joseph  Couturier  by  name,  whom 
he  had  picked  up  in  a  low  eating-house,  as  a  hostage  in  Lecoq's 
hands.  Warned  by  Madame  Milner,  thanks  to  a  blunder  which 
Lecoq  committed,  Otto  was  waiting  for  his  master.  In  the 
twinkling  of  an  eye  Martial's  beard  fell  under  the  razor;  he 
plunged  into  the  bath  which  was  already  prepared,  and  his 
clothes  were  burned.  And  he  it  was  who,  during  the  search 
a  few  minutes  later,  had  the  hardihood  to  call  out:  "Otto,  by 
all  means  allow  these  men  to  do  their  duty."  But  he  did  not 
breathe  freely  until  the  police  agents  had  departed.  "At  last," 
he  exclaimed,  "honor  is  saved !     We  have  outwitted  Lecoq !" 

He  had  just  left  his  bath,  and  assumed  a  dressing-gown, 
when  Otto  handed  him  a  letter  from  the  duchess.  He  hastily 
opened  the  envelope  and  read :  "You  are  safe.  You  know 
everything.     I  am  dying.     Farewell.     I  loved  you." 

With  two  bounds  he  reached  his  wife's  apartments.  The 
outer  door  was  locked :  he  burst  it  open ;  but  he  came  too  late. 
Blanche  was  dead — poisoned,  like  Marie-Anne:  but  she  had 
procured  a  drug  having  an  instantaneous  effect,  and  extended 
on  her  couch,  clad  in  her  wonted  apparel,  her  hands  folded 
over  her  breast,  she  seemed  only  asleep.  A  tear  glistened  in 
Martial's  eye.  "Poor,  unhappy  woman!"  he  murmured;  "may 
God  forgive  you  as  I  forgive  you — you  whose  crime  has  been 
so  frightfully  expiated  here  below !" 


O  AFE.  in  his  own  princely  mansion,  and  surrounded  by  an 
*^  army  of  retainers,  the  Due  de  Sairmeuse  had  triumphantly 
exclaimed  :  "We  have  outwitted  Lecoq  !" 

In  this  he  was  right ;  for  the  young  detective  was  certainly 
nonplused  for  the  time  being;  but  when  his  grace  fancied  him- 


634     THE  HONOR  OF  THE  NAME 

self  forever  beyond  this  wily,  keen-witted,  aspiring  agent's 
reach,  he  was  most  decidedly  wrong.  Leccq  was  not  the  man 
to  sit  down  with  folded  hands  and  brood  over  the  humiliation 
of  defeat.  Before  he  went  to  old  Tabaret,  he  was  beginning  to 
recover  from  his  despondency;  and  when  he  left  that  expe- 
rienced detective's  presence,  he  had  regained  his  courage,  en- 
ergy, and  command  over  his  faculties.  "Well,  my  worthy 
friend,"  he  remarked  to  Father  Absinthe,  who  was  trotting 
along  by  his  side,  "you  heard  what  the  great  Monsieur  Tabaret 
said,  didn't  you?    So,  you  see,  I  was  right." 

But  his  companion  evinced  no  enthusiasm.  "Yes,  you  were 
right,"  he  responded,  in  wobegone  tones. 

"Do  you  think  we  are  ruined  by  two  or  three  mistakes? 
Nonsense !  I  will  soon  turn  to-day's  defeat  into  a  glorious 
victory." 

"Ah !  you  might  do  so  perhaps,  if — they  don't  dismiss  us 
from  the  force." 

This  doleful  remark  recalled  Lecoq  to  a  sense  of  his  present 
position.  He  and  Absinthe  had  allowed  a  prisoner  to  slip 
through  their  fingers.  That  was  vexatious,  it  is  true ;  but,  on 
the  other  hand,  they  had  captured  a  most  notorious  criminal — 
Joseph  Couturier.  Surely  there  was  some  comfort  in  that. 
Still,  of  course,  they  both  might  be  dismissed — and  yet  Lecoq 
could  have  borne  the  prospect,  dismal  as  it  was,  if  it  had  not 
been  for  the  thought  that  dismissal  would  forever  prevent  him 
from  following  up  the  Poivriere  affair.  What  would  his  supe- 
riors say  when  he  told  them  that  May  and  the  Due  de  Sair- 
meuse  were  one  and  the  same  person.  They  would,  no  doubt, 
shrug  their  shoulders  and  turn  up  their  noses.  "Still,  M.  Seg- 
muller  will  believe  me,"  he  thought.  "But  will  he  dare  to  take 
any  action  in  the  matter  without  plain  evidence  before  him?" 

This  was  very  unlikely,  as  Lecoq  fully  realized,  and  for  a 
moment  he  asked  himself  if  he  and  his  fellows  could  not  make 
a  descent  on  the  Hotel  de  Sairmeuse,  and,  on  some  pretext  or 
other,  compel  the  duke  to  show  himself.  It  would  then  be  easy 
to  identify  him  as  the  prisoner  May.  However,  after  a  little 
thought  he  dismissed  the  idea.  "It  would  be  a  stupid  expedi- 
ent !"  he  exclaimed.  "Two  such  men  as  the  duke  and  his 
accomplice  are  not  likely  to  be  caught  napping.  They  are  pre- 
pared for  such  a  visit,  and  we  should  only  have  our  labor  for 
our  pains." 

He  made  these  reflections  in  a  low  tone  of  voice ;  and  Father 


THE   HONOR   OF   THE    NAME  635 

Absinthe's  curiosity  was  aroused.  "Excuse  me,"  said  the  old 
veteran,  "I  don't  quite  understand  you." 

"I  say  that  we  must  find  some  tangible  proof  before  asking 
permission  to  proceed  further — "  Lecoq  paused  with  knitted 
brows.  An  idea  had  occurred  to  him.  He  fancied  he  could 
prove  complicity  between  at  least  one  of  the  witnesses  sum- 
moned to  give  evidence,  and  some  member  of  the  duke's  house- 
hold. He  was  indeed  thinking  of  Madame  Milner,  the  land- 
lady of  the  Hotel  de  Mariembourg,  and  of  his  first  meeting 
with  her.  He  saw  her  again,  in  his  mind's  eye,  standing  on 
a  chair,  her  face  on  a  level  with  a  cage,  covered  with  a  large 
piece  of  black  silk,  while  she  persistently  repeated  three  or  four 
German  words  to  a  starling,  who  with  equal  persistency  re- 
torted :  "Camille  !  Where  is  Camille  ?"  "One  thing  is  certain," 
exclaimed  Lecoq  aloud,  "if  Madame  Milner — who  is  a  German, 
and  who  speaks  French  with  the  strongest  possible  German 
accent — had  reared  this  bird,  it  would  either  have  spoken  in 
German  or  else  in  French,  and  in  the  latter  case  with  the 
same  accent  as  its  mistress.  So  it  can't  have  been  in  her  pos- 
session long;  but  then  who  can  have  given  it  to  her?" 

"Father  Absinthe  was  beginning  to  grow  impatient.  "In 
sober  earnest,  what  are  you  talking  about?"  he  asked,  petulantly. 

"I  say  that  if  there  is  any  one  at  the  Hotel  de  Sairmeuse 
named  Camille,  I  have  the  proof  I  wish  for.  Come,  Papa 
Absinthe,  let  us  hurry  on."  And  without  another  word  of 
explanation,  he  dragged  his  companion  rapidly  toward  the 
Seine. 

When  they  reached  the  Rue  de  Grenelle,  Lecoq  perceived 
a  commissionaire  leaning  against  the  door  of  a  wine-shop.  He 
walked  straight  toward  him.  "Come,  my  good  fellow,"  said 
he.  "I  want  you  to  go  to  the  Hotel  de  Sairmeuse  and  ask  for 
Camille.     Tell  her  that  her  uncle  is  waiting  for  her  here." 

"But,  sir—" 

"What,  you  haven't  gone  yet?" 

The  messenger  started  off,  and  the  two  police  agents  entered 
the  wine-shop,  Father  Absinthe  scarcely  having  time  to  swal- 
low a  glass  of  brandy  before  the  envoy  returned.  "I  was 
unable  to  see  Mademoiselle  Camille,"  said  he.  "The  house  is 
closed  from  top  to  bottom.  The  duchess  died  very  suddenly 
this  morning." 

"Ah !  the  wretch  !"  exclaimed  the  young  police  agent.  Then 
controlling  himself,  he  mentally  added:  "He  must  have  killed 


636     THE  HONOR  OF  THE  NAME 

his  wife  on  returning  home,  but  his   fate  is  sealed.     Now,  I 
shall  be  allowed  to  continue  my  investigation;." 

In  less  than  twenty  minutes  they  arrived  at  the  Palais  de 
Justice.  M.  Segmuller  did  not  seem  to  be  immoderately  sur- 
prised by  Lecoq's  revelations,  though  he  listened  with  evident 
doubt  to  the  young  police  agent's  ingenious  deductions ;  it  was 
the  circumstance  of  the  starling  which  at  last  decided  him. 
"Perhaps  you  are  right,  my  dear  Lecoq,"  he  said,  "and  to  tell 
the  truth,  I  quite  agree  with  you.  But  I  can  take  no  further 
action  in  the  matter  until  you  can  furnish  proof  so  convincing 
in  its  nature  that  the  Due  de  Sairmeuse  will  be  unable  tq 
think  of  denying  it." 

"Ah !  my  superiors  won't  allow  me — " 

"On  the  contrary,"  interrupted  the  magistrate,  "they  will 
allow  you  the  fullest  liberty  after  I  have  spoken  to  them." 
Such  action  on  M.  Segmuller's  part  required  no  little  courage; 
for  in  official  circles  there  had  been  considerable  merriment 
over  the  magistrate's  mysterious  man  with  the  iron  mask,  dis- 
guised as  a  mountebank ;  and  the  former  by  his  persistent  sup- 
port of  the  young  detective's  theories  had  almost  become  an 
object  of  ridicule. 

"And  when  will  you  speak  to  them?"  timidly  inquired  Lecoq. 

"At  once." 

The  magistrate  had  already  turned  toward  the  door  when 
the  young  police  agent  stopped  him.  "I  have  one  more  favor 
to  ask  you,  sir,"  he  said,  entreatingly.  "You  are  so  kind,  you 
are  the  first  person  who  has  given  me  any  encouragement — who 
has  had  any  faith  in  me." 

"Speak,  my  good  fellow." 

"Ah !  sir,  will  you  give  me  a  message  for  M.  d'Escorval  ? 
Any  insignificant  message — inform  him  of  the  prisoner's  escape. 
I  will  take  it  myself,  and  then —  Oh!  fear  nothing,  sir;  I  will 
be  very  prudent." 

"Very  well !"  replied  the  magistrate,  "I  will  write  him  a 
note." 

When  he  finally  left  the  office,  Lecoq  was  fully  authorized 
to  proceed  with  his  investigations,  and  he  carried  in  his  pocket 
M.  Segmuller's  letter  to  M.  d'Escorval.  His  satisfaction  was 
so  intense  that  he  did  not  deign  to  notice  the  sneers  bestowed 
upon  him  as  he  passed  along  the  corridors ;  but  on  the  thres- 
hold downstairs  he  encountered  Gevrol,  the  general,  who  was 
evidently  watching  for  him.     "Ah,  ha!"  laughed  the  inspector. 


THE   HONOR   OF   THE    NAME  637 

as  Lecoq  passed  out,  "here's  one  of  those  simpletons  who  fish 
for  whales  and  don't  even  catch  a  gudgeon." 

For  an  instant  Lecoq  felt  angry.  He  turned  round  abruptly 
and  looked  Gevrol  full  in  the  face.  "At  all  events,"  retorted 
he  in  the  tone  of  a  man  who  knows  what  he's  saying,  "that's 
better  than  assisting  prisoners  to  carry  on  a  surreptitious  cor- 
respondence with  people  outside." 

In  his  surprise,  Gevrol  almost  lost  countenance,  and  his  blush 
was  equivalent  to  a  confession.  But  Lecoq  did  not  add 
another  word.  What  did  it  matter  to  him  now  if  Gevrol 
had  betrayed  him !  Was  he  not  about  to  win  a  glorious 
revenge ! 

He  spent  the  remainder  of  the  day  in  preparing  his  plan  of 
action,  and  in  thinking  what  he  should  say  when  he  took  M. 
Segmuller's  note  to  Maurice  d'Escorval.  The  next  morning, 
at  about  eleven  o'clock,  he  presented  himself  at  the  latter's 
house.  "M.  d'Escorval  is  in  his  study  with  a  young  man,"  re- 
plied the  servant  to  the  young  detective's  inquiry,  "but,  as  he 
gave  me  no  orders  to  the  contrary,  you  may  go  in." 

Lecoq  entered,  but  found  the  study  unoccupied.  From  the 
adjoining  room,  however,  only  separated  from  the  study  by 
velvet  hangings,  came  a  sound  of  stifled  exclamations,  of  sobs 
mingled  with  kisses.  Not  knowing  whether  to  remain  or  to 
retire,  the  young  police  agent  stood  for  a  moment  undecided ; 
when  suddenly  he  perceived  an  open  letter  lying  on  the  carpet. 
Impelled  by  an  impulse  stronger  than  his  will,  Lecoq  picked  the 
letter  up,  and  his  eyes  meeting  the  signature,  he  started  back  in 
surprise.  He  could  not  now  refrain  from  reading  this  missive, 
which  ran  as  follows: 

"The  bearer  of  this  letter  is  Marie-Anne's  son — your  son, 
Maurice.  I  have  given  him  all  the  proofs  necessary  to  estab- 
lish his  identity.  It  was  to  his  education  that  I  consecrated 
poor  Marie-Anne's  inheritance.  Those  to  whose  care  I  con- 
fided him  have  made  a  noble  man  of  him.  If  I  restore  him  to 
you,  it  is  only  because  the  life  I  lead  is  not  a  fitting  life  for 
him.  Yesterday,  the  miserable  woman  who  murdered  my  sister 
died  from  poison  administered  by  her  own  hand.  Poor  Marie- 
Anne  !  she  would  have  been  far  more  terribly  avenged  had  not 
an  accident  which  happened  to  me  saved  the  Due  and  the 
Duchesse  de  Sairmeuse  from  the  snare  into  which  I  had  drawn 
them.  Jean  Lacheneur." 


638     THE  HONOR  OF  THE  NAME 

Locoq  stood  as  if  petrified.  Now  he  understood  the  terrible 
drama  enacted  in  the  Widow  Chupin's  cabin.  "I  must  go  to 
Sairmeuse  at  once,"  he  said  to  himself;  "there  I  can  discover 
everything."  He  left  the  room  without  seeing  M.  d'Escorval, 
and  even  successfully  resisted  the  temptation  to  take  Lache- 
neur's  letter  with  him. 

Exactly  a  month  had  transpired  since  Blanche's  death.  His 
grace  the  Due  de  Sairmeuse  was  reclining  on  a  divan  in  his 
library,  reading  one  of  his  favorite  authors,  when  Otto,  his 
valet  de  chambre,  came  in  to  inform  him  that  a  messenger  was 
below,  charged  with  delivering  into  his  grace's  own  hands  a 
letter  from  M.  d'Escorval. 

Martial  sprang  to  his  feet.  "It  is  impossible,"  he  exclaimed; 
and  then  he  quickly  added:  "Let  the  messenger  come  up." 

A  tall  man,  with  florid  complexion,  and  red  hair  and  beard, 
timidly  handed  the  duke  a  letter.  Martial  instantly  broke  the 
seal,  and  read : 

"I  saved  you,  monsieur,  by  not  recognizing  the  prisoner,  May. 
In  your  turn  assist  me.  By  noon  on  the  day  after  to-morrow,  I 
must  have  two  hundred  and  sixty  thousand  francs.  I  have 
sufficient  confidence  in  your  honor  to  apply  to  you. 

"Maurice  d'Escorval." 

For  a  moment  Martial  stood  bewildered,  then  springing  to 
a  table  he  began  writing,  without  noticing  that  the  messenger 
was  looking  over  his  shoulder:  "Monsieur — Not  the  day  after 
to-morrow,  but  this  evening,  what  you  ask  will  be  at  your 
service.  My  fortune  and  my  life  are  at  your  disposal.  It  is 
but  a  slight  return  for  the  generosity  shown  by  you  in  with- 
drawing, when,  under  the  rags  of  May,  you  recognized  your 
former  enemy,  but  now  your  devoted  friend. 

"Martial  de  Sairmeuse." 

The  duke  folded  this  letter  with  a  feverish  hand,  and  giving 
it  to  the  messenger  with  a  louis,  he  said:  "Here  is  the 
answer,   make   haste !" 

But  the  messenger  did  not  stir.  He  slipped  the  letter  into 
his  pocket,  and  then  hastily  cast  his  red  beard  and  wig  on  the 
floor. 

"Lecoq!"  exclaimed  Martial,  paler  than  death. 

"Lecoq,  yes,  sir,"  replied  the  young  detective.    "I  was  obliged 


THE   HONOR   OF   THE    NAME  639 

to  take  my  revenge ;  my  future  depended  on  it,  and  so  I  ventured 
to  imitate  M.  d'Escorval's  writing."  And  as  Martial  offered 
no  remark:  "I  must  also  say  to  Monsieur  le  Due,"  he  con- 
tinued, "that  if  your  grace  will  transmit  a  confession  of  your 
presence  at  the  Poivriere  in  your  own  handwriting  to  the 
investigating  magistrate  I  can  and  will  at  the  same  time 
furnish  proofs  of  your  grace's  innocence — that  you  were 
dragged  into  a  snare,  and  that  you  only  acted  in  self-defense." 

Martial  looked  up  in  fair  astonishment,  but  to  show  that 
he  was  acquainted  with  everything,  Lecoq  slowly  added:  "As 
madame  is  dead,  there  will  be  nothing  said  concerning  what 
took  place  at  the  Borderie." 

A  week  later  a  private  report  setting  forth  that  there  were 
no  grounds  to  proceed  against  the  Due  de  Sairmeuse  was 
forwarded  by  M.  Segmuller  to  the  public  prosecutor. 

Appointed  to  the  position  of  inspector,  which  he  coveted, 
Lecoq  had  the  good  taste,  or  perhaps,  the  shrewdness,  to  wear 
his  honors  modestly.  But  on  the  day  of  his  promotion,  he 
ordered  a  seal,  on  which  was  engraved  the  exultant  rooster, 
his  chosen  armorial  design,  with  a  motto  to  which  be  ever 
remained  faithful:  "Semper  Vigilans." 


THE   END 


17 — Vol.  II — Gab. 


THE    LEROUGE   AFFAIR 


1— Vol.  Ill — Gab. 


THE     LEROUGE    AFFAIR 


ON  Thursday,  the  6th  of  March,  1862,  two  days  after 
Shrove  Tuesday,  five  women  belonging  to  the  village  of 
La  Jonchere  presented  themselves  at  the  police  station, 
at  Bougival.  They  stated  that  for  two  days  past  no  one  had 
seen  the  Widow  Lerouge,  one  of  their  neighbors,  who  lived  by 
herself  in  an  isolated  cottage.  They  had  several  times  knocked 
at  the  door,  but  all  in  vain.  The  window-shutters  as  well  as 
the  door  were  closed ;  and  it  was  impossible  to  obtain  even  a 
glimpse  of  the  interior.  This  silence,  this  sudden  disappearance, 
alarmed  them.  Apprehensive  of  a  crime,  or  at  least  of  an  acci- 
dent, they  requested  the  interference  of  the  police  to  satisfy 
their  doubts  by  forcing  the  door  and  entering  the  house. 

Bougival  is  a  pleasant  riverside  village,  peopled  on  Sundays 
by  crowds  of  boating  parties.  Trifling  offenses  are  frequently 
heard  of  in  its  neighborhood,  but  crimes  are  rare.  The  com- 
missary of  police  at  first  refused  to  listen  to  the  women,  but 
their  importunities  so  fatigued  him  that  he  at  length  acceded 
to  their  request.  He  sent  for  the  corporal  of  gendarmes,  with 
two  of  his  men,  called  into  requisition  the  services  of  a  lock- 
smith, and,  thus  accompanied,  followed  the  neighbors  of  the 
Widow  Lerouge. 

La  Jonchere  owes  some  celebrity  to  the  inventor  of  the  slid- 
ing railway,  who  for  some  years  past  has,  with  more  enterprise 
than  profit,  made  public  trials  of  his  system  in  the  immediate 
neighborhood.  It  is  a  hamlet  of  no  importance,  resting  upon 
the  slope  of  the  hill  which  overlooks  the  Seine  between  La 
Malmaison  and  Bougival.  It  is  about  twenty  minutes'  walk 
from  the  main  road,  which,  passing  by  Rueil  and  Port-Marly, 
goes  from  Paris  to  St.  Germain :  and  is  reached  by  a  steep 
and  rugged  lane,  quite  unknown  to  the  government  engineers. 

The  party,  led  by  the  gendarmes,  followed  the  main  road  which 
here  bordered  the  river  until  it  reached  this  lane,  into  which 
it  turned,   and   stumbled   over   the   rugged    inequalities  of   the 

643 


644  THE   LEROUGE  AFFAIR 

ground  for  about  a  hundred  yards,  when  it  arrived  in  front  of 
a  cottage  of  extremely  modest  yet  respectable  appearance.  This 
cottage  had  probably  been  built  by  some  little  Parisian  shop- 
keeper in  love  with  the  beauties  of  nature ;  for  all  the  trees  had 
been  carefully  cut  down.  It  consisted  merely  of  two  apart- 
ments on  the  ground  floor  with  a  loft  above.  Around  it  ex- 
tended a  much-neglected  garden,  badly  protected  against  mid- 
night prowlers  by  a  very  dilapidated  stone  wall  about  three  feet 
high,  and  broken  and  crumbling  in  many  places.  A  light 
wooden  gate,  clumsily  held  in  its  place  by  pieces  of  wire,  gave 
access  to  the  garden. 

"It  is  here,"  said  the  women. 

The  commissary  stopped.  During  his  short  walk,  the  num- 
ber of  his  followers  had  been  rapidly  increasing,  and  now  in- 
cluded all  the  inquisitive  and  idle  persons  of  the  neighborhood. 
He  found  himself  surrounded  by  about  forty  individuals  burn- 
ing with  curiosity. 

"No  one  must  enter  the  garden."  said  he;  and,  to  insure 
obedience,  he  placed  the  two  gendarmes  on  sentry  before  the 
entrance,  and  advanced  toward  the  house,  accompanied  by  the 
corporal  and  the  locksmith. 

He  knocked  several  times  loudly  with  his  leaded  cane,  first 
at  the  door,  and  then  successively  at  all  the  window-shutters. 
After  each  blow,  he  placed  his  ear  against  the  wood  and  lis- 
tened.   Hearing  nothing,  he  turned  to  the  locksmith. 

"Open !"  said  he. 

The  workman  unstrapped  his  satchel,  and  produced  his  im- 
plements. He  had  already  introduced  a  skeleton  key  into  the 
lock,  when  a  loud  exclamation  was  heard  from  the  crowd  out- 
side the  gate. 

"The  key!"  they  cried.    "Here  is  the  key!" 

A  boy  about  twelve  years  old,  playing  with  one  of  his 
companions,  had  seen  an  enormous  key  in  a  ditch  by  the 
roadside ;  he  had  picked  it  up  and  carried  it  to  the  cottage 
in   triumph. 

"Give  it  to  me,  youngster,"  said  the  corporal.  "We  shall 
see." 

The  key  was  tried,  and  it  proved  to  be  the  key  of  the  house. 
The  commissary  and  the  locksmith  exchanged  glances  full  of 
sinister  misgivings.  "This  looks  bad,"  muttered  the  corporal. 
They  entered  the  house,  while  the  crowd,  restrained  with  diffi- 
culty by  the  gendarmes,  stamped   with   impatience,   or  leaned 


THE   LEROUGE  AFFAIR  645 

over  the  garden  wall,  stretching  their  necks  eagerly,  to  see  or 
hear  something  of  what  was  passing  within  the  cottage. 

Those  who  anticipated  the  discovery  of  a  crime  were  unhap- 
pily not  deceived.  The  commissary  was  convinced  of  this  as 
soon  as  he  crossed  the  threshold.  Everything  in  the  first  room 
pointed  with  a  sad  eloquence  to  the  recent  presence  of  a 
malefactor.  The  furniture  was  knocked  about,  and  a  chest  of 
drawers  and  two  large  trunks  had  been  forced  and  broken 
open.  In  the  inner  room,  which  served  as  a  sleeping  apart- 
ment, the  disorder  was  even  greater.  It  seemed  as  though  some 
furious  hand  had  taken  a  fiendish  pleasure  in  upsetting  every- 
thing. Near  the  fireplace,  her  face  buried  in  the  ashes,  lay  the 
dead  body  of  Widow  Lerouge.  All  one  side  of  the  face  and  the 
hair  were  burnt;  it  seemed  a  miracle  that  the  fire  had  not 
caught  her  clothing. 

"Wretches !"  exclaimed  the  corporal.  "Could  they  not  have 
robbed  without  assassinating  the  poor  woman?" 

"But  where  has  she  been  wounded?"  inquired  the  commis- 
sary ;  "I  do  not  see  any  blood." 

"Look !  here  between  the  shoulders."  replied  the  corporal : 
two  fierce  blows,  by  my  faith.  I'll  wager  my  stripes  she  had 
no  time  to  cry  out." 

He  stooped  over  the  corpse  and  touched  it.  "She  is  quite 
cold."  he  continued,  "and  it  seems  to  me  that  she  is  no  longer 
very  stiff.  It  is  at  least  thirty-six  hours  since  she  received  her 
death-blow." 

The  commissary  began  writing,  on  the  corner  of  a  table,  a 
short  official  report.  "We  are  not  here  to  talk,  but  to  discover 
the  guilty,"  said  he  to  the  corporal.  "Let  information  be  at 
once  conveyed  to  the  justice  of  the  peace  and  the  mayor,  and 
send  this  letter  without  delay  to  the  Palais  de  Justice.  In  a 
couple  of  hours  an  investigating  magistrate  can  be  here.  In 
the  mean  while.  I  will  proceed  to  make  a  preliminary  inquiry." 

"Shall  I  carry  the  letter?"  asked  the  corporal  of  gendarmes. 

"No,  send  one  of  your  men ;  you  will  be  useful  to  me  here 
in  keeping  these  people  in  order,  and  in  finding  any  witnesses 
I  may  want.  We  must  leave  everything  here  as  it  is.  I  will 
install  myself  in  the  other  room." 

A  gendarme  departed  at  a  run  toward  the  station  at  Rueil; 
and  the  commissary  commenced  his  investigations  in  regular 
form,  as  prescribed  by  law. 

"Who  was  Widow  Lerouge?     Where  did  she  come  from? 


64«  THE   LEROUGE   AFFAIR 

What  did  she  do?  Upon  what  means,  and  how  did  she  live? 
What  were  her  habits,  her  morals,  and  what  sort  of  company 
did  she  keep?  Was  she  known  to  have  enemies?  Was  she  a 
miser?  Did  she  pass  for  being  rich?"  The  commissary  knew 
the  importance  of  ascertaining  all  this:  but  although  the  wit- 
nesses were  numerous  enough,  they  possessed  but  little  infor- 
mation. The  depositions  of  the  neighbors,  successively  interro- 
gated, were  empty,  incoherent,  and  incomplete.  No  one  knew 
anything  of  the  victim,  who  was  a  stranger  in  the  country. 
Many  presented  themselves  as  witnesses,  moreover,  who  came 
forward  less  to  afford  information  than  to  gratify  their  curi- 
osity. A  gardener's  wife,  who  had  been  friendly  with  the  de- 
ceased, and  a  milkwoman  with  whom  she  dealt,  were  alone  able 
to  give  a  few  insignificant  though  precise  details.  In  a  word, 
after  three  hours  of  laborious  investigation,  after  having  un- 
dergone the  infliction  of  all  the  gossip  of  the  country,  after 
receiving  evidence  the  most  contradictory,  and  listening  to 
commentaries  the  most  ridiculous,  the  following  is  what  ap- 
peared the  most  reliable  to  the  commissary: 

Twelve  years  before,  at  the  beginning  of  1850,  the  woman 
Lerouge  had  made  her  appearance  at  Bougival  with  a  large 
wagon  piled  with  furniture,  linen,  and  her  personal  effects. 
She  had  alighted  at  an  inn,  declaring  her  intention  of  settling 
in  the  neighborhood,  and  had  immediately  gone  in  quest  of  a 
house.  Finding  this  one  unoccupied,  and  thinking  it  would 
suit  her,  she  had  taken  it  without  trying  to  beat  down  the 
terms,  at  a  rental  of  three  hundred  and  twenty  francs,  payable 
half  yearly  and  in  advance,  but  had  refused  to  sign  a  lease. 
The  house  taken,  she  occupied  it  the  same  day,  and  expended 
about  a  hundred  francs  on  repairs. 

She  was  a  woman  about  fifty-four  or  fifty-five  years  of  age, 
well  preserved,  active,  and  in  the  enjoyment  of  excellent  health. 
No  one  knew  her  reasons  for  taking  up  her  abode  in  a  country 
where  she  was  an  absolute  stranger.  She  was  supposed  to  have 
come  from  Normandy,  having  been  frequently  seen  in  the  early 
morning  to  wear  a  white  cotton  cap.  This  night-cap  did  not 
prevent  her  dressing  very  smartly  during  the  day;  indeed,  she 
ordinarily  wore  very  handsome  dresses,  very  showy  ribbons  in 
her  caps,  and  covered  herself  with  jewels  like  a  saint  in  a 
chapel.  Without  doubt  she  lived  on  the  coast,  for  ships  and 
the  sea  recurred  incessantly  in  her  conversation. 

She  did  not  like  speaking  of  her  husband,  who  had,  she  said, 


THE    LEROUGE    AFFAIR  f>47 

perished  in  a  shipwreck.  But  she  had  never  given  the  slightest 
detail.  On  one  particular  occasion  she  had  remarked,  in  pres- 
ence of  the  milkwoman  and  three  other  persons:  "No  woman 
was  ever  more  miserable  than  I  during  my  married  life."  And 
at  another  she  had  said :  "All  new,  all  fine !  My  defunct  hus- 
band only  loved  me  for  a  year  I" 

Widow  Lerouge  passed  for  rich,  or  at  least  for  being  very 
well  off,  and  she  was  not  a  miser.  She  had  lent  a  woman  at 
La  Malmaison  sixty  francs  with  which  to  pay  her  rent,  and 
would  not  let  her  return  them.  At  another  time  she  had  ad- 
vanced two  hundred  francs  to  a  fisherman  of  Port-Marly.  She 
was  fond  of  good  living,  spent  a  good  deal  on  her  food,  and 
bought  wine  by  the  half-cask.  She  took  pleasure  in  treating 
her  acquaintances,  and  her  dinners  were  excellent.  If  compli- 
mented on  her  easy  circumstances,  she  made  no  very  strong 
denial.  She  had  frequently  been  heard  to  say :  "I  have  nothing 
in  the  funds,  but  I  have  everything  I  want.  If  I  wished  for 
more,  I  could  have  it." 

Beyond  this,  the  slightest  allusion  to  her  past  life,  her  coun- 
try, or  her  family  had  never  escaped  her.  She  was  very  talka- 
tive, but  all  she  would  say  would  be  to  the  detriment  of  her 
neighbors.  She  was  supposed,  however,  to  have  seen  the  world, 
and  to  know  a  great  deal.  She  was  very  distrustful  and  bar- 
ricaded herself  in  her  cottage  as  in  a  fortress.  She  never 
went  out  in  the  evening,  and  it  was  well  known  that  she  got 
tipsy  regularly  at  her  dinner  and  went  to  bed  very  soon 
afterward. 

Rarely  had  strangers  been  seen  to  visit  her ;  four  or  five  times 
a  lady  accompanied  by  a  young  man  had  called,  and  upon  one 
occasion  two  gentlemen,  one  young,  the  other  old  and  decorated, 
had  come  in  a  magnificent  carriage. 

In  conclusion,  the  deceased  was  held  in  but  little  esteem  by 
her  neighbors.  Her  remarks  were  often  most  offensive  and 
odious  in  the  mouth  of  a  woman  of  her  age.  She  had  been 
heard  to  give  a  young  girl  the  most  detestable  counsels.  A  pork 
butcher,  belonging  to  Bougival,  embarrassed  in  his  business, 
and  tempted  by  her  supposed  wealth,  had  at  one  time  paid  her 
his  addresses.  She,  however,  repelled  his  advances,  declaring 
that  to  be  married  once  was  enough  for  her.  On  several  occa- 
sions men  had  been  seen  in  her  house :  first  of  all,  a  young 
one,  who  had  the  appearance  of  a  clerk  of  the  railway  com- 
pany: then  another,   a  tall,  elderly  man,   very   sunburnt,  who 


64b  THE   LEROUGE   AFFAIR 

was  dressed  in  a  blouse,  and  looked  very  villainous.  These  men 
were  reported  to  be  her  lovers. 

While  questioning  the  witnesses,  the  commissary  wrote  down 
their  depositions  in  a  more  condensed  form,  and  he  had  got 
so  far,  when  the  investigating  magistrate  arrived,  attended  by 
the  chief  of  the  detective  police,  and  one  of  his  subordinates. 
M.  Daburon  was  a  man  thirty-eight  years  of  age,  and  of  pre- 
possessing appearance ;  sympathetic  notwithstanding  his  cold- 
ness ;  wearing  upon  his  countenance  a  sweet  and  rather  sad 
expression.  This  settled  melancholy  had  remained  with  him 
ever  since  his  recovery,  two  years  before,  from  a  dreadful 
malady,  which  had  well-nigh  proved  fatal.  Investigating  mag- 
istrate since  1859,  he  had  rapidly  acquired  the  most  brilliant 
reputation.  Laborious,  patient,  and  acute,  he  knew  with  sin- 
gular skill  how  to  disentangle  the  skein  of  the  most  complicated 
affair,  and  from  the  midst  of  a  thousand  threads  lay  hold  of 
the  right  one.  None  better  than  he,  armed  with  an  implacable 
logic,  could  solve  those  terrible  problems  in  which  x  represents 
the  criminal.  Clever  in  deducing  the  unknown  from  the  known, 
he  excelled  in  collecting  facts,  and  in  uniting  in  a  bundle  of 
overwhelming  proofs  circumstances  the  most  trifling,  and  in 
appearance  the  most  insignificant. 

Although  possessed  of  qualifications  for  his  office  so  numer- 
ous and  valuable,  he  was  tremblingly  distrustful  of  his  own 
abilities  and  exercised  his  terrible  functions  with  diffidence  and 
hesitation.  He  wanted  audacity  to  risk  those  sudden  surprises 
so  often  resorted  to  by  his  colleagues  in  the  pursuit  of  truth. 
Thus  it  was  repugnant  to  his  feelings  to  deceive  even  an  ac- 
cused person,  or  to  lay  snares  for  him :  in  fact,  the  mere  idea 
of  the  possibility  of  a  judicial  error  terrified  him.  They  said 
of  him  in  the  courts:  "He  is  a  trembler."  What  he  sought  was 
not  conviction,  nor  the  most  probable  presumptions,  but  the 
most  absolute  certainty.  No  rest  for  him  until  the  day  when 
the  accused  was  forced  to  bow  before  the  evidence ;  so  much  so 
that  he  had  been  jestingly  reproached  with  seeking  not  to 
discover  criminals  but  innocents. 

The  chief  of  detective  police  was  none  other  than  the  cele- 
brated Gevrol.  He  was  really  an  able  man,  but  wanting  in  per- 
severance, and  liable  to  be  blinded  by  an  incredible  obstinacy. 
If  he  lost  a  clue,  he  could  not  bring  himself  to  acknowledge  it, 
still  less  to  retrace  his  steps.  His  audacity  and  coolness,  how- 
ever, rendered  it  impossible  to  disconcert  him;  and  being  pos- 


THE    LEROUGE    AFFAIR  649 

sessed  of  immense  personal  strength,  hidden  under  a  most 
meagre  appearance,  he  never  hesitated  to  confront  the  most 
daring  of  malefactors.  But  his  specialty,  his  triumph,  his  glory, 
was  a  memory  of  faces,  so  prodigious  as  to  exceed  belief.  If 
he  saw  a  face  for  five  minutes,  it  was  enough.  Its  possessor 
was  catalogued,  and  would  be  recognized  at  any  time.  The 
impossibilities  of  place,  the  unlikelihood  of  circumstances,  the 
most  incredible  disguises  would  not  lead  him  astray.  The  rea- 
son for  this,  so  he  pretended,  was  because  he  only  looked  at  a 
man's  eyes,  without  noticing  any  other  features.  This  faculty 
was  severly  tested  some  months  back  at  Poissy  by  the  follow- 
ing experiment.  Three  prisoners  were  draped  in  coverings  so 
as  to  completely  disguise  their  height.  Over  their  faces  were 
thick  veils,  allowing  nothing  of  the  features  to  be  seen  except 
the  eyes,  for  which  holes  had  been  made ;  and  in  this  state  they 
were  shown  to  Gevrol.  Without  the  slightest  hesitation  he 
recognized  the  prisoners  and  named  them.  Had  chance  alone 
assisted  him? 

The  subordinate  Gevrol  had  brought  with  him  was  an  old 
offender,  reconciled  to  the  law.  A  smart  fellow  in  his  profes- 
sion, crafty  as  a  fox,  and  jealous  of  his  chief,  whose  abilities 
he  held  in  light  estimation.     His  name  was  Lecoq. 

The  commissary,  by  this  time  heartily  tired  of  his  responsi- 
bilities, welcomed  the  investigating  magistrate  and  his  agents 
as  liberators.  He  rapidly  related  the  facts  collected  and  read 
his  official  report. 

"You  have  proceeded  very  well,"  observed  the  investigating 
magistrate.  "All  is  stated  clearly;  yet  there  is  one  fact  you 
have  omitted  to  ascertain." 

"What  is  that,  sir?"  inquired  the  commissary. 

"On  what  day  was  Widow  Lerouge  last  seen,  and  at  what 
hour?" 

"I  was  coming  to  that  presently.  She  was  last  seen  and 
spoken  to  on  the  evening  of  Shrove  Tuesday,  at  twentv  minutes 
past  five.  She  was  then  returning  from  Bougival  with  a 
basketful  of  purchases." 

"You  are  sure  of  the  hour,  sir?"  inquired  Gevrol. 

"Perfectly,  and  for  this  reason;  the  two  witnesses  who  fur- 
nished me  with  this  fact,  a  woman  named  Tellier  and  a  cooper 
who  lives  hard  by,  alighted  from  the  omnibus  which  leaves 
Marly  every  hour,  when  they  perceived  the  widow  in  the  cross- 
road, and  hastened  to  overtake  her.     Thev  conversed  with  her 


650  THE    LEROUGE   AFFAIR 

and  only  left  her   when   they   reached   the  door  of  her  own 
house." 

"And  what  had  she  in  her  basket?"  asked  the  investigating 
magistrate. 

"The  witnesses  can  not  say.  They  only  know  that  she  car- 
ried two  sealed  bottles  of  wine,  and  another  of  brandy.  She 
complained  to  them  of  headache,  and  said:  'Though  it  is  cus- 
tomary to  enjoy  one's  self  on  Shrove  Tuesday,  I  am  going 
to  bed.'  " 

"So,  so !"  exclaimed  the  chief  of  detective  police.  "I  know 
where  to  search !" 

"You  think  so?"  inquired  M.  Daburon. 

"Why,  it  is  clear  enough.  We  must  find  the  tall,  sunburnt 
man,  the  gallant  in  the  blouse.  The  brandy  and  the  wine  were 
intended  for  his  entertainment.  The  widow  expected  him  to 
supper.     He  came,  sure  enough,  the  amiable  gallant !" 

"Oh  !"  cried  the  corporal  of  gendarmes,  evidently  scandalized, 
"she  was  very  old,  and  terribly  ugly !" 

Gevrol  surveyed  the  honest  fellow  with  an  expression  of 
contemptuous  pity.  "Know,  corporal,"  said  he,  "that  a  woman 
who  has  money  is  always  young  and  pretty,  if  she  desires  to 
be  thought  so !" 

"Perhaps  there  is  something  in  that,"  remarked  the  magis- 
trate ;  "but  it  is  not  what  strikes  me  most.  I  am  more  impressed 
by  the  remark  of  this  unfortunate  woman :  'If  I  wished  for 
more,  I  could  have  it.'  " 

"That  also  attracted  my  attention,"  acquiesced  the  com- 
missary. 

But  Gevrol  no  longer  took  the  trouble  to  listen.  He  stuck 
to  his  own  opinion,  and  began  to  inspect  minutely  every  corner 
of  the  room.  Suddenly  he  turned  toward  the  commissary. 
"Now  that  I  think  of  it,"  cried  he,  "was  it  not  on  Tuesday 
that  the  weather  changed  ?  It  had  been  freezing  for  a  fortnight 
past,  and  on  that  evening  it  rained.  At  what  time  did  the  rain 
commence  here?" 

"At  half-past  nine,"  answered  the  corporal.  "I  went  out 
from  supper  to  make  my  circuit  of  the  dancing  halls,  when  I 
was  overtaken  opposite  the  Rue  des  Pecheurs  by  a  heavy 
shower.  In  less  than  ten  minutes  there  was  half  an  inch  of 
water  in  the  road." 

"Very  well,"  said  Gevrol.  "Then  if  the  man  came  after  half- 
past  nine  his  shoes  must  have  been  very  muddy.    If  they  were 


THE    LEROUGE   AFFAIR  651 

dry,  he  arrived  sooner.  This  must  have  been  noticed,  for  the 
floor  is  a  polished  one.  Were  there  any  imprints  of  footsteps, 
Mr.  Commissary?" 

"I  must  confess  we  never  thought  of  looking  for  them." 

"Ah !"  exclaimed  the  chief  detective,  in  a  tone  of  irritation, 
""that  is  vexatious !" 

"Wait,"  added  the  commissary;  "there  is  yet  time  to  see  if 
there  are  any,  not  in  this  room,  but  in  the  other.  We  have 
disturbed  absolutely  nothing  there.  My  footsteps  and  the  cor- 
poral's will  be  easily  distinguished.     Let  us  see." 

As  the  commissary  opened  the  door  of  the  second  chamber, 
Gevrol  stopped  him.  "I  ask  permission,  sir,"  said  he  to  the 
investigating  magistrate,  "to  examine  the  apartment  before  any 
one  else  is  permitted  to  enter.     It  is  very  important  for  me." 

"Certainly,"  approved  M.  Daburon. 

Gevrol  passed  in  first,  the  others  remaining  on  the  threshold. 
They  all  took  in  at  a  glance  the  scene  of  the  crime.  Every- 
thing, as  the  commissary  had  stated,  seemed  to  have  been  over- 
turned by  some  furious  madman.  In  the  middle  of  the  room 
was  a  table  covered  with  a  fine  linen  cloth,  white  as  snow. 
Upon  this  was  placed  a  magnificent  wineglass  of  the  rarest 
manufacture,  a  very  handsome  knife,  and  a  plate  of  the  finest 
porcelain.  There  was  an  opened  bottle  of  wine,  hardly  touched, 
and  another  of  brandy,  from  which  about  five  or  six  small  glass- 
fuls  had  been  taken.  On  the  right,  against  the  wall,  stood  two 
handsome  walnut-wood  wardrobes,  with  ornamental  locks ;  they 
were  placed  one  on  each  side  of  the  window ;  both  were  empty, 
and  the  contents  scattered  about  on  all  sides.  There  were 
clothing,  linen,  and  other  effects  unfolded,  tossed  about,  and 
crumpled.  At  the  end  of  the  room,  near  the  fireplace,  a  large 
cupboard  used  for  keeping  the  crockery  was  wide  open.  On 
the  other  side  of  the  fireplace,  an  old  secretary  with  a  marble 
top  had  been  forced,  broken,  smashed  into  bits,  and  rummaged, 
no  doubt,  to  its  inmost  recesses.  The  desk,  wrenched  away, 
hung  by  a  single  hinge.  The  drawers  had  been  pulled  out  and 
thrown  upon  the  floor.  To  the  left  of  the  room  stood  the  bed, 
which  had  been  completely  disarranged  and  upset.  Even  the 
straw  of  the  mattress  had  been  pulled  out  and  examined. 

"Not  the  slightest  imprint,"  murmured  Gevrol,  disappointed. 
"He  must  have  arrived  before  half-past  nine.  You  can  all 
come  in  now." 

He  walked  right  up  to  the  corpse  of  the  widow,  near  which 


652  THE    LEROUGE   AFFAIR 

he  knelt.  "It  can  not  be  said,"  grumbled  h<*,  "that  the  work  is 
not  properly  done !  the  assassin  is  no  apprentice !"  Then  look- 
ing right  and  left,  he  continued:  "Oh!  oh!  the  poor  devil  was 
busy  with  her  cooking  when  he  struck  her ;  see  her  pan  of  ham 
and  eggs  upon  the  hearth.  The  brute  hadn't  patience  enough 
to  wait  for  the  dinner.  The  gentleman  was  in  a  hurry,  he 
struck  the  blow  fasting;  therefore  he  can't  invoke  the  gaiety  of 
dessert  in  his  defense !" 

"It  is  evident,"  said  the  commissary  to  the  investigating 
magistrate,  "that  robbery  was  the  motive  of  the  crime." 

"It  is  probable,"  answered  Gevrol  in  a  sly  way;  "and  that 
accounts  for  the  absence  of  the  silver  spoons  from  the  table." 

"Look  here !  Some  pieces  of  gold  in  this  drawer !"  exclaimed 
Lecoq,  who  had  been  searching  on  his  own  account,  "just  three 
hundred  and  twenty  francs !" 

"Well,  I  never!"  cried  Gevrol,  a  little  disconcerted.  But  he 
soon  recovered  from  his  embarrassment,  and  added:  "He  must 
have  forgotten  them;  that  often  happens.  I  have  known  an 
assassin,  who,  after  accomplishing  the  murder,  became  so  utterly 
bewildered  as  to  depart  without  remembering  to  take  the 
plunder,  for  which  he  had  committed  the  crime.  Our  man 
became  excited  perhaps,  or  was  interrupted.  Some  one  may 
have  knocked  at  the  door.  What  makes  me  more  willing  to 
think  so  is  that  the  scamp  did  not  leave  the  candle  burning. 
You  see,  he  took  the  trouble  to  put  it  out." 

"Pooh  !"  said  Lecoq.  "That  proves  nothing.  He  is  probably 
an  economical  and  careful  man." 

The  investigations  of  the  two  agents  were  continued  all  over 
the  house ;  but  their  most  minute  researches  resulted  in  dis- 
covering absolutely  nothing;  not  one  piece  of  evidence  to  con- 
vict; not  the  faintest  indication  which  might  serve  as  a  point 
of  departure.  Even  the  dead  woman's  papers,  if  she  possessed 
any,  had  disappeared.  Not  a  letter,  not  a  scrap  of  paper  even, 
to  be  met  with.  F"rom  time  to  time  Gevrol  stopped  to  swear  or 
grumble.  "Oh !  it  is  cleverly  done !  It  is  a  tiptop  piece  of 
work  !     The  scoundrel  is  a  cool  hand !" 

"Well,  what  do  you  make  of  it?"  at  length  demanded  the 
investigating  magistrate. 

"It  is  a  drawn  game,  monsieur,"  replied  Gevrol.  "We  are 
baffled  for  the  present.  The  miscreant  has  taken  his  measures 
with  great  precaution ;  but  I  will  catch  him.  Before  night,  I 
shall  have  a  dozen  men  in  pursuit.     Besides,  he  is  sure  to  fall 


THE    LEROUGE   AFFAIR  653 

into  our  hands.  He  has  carried  off  the  plate  and  the  jewels. 
He  is  lost !" 

"Despite  all  that,"  said  M.  Daburon,  "we  are  no  further 
advanced  than  we  were  this  morning !" 

"Well !"  growled  Gevrol,  "a  man  can  only  do  what  he  can !" 

"Ah !"  murmured  Lecoq  in  a  low  tone,  perfectly  audible,  how- 
ever, "why  is  not  old  Tirauclair  here?" 

"What  could  he  do  more  than  we  have  done?"  retorted 
Gevrol,  directing  a  furious  glance  at  his  subordinate.  Lecoq 
bowed  his  head  and  was  silent,  inwardly  delighted  at  having 
wounded  his  chief. 

"Who  is  old  Tirauclair?"  asked  M.  Daburon.  "It  seems  to 
me  that  I  have  heard  the  name,  but  I  can't  remember  where.'" 

"He  is  an  extraordinary  man !"  exclaimed  Lecoq. 

"He  was  formerly  a  clerk  at  the  Mont  de  Piete,"  added 
Gevrol ;  "but  he  is  now  a  rich  old  fellow,  whose  real  name 
is  Tabaret.  He  goes  in  for  playing  the  detective  by  way  of 
amusement." 

"And  to  augment  his  revenues,"  insinuated  the  commissary. 

"He  ?"  cried  Lecoq.  "No  danger  of  that.  He  works  so  much 
for  the  glory  of  success  that  he  often  spends  money  from  his 
own  pocket.  It's  his  amusement,  you  see !  At  the  Prefecture 
we  have  nicknamed  him  'Tirauclair,'  from  a  phrase  he  is  con- 
stantly in  the  habit  of  repeating.  Ah !  he  is  sharp,  the  old 
weasel !  It  was  he  who  in  the  case  of  that  banker's  wife,  you 
remember,  guessed  that  the  lady  had  robbed  herself,  and  who 
proved  it." 

"True!"  retorted  Gevrol;  "and  it  was  also  he  who  almost 
had  poor  Dereme  guillotined  for  killing  his  wife,  a  thorough 
bad  woman;  and  all  the  while  the  poor  man  was  innocent." 

"We  are  wasting  our  time,  gentlemen,"  interrupted  M.  Dabu- 
ron. Then,  addressing  himself  to  Lecoq,  he  added:  "Go  and 
find  M.  Tabaret.  I  have  heard  a  great  deal  of  him,  and  shall  be 
glad  to  see  him  at  work  here." 

Lecoq  started  off  at  a  run.  Gevrol  was  seriously  humiliated. 
"You  have,  of  course,  sir,  the  right  to  demand  the  services  of 
whom  you  please,"  commenced  he,  "but  yet — " 

"Do  not,"  interrupted  M.  Daburon,  "let  us  lose  our  tempers, 
M.  Gevrol.  I  have  known  you  for  a  long  time,  and  I  know 
your  worth ;  but  to-day  we  happen  to  differ  in  opinion.  You 
hold  absolutely  to  your  sunburnt  man  in  the  blouse,  and  I,  on 
my  side,  am  convinced  that  you  are  not  on  the  right  track !" 


654  THE    LEROUGE   AFFAIR 

"I  think  I  am  right,"  replied  the  detective,  "and  I  hope  to 
prove  it.     I  shall  find  the  scoundrel,  be  he  whom  he  may !" 

"I  ask  nothing  better,"  said  M.  Daburon. 

"Only  permit  me,  sir,  to  give — what  shall  I  say  without  fail- 
ing in  respect — a  piece  of  advice?" 

"Speak !" 

"I  would  advise  you,  sir,  to  distrust  old  Tabaret." 

"Really?    And  for  what  reason?" 

"The  old  fellow  allows  himself  to  be  carried  away  too  much 
by  appearances.  He  has  become  an  amateur  detective  for  the 
sake  of  popularity,  just  like  an  author;  and,  as  he  is  vainer 
than  a  peacock,  he  is  apt  to  lose  his  temper  and  be  very  obsti- 
nate. As  soon  as  he  finds  himself  in  the  presence  of  a  crime, 
like  this  one,  for  example,  he  pretends  he  can  explain  every- 
thing on  the  instant.  And  he  manages  to  invent  a  story  that 
will  correspond  exactly  with  the  situation.  He  professes,  with 
the  help  of  one  single  fact,  to  be  able  to  reconstruct  all  the 
details  of  an  assassination,  as  a  savant  pictures  an  antediluvian 
animal  from  a  single  bone.  Sometimes  he  divines  correctly; 
very  often,  though,  he  makes  a  mistake.  Take,  for  instance, 
the  case  of  the  tailor,  the  unfortunate  Dereme,  without  me — " 

"I  thank  you  for  your  advice,"  interrupted  M.  Daburon,  "and 
will  profit  by  it.  Now,  commissary,"  he  continued,  "it  is  most 
important  to  ascertain  from  what  part  of  the  country  Widow 
Lerouge  came." 

The  procession  of  witnesses  under  the  charge  of  the  corporal 
of  gendarmes  were  again  interrogated  by  the  investigating  mag- 
istrate. But  nothing  new  was  elicited.  It  was  evident  that 
Widow  Lerouge  had  been  a  singularly  discreet  woman ;  for, 
although  very  talkative,  nothing  in  any  way  connected  with  her 
antecedents  remained  in  the  memory  of  the  gossips  of  La  Jon- 
chere.  All  the  people  interrogated,  however,  obstinately  tried 
to  impart  to  the  magistrate  their  own  convictions  and  personal 
conjectures.  Public  opinion  sided  with  Gevrol.  Every  voice 
denounced  the  tall  sunburnt  man  with  the  gray  blouse.  He 
must  surely  be  the  culprit.  Every  one  remembered  his  ferocious 
aspect,  which  had  frightened  the  whole  neighborhood.  He  had 
one  evening  menaced  a  woman,  and  another  day  beaten  a  child. 
They  could  point  out  neither  the  child  nor  the  woman ;  but  no 
matter:  these  brutal  acts  were  notoriously  public.  M.  Daburon 
began  to  despair  of  gaining  the  least  enlightenment,  when  some 
one  brought  the  wife  of  a  grocer  of.  Bougival,  at  whose  shop 


THE    LEROUGE   AFFAIR  655 

the  victim  used  to  deal,  and  a  child  thirteen  years  old,  who 
knew,  it  was  said,  something  positive. 

The  grocer's  wife  first  made  her  appearance.  She  had  heard 
Widow  Lerouge  speak  of  having  a  son  still  living. 

"Are  you  quite  sure  of  that?"  asked  the  investigating  mag- 
istrate. 

"As  of  my  existence,"  answered  the  woman,  "for,  on  that 
evening,  yes,  it  was  evening,  she  was,  saving  your  presence, 
a  little  tipsy.     She  remained  in  my  shop  more  than  an  hour." 

"And  what  did  she  say?" 

"I  think  I  see  her  now,"  continued  the  shopkeeper:  "she 
was  leaning  against  the  counter  near  the  scales,  jesting  with 
a  fisherman  of  Marly,  old  Husson,  who  can  tell  you  the  same ; 
and  she  called  him  a  fresh-water  sailor.  'My  husband,'  said 
she,  'was  a  real  sailor,  and  the  proof  is,  he  would  sometimes 
remain  years  on  a  voyage,  and  always  used  to  bring  me  back 
cocoanuts.  I  have  a  son  who  is  also  a  sailor,  like  his  dead 
father,  in  the  imperial  navy.'  " 

"Did  she  mention  her  son's  name?" 

"Not  that  time,  but  another  evening,  when  she  was,  if  I  may 
say  so,  very  drunk.  She  told  us  that  her  son's  name  was 
Jacques,  and  that  she  had  not  seen  him  for  a  very  long  time." 

"Did  she  speak  ill  of  her  husband?" 

"Never!  She  only  said  he  was  jealous  and  brutal,  though 
a  good  man  at  bottom,  and  that  he  led  her  a  miserable  life.  He 
was  weak-headed,  and  forged  ideas  out  of  nothing  at  all.  In 
fact,  he  was  too  honest  to  be  wise." 

"Did  her  son  ever  come  to  see  her  while  she  lived  here?" 

"She  never  told  me  of  it." 

"Did  she  spend  much  money  with  you?" 

"That  depends.  About  sixty  francs  a  month ;  sometimes 
more,  for  she  always  buys  the  best  brandy.  She  paid  cash  for 
all  she  bought." 

The  woman,  knowing  no  more,  was  dismissed.  The  child, 
who  was  now  brought  forward,  belonged  to  parents  in  easy 
circumstances.  Tall  and  strong  for  his  age,  he  had  bright, 
intelligent  eyes,  and  features  expressive  of  watchfulness  and 
cunning.  The  presence  of  the  magistrate  did  not  seem  to  in- 
timidate him  in  th«  least. 

"Let  us  hear,  my  boy,"  said  M.  Daburon,  "what  you  know?" 

"Well,  sir,  a  few  days  ago,  on  Sunday  last,  I  saw  a  man  at 
Madame  Lerouge's  garden  gate." 


botf  THE    LEROUGE   AFFAIR 

"At  what  time  of  the  day?" 

"Early  in  the  morning.  I  was  going  to  church,  to  serve  in 
the  second  mass." 

"Well,"  continued  the  magistrate,  "and  this  man  was  tall  and 
sunburnt,  and  dressed  in  a  blouse?" 

"No,  sir;  on  the  contrary,  he  was  short,  very  fat,  and 
old." 

"You  are  sure  you  are  not  mistaken?" 

"Quite  sure,"  replied  the  urchin ;  "I  saw  him  close  face  to 
face,  for  I  spoke  to  him." 

"Tell,  me,  then,  what  occurred?" 

"Well,  sir,  I  was  passing  when  I  saw  this  fat  man  at  the 
gate.  He  appeared  very  much  vexed,  oh !  but  awfully  vexed  \ 
His  face  was  red,  or  rather  purple,  as  far  as  the  middle  of 
his  head,  which  I  could  see  very  well,  for  it  was  bare,  and  had 
very  little  hair  on  it." 

"And  did  he  speak  to  you  first?" 

"Yes,  sir,  he  saw  me,  and  called  out,  'Halloa  !  youngster !' 
as  I  came  up  to  him,  and  he  asked  me  if  I  had  got  a  good 
pair  of  legs.  I  answered  yes.  Then  he  took  me  by  the  ear, 
but  without  hurting  me,  and  said:  'Since  that  is  so,  if  you  will 
run  an  errand  for  me,  I  will  give  you  ten  sous.  Run  as  far 
as  the  Seine ;  and  when  you  reach  the  quay,  you  will  notice 
a  large  boat  moored.  Go  on  board,  and  ask  to  see  Captain 
Gervais :  he  is  sure  to  be  there.  Tell  him  that  he  can  prepare 
to  leave,  that  I  am  ready.'  Then  he  put  ten  sous  in  my  hand, 
and  off  I  went." 

"If  all  the  witnesses  were  like  this  bright  little  fellow,"  mur- 
mured the  commissary,  "what  a  pleasure  it  would  be !" 

"Now,"  said  the  magistrate,  "tell  us  how  you  executed  your 
commission." 

"I  went  to  the  boat,  sir,  found  the  man.  and  I  told  him; 
and  that's  all." 

Gevrol,  who  had  listened  with  the  most  lively  attention, 
leaned  over  toward  the  ear  of  M.  Daburon,  and  said  in  a 
low  voice :  "Will  you  permit  me,  sir.  to  ask  the  brat  a  few 
questions?" 

"Certainly,  M.  Gevrol." 

"Come  now,  my  little  friend,"  said  Gevrol.  "if  you  saw  this 
man  again,  would  vou  know  him?" 

"Oh,  yes!" 

"Then  there  was  something  remarkable  about  him?" 


THE   LEROUGE   AFFAIR  657 

"Yes,  I  should  think  so !  his  face  was  the  color  of  a 
brick." 

"And  is  that  all  ?" 

"Well,  yes,  sir." 

"But  you  must  remember  how  he  was  dressed ;  had  he  a 
blouse  on  ?" 

"No;  he  wore  a  jacket.  Under  the  arms  were  very  large 
pockets,  and  from  out  of  one  of  them  peeped  a  blue-spotted 
handkerchief." 

"What  kind  of  trousers  had  he  on  ?" 

"I  do  not  remember." 

"And  his  waistcoat?" 

"Let  me  see,"  answered  the  child.  "I  don't  think  he  wore 
a  waistcoat.  And  yet — but  no.  I  remember  he  did  not  wear 
one;  he  had  a  long  cravat,  fastened  near  his  neck  bv  a  large 
ring." 

"Ah!"  said  Gevrol  with  an  air  of  satisfaction,  "you  are  a 
bright  boy:  and  I  wager  that  if  you  try  hard  to  remember  you 
will  find  a  few  more  details  to  give  us." 

The  boy  hung  down  his  head  and  remained  silent.  From 
the  knitting  of  his  young  brows  it  was  plain  he  was  making 
a  violent  effort  of  memory.  "Yes,"  cried  he  suddenly,  "I  re- 
member another  thing." 

"What?" 

"The  man  wore  very  large  rings  in  his  ears." 

"Bravo !"  cried  Gevrol,  "here  is  a  complete  description.  I 
shall  find  the  fellow  now.  M.  Daburon  can  prepare  a  warrant 
for  his  appearance  whenever  he  likes." 

"I  believe,  indeed,  the  testimony  of  this  child  is  of  the  high- 
est importance,"  said  M.  Daburon;  and  turning  to  the  boy, 
added:  "Can  you  tell  us,  my  little  friend,  with  what  this  boat 
was  loaded?" 

"No,  sir,  I  couldn't  see,  because  it  was  decked." 

"Which  way  was  she  going,  up  the  Seine  or  down?" 

"Neither,  sir ;  she  was  moored." 

"We  know  that,"  said  Gevrol.  "The  magistrate  asks  you 
which  way  the  prow  of  the  boat  was  turned — toward  Paris  or 
toward  Marly?" 

"The  two  ends  of  the  boat  seemed  alike  to  me." 

The  chief  of  the  detective  police  made  a  gesture  of  dis- 
appointment. 

"At  least,"  said  he,  addressing  the  child  again,  "you  noticed 


658  THE    LEROUGE   AFFAIR 

the  name  of  the  boat?  you  can  read,  I  suppose.  One  should 
always  know  the  names  of  the  boats  one  goes  aboard  of." 

"No,  I  didn't  see  any  name,"  said  the  little  boy. 

"If  this  boat  was  moored  at  the  quay,"  remarked  M.  Daburon, 
"it  was  probably  noticed  by  the  inhabitants  of  Bougival." 

"That  is  true,  sir,"  approved  the  commissary. 

"Yes,"  said  Gevrol,  "and  the  sailors  must  have  come  ashore. 
I  shall  find  out  all  about  it  at  the  wine-shop.  But  what  sort 
of  a  man  was  Gervais,  the  master,  my  little  friend?" 

"Like  all  the  sailors  hereabouts,  sir." 

The  child  was  preparing  to  depart  when  M.  Daburon  re- 
called him. 

"Before  you  go,  my  boy,  tell  me,  have  you  spoken  to  any 
one  of  this  meeting  before  to-day?" 

"Yes,  sir,  I  told  all  to  mama  when  I  got  back  from  church, 
and  gave  her  the  ten  sous." 

"And  you  have  told  us  the  whole  truth?"  continued  the 
magistrate.  "You  know  that  it  is  a  very  grave  matter  to 
attempt  to  impose  on  justice.  She  always  finds  it  out,  and  it 
is  my  duty  to  warn  you  that  she  inflicts  the  most  terrible 
punishment  upon  liars." 

The  little  fellow  blushed  as  red  as  a  cherry,  and  held  down 
his  head. 

"I  see,"  pursued  M.  Daburon,  "that  you  have  concealed  some- 
thing from  us.  Don't  you  know  that  the  police  know  every- 
thing?" 

"Pardon  !  sir,"  cried  the  boy,  bursting  into  tears ;  "pardon. 
Don't  punish  me,  and  I  will  never  do  so  again." 

"Tell  us,  then,  how  you  have  deceived  us?" 

"Well,  sir,  it  was  not  ten  sous  that  the  man  gave  me;  it  was 
twenty  sous.  I  only  gave  half  to  mama ;  and  I  kept  the  rest 
to  buy  marbles  with." 

"My  little  friend,"  said  the  investigating  magistrate,  "for 
this  time  I  forgive  you.  But  let  it  be  a  lesson  for  the  re- 
mainder of  your  life.  You  may  go  now,  and  remember  it  is 
useless  to  try  and  hide  the  truth;  it  always  comes  to  light!" 


THE    LEROUGE   AFFAIR 


659 


HP  HE  two  last  depositions  awakened  in  M.  Daburon's  mind 
•*•  some  slight  gleams  of  hope.  In  the  midst  of  darkness  the 
humblest  rushlight  acquires  brilliancy. 

"I  will  go  at  once  to  Bougival,  sir,  if  you  approve  of  this 
step,"  suggested  Gevrol. 

"Perhaps  you  would  do  well  to  wait  a  little,"  answered  M. 
Daburon.  "This  man  was  seen  on  Sunday  morning;  we  will 
inquire  into  Widow  Lerouge's  movements  on  that  day." 

Three  neighbors  were  called.  They  all  declared  that  the 
widow  had  kept  her  bed  all  Sunday.  To  one  woman  who, 
hearing  she  was  unwell,  had  visited  her,  she  said :  "Ah !  I  had 
last  night  a  terrible  accident."  Nobody  at  the  time  attached 
any  significance  to  these  words. 

"The  man  with  the  rings  in  his  ears  becomes  more  and  more 
important,"  said  the  magistrate  when  the  woman  had  retired. 
"To  find  him  again  is  indispensable :  you  must  see  to  this, 
M.  Gevrol." 

"Before  eight  days  I  shall  have  him,"  replied  the  chief  of 
detective  police,  "if  I  have  to  search  every  boat  on  the  Seine, 
from  its  source  to  the  ocean.  I  know  the  name  of  the  captain, 
Gervais.     The  navigation  office  will  tell  me  something." 

He  was  interrupted  by  Lecoq,  who  rushed  into  the  house 
breathless.  "Here  is  old  Tabaret,"  he  said.  "I  met  him  just 
as  he  was  going  out.  What  a  man  !  He  wouldn't  wait  for  the 
train,  but  gave  I  don't  know  how  much  to  a  cabman ;  and  we 
drove  here  in  fifty  minutes !" 

Almost  immediately  a  man  appeared  at  the  door  whose  aspect 
it  must  be  admitted  was  not  at  all  what  one  would  have  ex- 
pected of  a  person  who  had  joined  the  police  for  honor  alone. 
He  was  certainly  sixty  years  old,  and  did  not  look  a  bit  younger. 
Short,  thin,  and  rather  bent,  he  leaned  on  the  carved  ivory 
handle  of  a  stout  cane.  His  round  face  wore  that  expression 
of  perpetual  astonishment,  mingled  with  uneasiness,  which  has 
made  the  fortunes  of  two  comic  actors  of  the   Palais   Royal 


660  THE    LEROUGE   AFFAIR 

Theatre.  Scrupulously  shaved,  he  presented  a  very  short  chin, 
large  and  good-natured  lips,  and  a  nose  disagreeably  elevated, 
like  the  broad  end  of  one  of  Sax's  horns.  His  eyes,  of  a  dull 
gray,  were  small  and  red  at  the  lids,  and  absolutely  void  of 
expression ;  yet  they  fatigued  the  observer  by  their  insupport- 
able restlessness.  A  few  straight  hairs  shaded  his  forehead, 
which  receded  like  that  of  a  greyhound,  and  through  their  scan- 
tiness barely  concealed  his  long,  ugly  ears.  He  was  very  com- 
fortably dressed,  clean  as  a  new  franc  piece,  displaying  linen 
of  dazzling  whiteness,  and  wearing  silk  gloves  and  leather 
gaiters.  A  long  and  massive  gold  chain,  very  vulgar  looking, 
was  twisted  thrice  round  his  neck,  and  fell  in  cascades  into 
the  pocket  of  his  waistcoat. 

M.  Tabaret,  surnamed  Tirauclair,  stood  at  the  threshold,  and 
bowed  almost  to  the  ground,  bending  his  old  back  into  an  arch, 
and  in  the  humblest  of  voices  asked:  "The  investigating  mag- 
istrate has  deigned  to  send  for  me?" 

"Yes !"  replied  M.  Daburon,  adding  under  his  breath ;  "and 
if  you  are  a  man  of  any  ability,  there  is  at  least  nothing  to 
indicate  it  in  your  appearance." 

"I  am  here,"  continued  the  old  fellow,  "completely  at  the 
service  of  justice." 

"I  wish  to  know,"  said  M.  Daburon,  "whether  you  can  dis- 
cover some  clue  that  will  put  us  upon  the  track  of  the  assassin. 
I  will  explain  the — " 

"Oh,  I  know  enough  of  it !"  interrupted  old  Tabaret.  "Lecoq 
has  told  me  the  principal  facts,  just  as  much  as  I  desire  to 
know." 

"Nevertheless — "  commenced  the  commissary  of  police. 

"If  you  will  permit  me,  I  prefer  to  proceed  without  receiving 
any  details,  in  order  to  be  more  fully  master  of  my  own  im- 
pressions. When  one  knows  another's  opinion  it  can't  help 
influencing  one's  judgment.  I  will,  if  you  please,  at  once  com- 
mence my  researches,  with  Lecoq's  assistance." 

As  the  old  fellow  spoke  his  little  gray  eyes  dilated  and  be- 
came brilliant  as  carbuncles.  His  face  reflected  an  internal 
satisfaction ;  even  his  wrinkles  seemed  to  laugh.  His  figure 
became  erect,  and  his  step  was  almost  elastic,  as  he  darted  into 
the  inner  chamber.  He  remained  there  about  half  an  hour; 
then  came  out  running,  then  reentered,  and  then  again  came 
out ;  once  more  he  disappeared  and  reappeared  again  almost 
immediately.     The  magistrate  could  not  help   comparing  him 


THE    LEROUGE    AFFAIR  661 

to  a  pointer  on  the  scent,  his  turned-up  nose  even  moved  about 
as  if  to  discover  some  subtle  odor  left  by  the  assassin.  All 
the  while  he  talked  loudly  and  with  much  gesticulation,  apos- 
trophizing himself,  scolding  himself,  uttering  little  cries  of  tri- 
umph or  self-encouragement.  He  did  not  allow  Lecoq  to  have 
a  moment's  rest.  He  wanted  this  or  that  or  the  other  thing. 
He  demanded  paper  and  pencil.  Then  he  wanted  a  spade; 
and  finally  he  cried  out  for  plaster  of  Paris,  some  water,  and 
a  bottle  of  oil.  When  more  than  an  hour  had  elapsed,  the 
investigating  magistrate  began  to  grow  impatient,  and  asked 
what  had  become  of  the  amateur  detective. 

"He  is  on  the  road,"  replied  the  corporal,  "lying  flat  in  the 
mud,  and  mixing  some  plaster  in  a  plate.  He  says  he  has 
nearly  finished,  and  that  he  is  coming  back  presently." 

He  returned  in  fact  almost  instantly,  joyous,  triumphant,  look- 
ing at  least  twenty  years  younger.  Lecoq  followed  him,  carrying 
with  the  utmost  precaution  a  large  basket.  "I  have  solved  the 
riddle !"  said  Tabaret  to  the  magistrate.  "It  is  all  clear  now, 
and  as  plain  as  noonday.  Lecoq,  my  lad,  put  the  basket  on 
the  table." 

Gevrol  at  this  moment  returned  from  his  expedition  equally 
delighted.  "I  am  on  the  track  of  the  man  with  the  earrings," 
said  he;  "the  boat  went  down  the  river.  I  have  obtained  an 
exact  description  of  the  master  Gervais." 

"What  have  you  discovered,  M.  Tabaret?"  asked  the  mag- 
istrate. 

The  old  fellow  carefully  emptied  upon  the  table  the  contents 
of  the  basket — a  big  lump  of  clay,  several  large  sheets  of  paper, 
and  three  or  four  small  lumps  of  plaster  yet  damp.  Standing 
behind  this  table,  he  presented  a  grotesque  resemblance  to  those 
mountebank  conjurers  who  in  the  public  squares  juggle  the 
money  of  the  lookers-on.  His  clothes  had  greatly  suffered :  he 
was  covered  with  mud  up  to  his  chin.  "In  the  first  place," 
said  he  at  last  in  a  tone  of  affected  modesty,  "robbery  has  had 
nothing  to  do  with  the  crime  that  occupies  our  attention." 

"Oh  !  of  course  not !"  muttered  Gevrol. 

"I  shall  prove  it."  continued  old  Tabaret,  "by  the  evidence. 
By  and  by  I  shall  offer  my  humble  opinion  as  to  the  real  motive. 
In  the  second  place,  the  assassin  arrived  here  before  half-past 
nine ;  that  is  to  say,  before  the  rain  fell.  No  more  than  M. 
Gevrol  have  I  been  able  to  discover  traces  of  muddy  footsteps; 
but  under  the  table,  on  the  spot  where  his  feet  rested,  I  find 


662  THE    LEROUGE    AFFAIR 

dust.  We  are  thus  assured  of  the  hour.  The  widow  did  not  in 
the  least  expect  her  visitor.  She  had  commenced  undressing, 
and  was  winding  up  her  cuckoo  clock  when  he  knocked." 

"These  are  absolute  details  !"  cried  the  commissary. 

"But  easily  established."  replied  the  amateur.  "You  see  this 
cuckoo  clock  above  the  secretary :  it  is  one  of  those  which  run 
fourteen  or  fifteen  hours  at  most,  for  I  have  examined  it.  Now 
it  is  more  than  probable,  it  is  certain,  that  the  widow  wound 
it  up  every  evening  before  going  to  bed.  How,  then,  is  it  that 
the  clock  has  stopped  at  five?  Because  she  must  have  touched 
it.  As  she  was  drawing  the  chain  the  assassin  knocked.  In 
proof.  I  show  this  chair  standing  under  the  clock,  and  on  the 
seat  a  very  plain  footmark.  Now  look  at  the  dress  of  the  vic- 
tim ;  the  body  of  it  is  off.  In  order  to  open  the  door  more 
quickly,  she  did  not  wait  to  put  it  on  again,  but  hastily  threw 
this  old  shawl  over  her  shoulders. 

"By  Jove  !"  exclaimed  the  corporal,  evidently  struck. 

"The  widow,"  continued  the  old  fellow,  "knew  the  person 
who  knocked.  Her  haste  to  open  the  door  gives  rise  to  this 
conjecture;  what  follows  proves  it.  The  assassin  then  gained 
admission  without  difficulty.  He  is  a  young  man,  a  little  above 
the  middle  height,  elegantly  dressed.  He  wore  on  that  even- 
ing a  high  hat.  He  carried  an  umbrella,  and  smoked  a  trabucos 
cigar  in  a  holder." 

"Ridiculous !"  cried  Gevrol.     "This  is  too  much." 

"Too  much,  perhaps,"  retorted  old  Tabaret.  "At  all  events, 
it  is  the  truth.  If  you  are  not  minute  in  your  investigations, 
I  can  not  help  it;  anyhow,  I  am.  I  search,  and  I  find.  Too 
much,  say  you  ?  Well  deign  to  glance  at  these  lumps  of  damp 
plaster.  They  represent  the  heels  of  the  boots  worn  by  the 
assassin,  of  which  I  found  a  most  perfect  impression  near  the 
ditch  where  the  key  was  picked  up.  On  these  sheets  of  paper 
I  have  marked  in  outline  the  imprint  of  the  foot  which  I  can 
not  take  up,  because  it  is  on  some  sand.  Look !  heel  high, 
instep  pronounced,  sole  small  and  narrow — an  elegant  boot, 
belonging  to  a  foot  well  cared  for  evidently.  Look  for  this 
impression  all  along  the  path,  and  you  will  find  it  again  twice. 
Then  you  will  find  it  five  times  repeated  in  the  garden  where 
no  one  else  had  been;  and  these  footprints  prove,  by  the  way, 
that  the  stranger  knocked  not  at  the  door,  but  at  the  window- 
shutter,  beneath  which  shone  a  gleam  of  light.  At  the  entrance 
to  the  garden  the  man  leaped  to  avoid  a  flower-bed!  the  point 


THE    LEROUGE    AFFAIR  663 

of  the  foot,  more  deeply  imprinted  than  usual,  shows  it.  He 
leaped  more  than  two  yards  with  ease,  proving  that  he  is  active, 
and  theiefore  young." 

Old  Tabaret  spoke  in  a  low  voice,  clear  and  penetrating;  and 
his  eye  glanced  from  one  to  the  other  of  his  auditors,  watching 
the  impression  he  was  making.  "Does  the  hat  astonish  you, 
M.  Gevrol  ?"  he  pursued.  "Just  l°°k  at  the  circle  traced  in  the 
dust  on  the  marble  top  of  the  secretary.  Is  it  because  I  have 
mentioned  his  height  that  you  are  surprised?  Take  the  trouble 
to  examine  the  tops  of  the  wardrobes  and  you  will  see  that 
the  assassin  passed  his  hands  across  them.  Therefore  he  is  taller 
than  I  am.  Do  not  say  that  he  got  on  a  chair,  for  in  that  case  he 
would  have  seen  and  would  not  have  been  obliged  to  feel.  Are 
you  astonished  about  the  umbrella  ?  This  lump  of  earth  shows  an 
admirable  impression  not  only  of  the  end  of  the  stick,  but  even 
of  the  little  round  piece  of  wood  which  is  always  placed  at  the 
end  of  the  silk.  Perhaps  you  can  not  get  over  the  statement 
that  he  smoked  a  cigar?  Here  is  the  end  of  a  trabucos  that  I 
found  among  the  ashes.  Has  the  end  been  bitten  ?  No.  Has 
it  been  moistened  with  saliva?  No.  Then  he  who  smoked  it 
used  a  cigar-holder." 

Lecoq  was  unable  to  conceal  his  enthusiastic  admiration,  and 
noiselessly  rubbed  his  hands  together.  The  commissary  ap- 
peared stupefied,  while  M.  Daburon  was  delighted.  Gevrol's 
face,  on  the  contrary,  was  sensibly  elongated.  As  for  the  cor- 
poral, he  was  overwhelmed. 

"Now,"  continued  the  old  fellow,  "follow  me  closely.  We 
have  traced  the  young  man  into  the  house.  How  he  explained 
his  presence  at  this  hour,  I  do  not  know;  this  much  is  certain, 
he  told  the  widow  he  had  not  dined.  The  worthy  woman  was 
delighted  to  hear  it,  and  at  once  set  to  work  to  prepare  a  meal. 
This  meal  was  not  for  herself ;  for  in  the  cupboard  I  have 
found  the  remains  of  her  own  dinner.  She  had  dined  off  fish ; 
the  autopsy  will  confirm  the  truth  of  this  statement.  Besides 
you  can  see  yourselves,  there  is  but  one  glass  on  the  table 
and  one  knife.  But  who  is  this  young  man  ?  Evidently  the 
widow  looked  upon  him  as  a  man  of  superior  rank  to  her  own ; 
for  in  the  cupboard  is  a  table-cloth  still  very  clean.  Did  she 
use  it?  No.  For  her  guest  she  brought  out  a  clean  linen  one, 
her  very  best.  It  is  for  him  this  magnificent  glass,  a  present, 
no  doubt,  and  it  is  evident  she  did  not  often  use  this  knife  with 
the  ivory  handle." 


664  THE    LEROUGE   AFFAIR 

"That  is  all  true,"  murmured  M.  Daburon,  "very  true." 

"Now  then  we  have  got  the  young  man  seated.  He  began 
by  drinking  a  glass  of  wine,  while  the  widow  was  putting  her 
pan  on  the  fire.  Then,  his  heart  failing  him,  he  asked  for 
brandy,  and  swallowed  about  five  small  glassfuls.  After  an 
internal  struggle  of  ten  minutes  (the  time  it  must  have  taken 
to  cook  the  ham  and  eggs  as  much  as  they  are),  the  young 
man  arose  and  approached  the  widow,  who  was  squatting 
down  and  leaning  forward  over  her  cooking.  He  stabbed  her 
twice  in  the  back;  but  she  was  not  killed  instantly.  She  half 
arose  seizing  the  assassin  by  the  hands;  while  he  drew  back, 
lifting  her  suddenly,  and  then  hurling  her  down  in  the  position 
in  which  you  see  her.  This  short  struggle  is  indicated  by  the 
posture  of  the  body ;  for,  squatting  down  and  being  struck  in 
the  back,  it  is  naturally  on  her  back  that  she  ought  to  have 
fallen. 

"The  murderer  used  a  sharp  narrow  weapon,  which  was. 
unless  I  am  deceived,  the  end  of  a  foil,  sharpened,  and  with 
the  button  broken  off.  By  wiping  the  weapon  upon  his  vic- 
tim's skirt,  the  assassin  leaves  us  this  indication.  He  was 
not,  however,  hurt  in  the  struggle.  The  victim  must  have 
clung  with  a  death-grip  to  his  hands ;  but,  as  he  had  not  taken 
off  his  lavender  kid  gloves — " 

"Why  this  is  romance,"  exclaimed  Gevrol. 

"Have  you  examined  the  dead  woman's  finger-nails,  M. 
Gevrol  ?  -  No.  Well,  do  so,  and  then  tell  me  whether  I  am  mis- 
taken. The  woman,  now  dead,  we  come  to  the  object  of  her 
assassination.  What  did  this  well-dressed  young  gentleman 
want?  Money?  Valuables?  No!  no!  a  hundred  times  no! 
What  he  wanted,  what  he  sought,  and  what  he  found,  were 
papers,  documents,  letters,  which  he  knew  to  be  in  the  pos- 
session of  the  victim.  To  find  them,  he  overturned  everything, 
upset  the  cupboards,  unfolded  the  linen,  broke  open  the  secre- 
tary, of  which  he  could  not  find  the  key,  and  even  emptied 
the  mattress  of  the  bed.  At  last  he  found  these  documents. 
And  then  do  you  know  what  he  did  with  them  ?  Why,  burned 
them,  of  course;  not  in  the  fire-place,  but  in  the  little  stove  in 
the  front  room.  His  end  accomplished,  what  does  he  do  next? 
He  flies,  carrying  with  him  all  that  he  finds  valuable,  to  baffle 
detection,  by  suggesting  a  robbery.  He  wrapped  everything 
he  found  worth  taking  in  the  napkin  which  was  to  have  served 
him  at  dinner,  and  blowing  out  the  candle,  he  fled,  locking  the 

1 — Vol.  Ill — Gab. 


THE    LEROUGE   AFFAIR  665 

door  on  the  outside,  and  throwing  the  key  into  a  ditch.     And 
that    is    all." 

"M.  Tabaret,"  said  the  magistrate,  "your  investigation  is  ad- 
mirable; and  I  am  persuaded  your  inferences  are  correct." 

"Ah!"  cried  Lecoq,  "is  he  not  colossal,  my  old  Tirauclair?" 

"Pyramidal !"  cried  Gevrol  ironically.  "I  fear,  however,  your 
well-dressed  young  man  must  have  been  just  a  little  embar- 
rassed in  carrying  a  bundle  covered  with  a  snow  white  napkin, 
which  could  be  so  easily  seen  from  a  distance." 

"He  did  not  carry  it  a  hundred  leagues,"  responded  old 
Tabaret.  "You  may  well  believe,  that,  to  reach  the  railway 
station,  he  was  not  fool  enough  to  take  the  omnibus.  No,  he 
returned  on  foot  by  the  shortest  way,  which  borders  the  river. 
Now  on  reaching  the  Seine,  unless  he  is  more  knowing  than 
I  take  him  to  be,  his  first  care  was  to  throw  this  telltale  bundle 
into   the   water." 

"Do  you  believe  so,  M.  Tirauclair?"  asked  Gevrol. 

"I  don't  mind  making  a  bet  on  it ;  and  the  best  evidence  of 
my  belief  is,  that  I  have  sent  three  men,  under  the  surveillance 
of  a  gendarme,  to  drag  the  Seine  at  the  nearest  spot  from  here. 
If  they  succeed  in  finding  the  bundle,  I  have  promised  them  a 
recompense." 

"Out  of  your  own  pocket,  old  enthusiast?" 

"Yes,  M.  Gevrol,  out  of  my  own  pocket." 

"If  they  should,  however,  find  this  bundle!"  murmured  M. 
Daburon. 

He  was  interrupted  by  the  entrance  of  a  gendarme,  who 
said:  "Here  is  a  soiled  table-napkin,  filled  with  plate,  money, 
and  jewels,  which  these  men  have  found ;  they  claim  the  hun- 
dred francs'  reward,  promised  them." 

Old  Tabaret  took  from  his  pocket-book  a  bank-note,  which 
he  handed  to  the  gendarme.  "Now,"  demanded  he.  crushing 
Gevrol  with  one  disdainful  glance,  "what  thinks  the  investigat- 
ing magistrate  after  this?" 

"That,  thanks  to  your  remarkable  penetration,  we  shall  dis- 
cover, and — " 

He  did  not  finish.  The  doctor  summoned  to  make  the  post- 
mortem examination  entered  the  room.  That  unpleasant  task 
accomplished,  it  only  confirmed  the  assertions  and  conjectures 
of  old  Tabaret.  The  doctor  explained,  as  the  old  man  had 
done,  the  position  of  the  body.  In  his  opinion  also,  there  had 
been  a  struggle.     He  pointed  out  a  bluish  circle,  hardly  per- 

2— Vol.  Ill — Gab. 


666  THE    LEROUGE   AFFAIR 

ceptible,  round  the  neck  of  the  victim,  produced  apparently  by 
the  powerful  grasp  of  the  murderer;  fina'ly  he  declared  that 
Widow  Lerouge  had  eaten  about  three  hours  before  being 
struck. 

Nothing  now  remained  except  to  collect  the  different  objects 
which  would  be  useful  for  the  prosecution,  and  might  at  a 
later  period  confound  the  culprit.  Old  Tabaret  examined  with 
extreme  care  the  dead  woman's  finger  nails;  and,  using  infinite 
precaution,  he  even  extracted  from  behind  them  several  small 
particles  of  kid.  The  largest  of  these  pieces  was  not  above 
the  twenty-fifth  part  of  an  inch  in  length;  but  all  the  same 
their  color  was  easily  distinguishable.  He  put  aside  also  the 
part  of  the  dress  upon  which  the  assassin  had  wiped  his  weapon. 
These  with  the  bundle  recovered  from  the  Seine,  and  the 
different  casts  taken  by  the  old  fellow,  were  all  the  traces  the 
murderer  had  left  behind  him.  It  was  not  much ;  but  this  little 
was  enormous  in  the  eyes  of  M.  Daburon ;  and  he  had  strong 
hopes  of  discovering  the  culprit.  The  greatest  obstacle  to 
success  in  the  unraveling  of  mysterious  crimes  is  in  mistaking 
the  motive.  If  the  researches  take  at  the  first  step  a  false 
direction,  they  are  diverted  further  and  further  from  the  truth, 
in  proportion  to  the  length  they  are  followed.  Thanks  to  old 
Tabaret,  the  magistrate  felt  confident  that  he  was  on  the  right 
path. 

Night  had  come  on.  M.  Daburon  had  now  nothing  more 
to  do  at  La  Jonchere;  but  Gevrol,  who  still  clung  to  his  own 
opinion  of  the  guilt  of  the  man  with  the  rings  in  his  ears, 
declared  he  would  remain  at  Bougival.  He  determined  to 
employ  the  evening  in  visiting  the  different  wine-shops,  and 
finding,  if  possible,  new  witnesses.  At  the  moment  of  departure, 
after  the  commissary  and  the  entire  party  had  wished  M. 
Daburon  good  night,  the  latter  asked  M.  Tabaret  to  accom- 
pany him. 

"I  was  about  to  solicit  that  honor,"  replied  the  old  fellow. 
They  set  out  together;  and  naturally  the  crime  which  had 
been  discovered,  and  with  which  they  were  mutually  preoc- 
cupied, formed  the  subject  of  their  conversation. 

"Shall  we,  or  shall  we  not,  ascertain  the  antecedents  of  this 
woman !"  repeated  old  Tabaret.    "All  depends  upon  that  now  I" 

"We  shall  ascertain  them,  if  the  grocer's  wife  has  told  the 
truth,"  replied  M.  Daburon.  "If  the  husband  of  Widow  Le- 
rouge was  a  sailor,  and  if  her  son  Jacques  is  in  the  navy,  the 


THE    LEROUGE   AFFAIR  667 

minister  of  marine  can  furnish  information  that  will  soon 
lead  to  their  discovery.  I  will  write  to  the  minister  this  very 
night." 

They  reached  the  station  at  Rueil,  and  took  their  places  in 
the  train.  They  were  fortunate  enough  to  secure  a  first-class 
carriage  to  themselves.  But  old  Tabar^t  was  no  longer  dis- 
posed for  conversation.  He  reflected,  he  sought,  he  combined; 
and  in  his  face  might  easily  be  read  the  working  of  his  thoughts. 
M.  Daburon  watched  him  curiously  and  felt  singularly  attracted 
by  this  eccentric  old  man,  whose  very  original  taste  had  led 
him  to  devote  his  services  to  the  secret  police  of  the  Rue  de 
Jerusalem.  "M.  Tabaret,"  he  suddenly  asked,  "have  you  been 
long  associated  with  the  police?" 

"Nine  years,  M.  Daburon,  more  than  nine  years;  and  permit 
me  to  confess  I  am  a  little  surprised  that  you  have  never  before 
heard   of  me." 

"I  certainly  knew  you  by  reputation,"  answered  M.  Daburon; 
"but  your  name  did  not  occur  to  me,  and  it  was  only  in  conse- 
quence of  hearing  you  praised  that  I  had  the  excellent  idea 
of  asking  your  assistance.  But  what,  I  should  like  to  know,  is 
your  reason  for  adopting  this  employment?" 

"Sorrow,  sir,  loneliness,  weariness.  Ah !  I  have  not  always 
been   happy !" 

"I  have  been  told,  though,  that  you  are  rich." 

The  old  fellow  heaved  a  deep  sigh,  which  revealed  the 
most  cruel  deceptions.  "I  am  well  off,  sir,"  he  replied;  "but  I 
have  not  always  been  so.  Until  I  was  forty-five  years  old,  my 
life  was  a  series  of  absurd  and  useless  privations.  I  had  a 
father  who  wasted  my  youth,  ruined  my  life,  and  made  me  the 
most  pitiable  of  human  creatures." 

There  are  men  who  can  never  divest  themselves  of  their 
professional  habits.  M.  Daburon  was  at  all  times  and  seasons 
more  or  less  an  investigating  magistrate.  "How,  M.  Taba- 
ret?" he  inquired;  "your  father  the  author  of  all  your  mis- 
fortunes ?" 

"Alas,  yes,  sir !  I  have  forgiven  him  at  last ;  but  I  used  to 
curse  him  heartily.  In  the  first  transports  of  my  resentment, 
I  heaped  upon  his  memory  all  the  insults  that  can  be  inspired 
by  the  most  violent  hatred,  when  I  learnt  .  .  .  But  I  will 
confide  my  history  to  you,  M.  Daburon.  When  I  was  five  and 
twenty  years  of  age,  I  was  earning  two  thousand  francs  a  year, 
as  a  clerk  at  the   Monte  de  Piete.     One  morning  my  father 


668  THE    LEROUGE   AFFAIR 

entered  my  lodging,  and  abruptly  announced  to  me  that  he 
was  ruined,  and  without  food  or  shelter.  He  appeared  in 
dispair,  and  talked  of  killing  himself.  I  loved  my  father. 
Naturally,  I  strove  to  reassure  him ;  I  boasted  of  my  situation, 
and  explained  to  him  as  some  length,  that,  while  I  earned  the 
means  for  living,  he  should  want  for  nothing;  and.  to  commence, 
I  insisted  that  henceforth  we  should  live  together.  No  sooner 
said  than  done,  and  during  twenty  years  I  was  encumbered 
with   the   old—" 

"What!  you  repent  of  your  admirable  conduct,  M.  Tabaret?" 

"Do  I  repent  of  it !    That  is  to  say  he  deserved  to  be  poisoned 
by  the  bread  I  gave  him." 

M.    Daburon   was   unable   to   repress   a  gesture  of  surprise, 
which  did  not  escape  the  old  fellow's  notice. 

"Hear,  before  you  condemn  me,"  he  continued.  "There  was 
I  at  twenty-five,  imposing  upon  myself  the  severest  privations 
for  the  sake  of  my  father, — no  more  friends,  no  more  flirta- 
tions, nothing.  In  the  evenings,  to  augment  our  scanty 
revenues,  I  worked  at  copying  law  papers  for  a  notary.  I  denied 
myself  even  the  luxury  of  tobacco.  Notwithstanding  this,  the 
old  fellow  complained  without  ceasing;  he  regretted  his  lost 
fortune;  he  must  have  pocket-money,  with  which  to  buy  this, 
or  that;  my  utmost  exertions  failed  to  satisfy  him.  Ah, 
Heaven  alone  knows  what  I  suffered.  I  was  not  born  to  live 
alone  and  grow  old  like  a  dog.  I  longed  for  the  pleasures  of 
a  home  and  a  family.  My  dream  was  to  marry,  to  adore  a 
good  wife,  by  whom  I  might  be  loved  a  little,  and  to  see  inno- 
cent healthy  little  ones  gamboling  about  my  knees.  But  pshaw ! 
when  such  thoughts  entered  my  heart  and  forced  a  tear  or  two 
from  my  eyes,  I  rebelled  against  myself.  I  said:  'My  lad, 
when  you  earn  but  three  thousand  francs  a  year,  and  have  an 
old  and  cherished  father  to  support,  it  is  your  duty  to  stifle 
such  desires,  and  remain  a  bachelor.'  And  yet  I  met  a  young 
girl.  It  is  thirty  years  now  since  that  time;  well!  just  look 
at  me,  I  am  sure  I  am  blushing  as  red  as  a  tomato.  Tier  name 
was  Hortense.  Who  can  tell  what  has  become  of  her!  She 
was  beautiful  and  poor.  Well,  I  was  quite  an  old  man  when 
my  father  died,  the  wretch,  the — " 

"M.    Tabaret !"   interrupted   the   magistrate,   "for   shame,    M. 
Tabaret !" 

"But    I    have    already    told    you,    I    have    forgiven    him.    sir. 
However  you  will  soon  understand  my  anger.     On  the  day  of 


THE    LEROUGE   AFFAIR  66$ 

bis  death,  looking  in  his  secretary,  I  found  a  memorandum 
of  an  income  of  twenty  thousand  francs !" 

"How  so !  was  he  rich  ?" 

"Yes,  very  rich;  for  that  was  not  all;  he  owned  near 
Orleans  a  property  leased  for  six  thousand  francs  a  year.  He 
owned,  besides,  the  house  I  now  live  in,  where  we  lived  to- 
gether; and  I,  fool,  sot,  imbecile,  stupid  animal  that  I  was, 
used  to  pay  the  rent  every  three  months  to  the  concierge!" 

"That  was  too  much !"  M.  Daburon  could  not  help  saying. 

"Was  it  not,  sir?  I  was  robbing  myself  of  my  own  money! 
To  crown  his  hypocrisy,  he  left  a  will  wherein  he  declared,  in 
the  name  of  the  Holy  Trinity,  that  he  had  no  other  aim  in  view, 
in  thus  acting,  than  my  own  advantage.  He  wished,  so  he  wrote, 
to  habituate  me  to  habits  of  good  order  and  economy,  and 
keep  me  from  the  commission  of  follies.  And  I  was  forty-five 
years  old,  and  for  twenty  years  I  had  been  reproaching  myself 
if  ever  I  spent  a  single  sou  uselessly.  In  short,  he  had  specu- 
lated on  my  good  heart,  he  had —  Bah !  on  my  word,  it  is 
enough  to  disgust  the  human  race  with  filial  piety !" 

M;  Tabaret's  anger,  albeit  very  real  and  justified,  was  so 
highly  ludicrous,  that  M.  Daburon  had  much  difficulty  to 
restrain  his  laughter,  in  spite  of  the  real  sadness  of  the  recital. 

'"At  least,"  said  he,  "this  fortune  must  have  given  you 
pleasure."  \ 

"Not  at  all,  sir,  it  came  too  late.  Of  what  avail  to  have  the 
bread  when  one  has  no  longer  the  teeth?  The  marriageable 
age  had  passed.  I  resigned  my  situation,  however,  to  make 
way  for  some  one  poorer  than  myself.  At  the  end  of  a  month 
I  was  sick  and  tired  of  life;  and,  to  replace  the  affections  that 
had  been  denied  me,  I  resolved  to  give  myself  a  passion,  a 
hobby,  a  mania.  I  became  a  collector  of  books.  You  think, 
sir,  perhaps  that  to  take  an  interest  in  books  a  man  must  have 
studied,  must  be  learned?" 

"I  know,  dear  M.  Tabaret,  that  he  must  have  money.  I 
am  acquainted  with  an  illustrious  bibliomaniac  who  may  be 
able  to  read,  but  who  is  most  certainly  unable  to  sign  his  own 

name." 

"This  is  verv  likely.  I,  too.  can  read;  and  I  read  all  the 
books  I  bought.  T  collected  all  T  could  find  which  related,  no 
matter  how  little  to  the  police.  Memoirs,  reports,  pamphlets, 
speeches,  letters,  novels — all  stated  me;  and  I  devoured  them. 
So  much  so,  that  little  by  little  I  became  attracted  toward  the 


670  THE    LEROUGE   AFFAIR 

mysterious  power  which,  from  the  obscurity  of  the  Rue  de 
Jerusalem,  watches  over  and  protects  society,  which  penetrates 
everywhere,  lifts  the  most  impervious  veils,  sees  through  every 
plot,  divines  what  is  kept  hidden,  knows  exactly  the  value  of  a 
man,  the  price  of  a  conscience,  and  which  accumulates  in  its 
portfolios  the  most  terrible,  as  well  as  the  most  shameful 
secrets !  In  reading  the  memoirs  of  celebrated  detectives,  more 
attractive  to  me  than  the  fables  of  our  best  authors,  I  became 
inspired  by  an  enthusiastic  admiration  for  those  men,  so  keen 
scented,  so  subtle,  flexible  as  steel,  artful  and  penetrating,  fertile 
in  expedients,  who  follow  crime  on  the  trail,  armed  with  the 
law,  through  the  brushwood  of  legality,  as  relentlessly  as  the 
savages  of  Cooper  pursue  their  enemies  in  the  depths  of  the 
American  forests.  The  desire  seized  me  to  become  a  wheel 
of  this  admirable  machine — a  small  assistance  in  the  punish- 
ment of  crime  and  the  triumph  of  innocence.  I  made  the  essay; 
and  I  found  I  did  not  succeed  too  badly." 

"And  does  this  employment  please  you?" 

"I  owe  to  it,  sir,  my  liveliest  enjoyments.  Adieu  weariness ! 
since  I  have  abandoned  the  search  for  books  to  the  search 
for  men.  I  shrug  my  shoulders  when  I  see  a  foolish  fellow 
pay  twenty-five  francs  for  the  right  of  hunting  a  hare.  What 
a  prize !  Give  me  the  hunting  of  a  man !  That,  at  least,  calls 
tfte  faculties  into  play,  and  the  victory  is  not  inglorious !  The 
game  in  my  sport  is  equal  to  the  hunter;  they  both  possess 
intelligence,  strength,  and  cunning.  The  arms  are  nearly 
equal.  Ah  !  if  people  but  knew  the  excitement  of  these  games 
of  hide  and  seek  which  are  played  between  the  criminal  and 
the  detective,  everybody  would  be  wanting  employment  at  the 
office  of  the  Rue  de  Jerusalem.  The  misfortune  is,  that  the 
art  is  becoming  lost.  Great  crimes  are  now  so  rare.  The  race 
of  strong  fearless  criminals  has  given  place  to  the  mob  of 
vulgar  pick-pockets.  The  few  rascals  who  are  heard  of  oc- 
casionally are  as  cowardly  as  foolish.  They  sign  their  names 
to  their  misdeeds,  and  even  leave  their  cards  lying  about. 
There  is  no  merit  in  catching  them.  Their  crime  found  out, 
you  have  only  to  go  and  arrest  them." 

"It  seems  to  me.  though,"  interrupted  M.  Daburon,  smiling, 
"that  our  assassin   is  not  such  a  bungler." 

"He,  sir,  is  an  exception;  and  I  shall  have  greater  delight 
in  tracking  him.  I  will  do  everything  for  that,  I  will  even 
compromise  myself  if  necessary.     For  I  ought  to  confess,  M. 


THE    LEROUGE    AFFAIR 


671 


Daburon,"  added  he,  slightly  embarrassed,  "that  I  do  not 
boast  to  my  friends  of  my  exploits ;  I  even  conceal  them  as 
carefully  as  possible.  They  would  perhaps  shake  hands  with 
me  less  warmly  did  they  know  that  Tirauclair  and  Tabaret 
were  one  and  the  same." 

Insensibly  the  crime  became  again  the  subject  of  conversa- 
tion. It  was  agreed,  that,  the  first  thing  in  the  morning,  M. 
Tabaret  should  install  himself  at  Bougival.  He  boasted  that  in 
eight  days  he  should  examine  all  the  people  round  about.  On 
his  side  M.  Daburon  promised  to  keep  him  advised  of  the 
least  evidence  that  transpired,  and  recall  him,  if  by  any  chance 
he  should  procure  the  papers  of  Widow  Lerouge. 

"To  you,  M.  Tabaret,"  said  the  magistrate  in  conclusion, 
"I  shall  be  always  at  home.  If  you  have  any  occasion  to  speak 
to  me,  do  not  hesitate  to  come  at  night  as  well  as  during  the 
day.  I  rarely  go  out,  and  you  will  always  find  me  either  at  my 
home,  Rue  Jacob,  or  in  my  office  at  the  Palais  de  Justice.  I 
will  give  orders  for  your  admittance  whenever  you  present 
yourself." 

The  train  entered  the  station  at  this  moment.  M.  Daburon, 
having  called  a  cab,  offered  a  seat  to  M.  Tabaret.  The  old 
fellow  declined.  "It  is  not  worth  while,"  he  replied,  "for  I 
live,  as  I  have  had  the  honor  of  telling  you,  in  the  Rue  St. 
Lazare,  only  a  few  steps  from  here." 

"Till  to-morrow,  then !"  said  M.  Daburon. 

"Till  to-morrow,"  replied  old  Tabaret ;  and  he  added,  "We 
shall  succeed." 


TVyf  TABARET'S  house  was  in  fact  not  more  than  four  min- 
*y«l«  utes'  walk  from  the  railway  terminus  of  St.  Lazare.  It 
was  a  fine  building  carefully  kept,  and  which  probably  yielded 
a  fine  income,  though  the  rents  were  not  too  high.  The  old 
fellow  found  plenty  of  room  in  it.  He  occupied  on  the  first 
floor,  overlooking  the  street,  some  handsome  apartments,  well 
arranged  and  comfortably  furnished,  the  principal  of  which  was 


672  THE    LEROUGE    AFFAIR 

his  collection  of  books.  He  lived  very  simply  from  taste,  as 
well  as  habit,  waited  on  by  an  old  servant,  to  whom  on  great 
occasions  the  concierge  lent  a  helping  hand. 

No  one  in  the  house  had  the  slightest  suspicion  of  the  avoca- 
tions of  the  proprietor.  Besides,  even  the  humblest  agent  of 
police  would  be  expected  to  possess  a  degree  of  acuteness  for 
which  no  one  gave  M.  Tabaret  credit.  Indeed,  they  mistook  for 
incipient  idiocy  his  continual  abstraction  of  mind.  It  is  true 
that  all  who  knew  him  remarked  the  singularity  of  his  habits. 
His  frequent  absences  from  home  had  given  to  his  proceedings 
an  appearance  at  once  eccentric  and  mysterious.  Never  was 
young  libertine  more  irregular  in  his  habits  than  this  old  man. 
He  came  or  failed  to  come  home  to  his  meals,  ate  it  mattered 
not  what  or  when.  He  went  out  at  every  hour  of  the  day  and 
night,  often  slept  abroad,  and  even  disappeared  for  entire  weeks 
at  a  time.  Then,  too,  he  received  the  strangest  visitors,  odd- 
looking  men  of  suspicious  appearance,  and  fellows  of  ill-favored 
and  sinister  aspect.  This  irregular  way  of  living  had  robbed 
the  old  fellow  of  much  consideration.  Many  believed  they  saw 
in  him  a  shameless  libertine,  who  squandered  his  income  in  dis- 
reputable places.  They  would  remark  to  one  another:  "Is  it 
not  disgraceful  in  a  man  of  his  age  ?"  He  was  aware  of  all  this 
tittle-tattle,  and  laughed  at  it.  This  did  not,  however,  prevent 
many  of  his  tenants  from  seeking  his  society  and  paying  court 
to  him.  They  would  invite  him  to  dinner,  but  he  almost  in- 
variably refused. 

He  seldom  visited  but  one  person  of  the  house,  but  with  that 
one  he  was  very  intimate,  so  much  so,  indeed,  that  he  was 
more  often  in  her  apartment  than  in  his  own.  She  was  a  widow 
lady,  who  for  fifteen  years  had  occupied  an  apartment  on  the 
third  floor.  Her  name  was  Madame  Gerdy,  and  she  lived  with 
her  son  Noel,  whom  she  adored. 

Noel  Gerdy  was  a  man  thirty-three  years  of  age,  but  looking 
older;  tall  and  well  made,  he  had  a  noble  and  intelligent  face, 
large  black  eyes,  and  black  hair  which  curled  naturally.  A 
barrister,  he  passed  for  having  great  talent,  and  greater  industry, 
and  had  already  gained  a  certain  amount  of  notoriety.  He  was 
an  obstinate  worker,  cold  and  meditative,  though  devoted  to  his 
profession,  and  affected,  with  some  ostentation,  perhaps,  a  great 
rigidity  of  principle,  and  austerity  of  manners. 

In  Madame  Gerdy's  apartment,  old  Tabaret  felt  himself  quite 
at   home.     He  considered  her  as  a  relation,  and  looked  upon 


THE    LEROUGE   AFFAIR  673 

Noel  as  a  son.  In  spite  of  her  fifty  years,  he  had  often  thought 
of  asking  the  hand  of  his  charming  widow,  and  was  restrained 
less  by  the  fear  of  a  refusal  than  its  consequence.  To  propose 
and  to  be  rejected  would  sever  the  existing  relations,  so  pleas- 
urable to  biin.  However,  he  had  by  his  will,  which  was  de- 
posited with  his  notary,  constituted  this  young  barrister  his  sole 
legatee ;  with  the  single  condition  of  founding  an  annual  prize 
of  two  thousand  francs  to  be  bestowed  on  the  police  agent  who 
during  the  year  had  unraveled  the  most  obscure  and  myste- 
rious crime. 

Short  as  was  the  distance  to  his  house,  old  Tabaret  was  a 
good  quarter  of  an  hour  in  reaching  it.  On  leaving  M.  Dabu- 
ron  his  thoughts  reverted  to  the  scene  of  the  murder ;  and  so 
blinded  was  the  old  fellow  to  external  objects  that  he  moved 
along  the  street,  first  jostled  on  the  right,  then  on  the  left,  by 
the  busy  passers-by,  advancing  one  step  and  receding  two.  He 
repeated  to  himself  for  the  fiftieth  time  the  words  uttered  by 
Widow  Lerouge,  as  reported  by  the  milkwoman.  "If  I  wished 
for  any  more,  I  could  have  it."  , 

"All  is  in  that,"  murmured  he.  "Widow  Lerouge  possessed 
some  important  secret,  which  persons  rich  and  powerful  had  the 
strongest  motives  for  concealing.  She  had  them  in  her  power, 
and  that  was  her  fortune.  She  made  them  sing  to  her  tune ; 
she  probably  went  too  far,  and  so  they  suppressed  her.  But 
of  what  nature  was  this  secret,  and  how  did  she  become  pos- 
sessed of  it?  Most  likely  she  was  in  her  youth  a  servant  in 
some  great  family ;  and  while  there,  she  saw,  heard,  or  dis- 
covered something.  What?  Evidently  there  is  a  woman  at  the 
bottom  of  it.  Did  she  assist  her  mistress  in  some  love  intrigue  ? 
What  more  probable?  And  in  that  case  the  affair  becomes  even 
more  complicated.  Not  only  must  the  woman  be  found  but  her 
lover  also ;  for  it  is  the  lover  who  has  moved  in  this  affair. 
He  is,  or  I  am  greatly  deceived,  a  man  of  noble  birth.  A  per- 
son of  inferior  rank  would  have  simply  hired  an  assassin. 
This  man  has  not  hung  back:  he  himself  has  struck  the  blow, 
and  by  that  means  avoiding  the  indiscretion  or  the  stupidity  of 
an  accomplice.  He  is  a  courageous  rascal,  full  of  audacity  and 
coolness,  for  the  crime  has  been  admirably  executed.  The  fel- 
low left  nothing  behind  of  a  nature  to  compromise  him  seri- 
ously. But  for  me,  Gevrol,  believing  in  the  robbery,  would  have 
seen  nothing.  Fortunately,  however,  I  was  there.  .  .  .  But  yet 
it  can  be  hardly   that,"   continued   the  old   man.     "It   must  be 


674  THE    LEROUGE    AFFAIR 

something  worse  than  a  mere  love  affair."  Old  Tabaret  entered 
the  porch  of  the  house.  The  concierge,  seated  by  the  window 
of  his  lodge,  saw  him  as  he  passed  beneath  the  gas-lamp.  "Ah," 
said  he,  "the  proprietor  has  returned  at  last." 

"So  he  has,"  replied  his  wife,  "but  it  looks  as  though  his 
princess  would  have  nothing  to  do  with  him  to-night.  He 
seems  more  loose  than  ever." 

"Is  it  not  positively  indecent?"  said  the  concierge,  "and  isn't 
he  in  a  state  !  His  fair  ones  do  treat  him  well !  One  of  these 
fine  mornings  I  shall  have  to  take  him  to  a  lunatic  asylum  in 
a  strait  waistcoat." 

"Look  at  him  now  !"  interrupted  his  wife,  "just  look  at  him 
now,  in  the  middle  of  the  courtyard !" 

The  old  fellow  had  stopped  at  the  extremity  of  the  porch. 
He  had  taken  off  his  hat,  and,  while  talking  to  himself,  ges- 
ticulated violently.  "No,"  said  he,  "I  have  not  yet  got  hold 
of  the  clue.  I  am  getting  near  it ;  but  have  not  yet  found  it 
out." 

He  mounted  the  staircase,  and  rang  his  bell,  forgetting  that 
he  had  his  latch-key  in  his  pocket.  His  housekeeper  opened 
the  door.    "What,  is  it  you,  sin*'  said  she,  "and  at  this  hour!" 

"What's  that  you  say?"  asked  the  old  fellow. 

"I  say,"  replied  the  housekeeper,  "that  it  is  more  than  half- 
past  eight  o'clock.  I  thought  you  were  not  coming  back  this 
evening.     Have  you  at  least  dined?" 

"No,  not  yet." 

"Well,  fortunately  I  have  kept  your  dinner  warm.  You  can 
sit  down  to  it  at  once." 

Old  Tabaret  took  his  place  at  the  table,  and  helped  himself 
to  soup,  but  mounting  his  hobby-horse  again,  he  forgot  to  eat, 
and  remained,  his  spoon  in  the  air,  as  though  suddenly  struck 
by  an  idea. 

"He  is  certainly  touched  in  the  head,"  thought  Manette,  the 
housekeeper.  "Look  at  that  stupid  expression.  Who  in  his 
senses  would  lead  the  life  he  does?"  She  touched  him  on  the 
shoulder,  and  blawled  in  his  ear,  as  if  he  were  leaf:  "You  do  not 
eat.     Are  you  not  hungry?" 

"Yes,  yes,"  muttered  he,  trying  mechanically  to  escape  the 
voice  that  sounded  in  his  ears,  "I  am  very  hungry,  for  since 
the  morning  I  have  been  obliged — "  He  interrupted  himself, 
remaining  with  his  mouth  open,  his  eyes  fixed  on  vacancy. 

"You  were  obliged — ?"  repeated  Manette. 


THE    LEROUGE   AFFAIR  675 

"Thunder !"  cried  he,  raising  his  clenched  fists  toward  the 
ceiling — "heaven's   thunder  !    I   have  it !" 

His  movement  was  so  violent  and  sudden  that  the  house- 
keeper was  a  little  alarmed,  and  retired  to  the  further  end  of 
the  dining-room,  near  the  door.  "Yes,"  continued  he,  "it  is 
certain  there  is  a  child!" 

Manette  approached  him  quickly.  "A  child?"  she  asked  in 
astonishment. 

"What  next !"  cried  he  in  a  furious  tone.  "What  are  you 
doing  there?  Has  your  hardihood  come  to  this  that  you  pick 
up  the  words  which  escape  me?  Do  me  the  pleasure  to  retire 
to  your  kitchen,  and  stay  there  until  I  call  you." 

"He  is  going  crazy !"  thought  Manette,  as  she  disappeared 
very  quickly. 

Old  Tabaret  resumed  his  seat.  He  hastily  swallowed  his 
soup  which  was  completely  cold.  "Why,"  said  he  to  himself, 
"did  I  not  think  of  it  before?  Poor  humanity!  I  am  growing 
old,  and  my  brain  is  worn  out.  For  it  is  clear  as  day;  the  cir- 
cumstances all  point  to  that  conclusion."  He  rang  the  bell 
placed  on  the  table  beside  him;  the  servant  reappeared.  "Bring 
the  roast,"  he  said,  "and  leave  me  to  myself." 

"Yes,"  continued  he,  furiously  carving  a  leg  of  presale  mut- 
ton— "yes,  there  is  a  child,  and  here  is  his  history !  Widow 
Lerouge  is  in  the  service  of  a  great  lady,  immensely  rich.  Her 
husband,  a  sailor  probably,  departs  on  a  long  voyage.  The 
lady,  who  has  a  lover,  finds  herself  enceinte.  She  confides  in 
Widow  Lerouge,  and  with  her  assistance  is  clandestinelv  con- 
fined." 

He  rang  again.  "Manette,  bring  the  dessert,  and  then  leave 
the  room !" 

Certainly  such  a  master  was  unworthy  of  so  excellent  a  cook. 
He  would  have  been  puzzled  to  say  what  he  had  eaten  for  his 
dinner,  or  even  what  he  was  eating  at  that  moment;  it  was  some 
preserved  pears. 

"But  the  child;  what  has  become  of  the  child?"  murmured 
he.  "Has  it  been  destroyed  ?  No ;  for  Widow  Lerouge,  an 
accomplice  in  an  infanticide,  would  be  no  longer  formidable. 
The  lover  wished  it  to  live,  and  it  was  confided  to  the  care  of 
our  widow,  by  whom  it  has  been  reared.  They  have  been  able 
to  take  the  child  from  her,  but  not  the  proofs  of  its  birth  and  its 
existence.  That's  what  bothered  them.  The  father  is  the  man 
with  the  fine  carriage ;  the  mother  is  no  other  than  the  woman 


676  THE   LEROUGE   AFFAIR 

who  came  with  the  handsome  young  man.  Ha !  ha  !  I  can  well 
believe  the  dear  old  dame  wanted  for  nothing !  Some  secrets 
are  worth  a  farm  in  Brie.  Two  persons  to  fleece.  It  is  true, 
though,  that  indulging  in  a  lover,  her  expenses  were  bound  to 
increase  every  year.  Poor  humanity !  the  heart  has  its  wants. 
She  turned  the  screw  too  much  and  it  broke.  She  has  threat- 
ened. They  have  been  frightened,  and  said :  'Let's  put  a  stop 
to  it!'  But  who  has  been  charged  with  the  commission?  The 
papa  ?  No ;  he  is  too  old.  It  is  the  son  !  of  course.  He  wished 
to  save  his  mother,  the  pretty  boy !  He  has  killed  the  widow 
and  burned  the  proofs !" 

Manette  all  this  time  had  her  ear  to  the  keyhole,  and  listened 
intently.  From  time  to'time  she  gleaned  a  word,  an  oath,  the 
noise  of  a  blow  upon  the  table;  but  that  was  all.  "For  cer- 
tain," thought  she,  "he  is  worried  about  his  women.  They 
want  him  to  believe  he  is  a  father."  Her  curiosity  so  over- 
came her  prudence  that,  being  no  longer  able  to  withstand  the 
temptation,  she  ventured  to  open  the  door  a  little  way.  "Did 
you  call  for  your  coffee,  sir?"  she  stammered  timidly. 

"No,  but  you  may  bring  it  to  me,"  replied  old  Tabaret.  He 
attempted  to  swallow  it  at  a  gulp,  but  scalded  himself  so 
severely  that  the  pain  brought  him  suddenly  from  speculation 
to  reality. 

"Thunder!"  growled  he:  "but  it  is  hot!  Devil  take  the  case! 
it  has  set  me  beside  myself.  They  are  right  when  they  say  I 
am  too  enthusiastic.  But  who  among  the  whole  lot  of  them 
could  have,  by  the  sole  exercise  of  observation  and  reason,  es- 
tablished the  whole  history  of  the  assassination?  Certainly  not 
Gevrol,  poor  man !  Won't  he  feel  vexed  and  humiliated,  being 
altogether  out  of  it.  Shall  I  seek  M.  Daburon?  No,  not  yet. 
The  night  is  necessary  to  me  to  sift  to  the  bottom  all  the  par- 
ticulars, and  arrange  my  ideas  systematically.  But.  on  the 
other  hand,  if  I  sit  here  all  alone,  this  confounded  case  will 
keep  me  in  a  fever  of  speculation,  and  as  I  have  just  eaten  a 
great  deal,  I  may  get  an  attack  of  indigestion.  My  faith  !  I 
will  call  upon  Madame  Gerdy:  she  has  been  ailing  for  some 
days  past.  I  will  have  a  chat  with  Noel,  and  that  will  change 
the  course  of  my  ideas."  He  got  up  from  the  table,  put  on  his 
overcoat,  and  took  his  hat  and  cane. 

"Are  you  going  out,  sir?"  asked  Manette. 

"Yes." 

"Shall  you  be  late?" 


THE    LEROUGE   AFFAIR  677 

"Possibly." 

"But  you  will  return  to-night?" 

"I  do  not  know."  One  minute  later,  M.  Tabaret  was  ringing 
his  friend's  bell. 

Madame  Gerdy  lived  in  respectable  style.  She  possessed  suf- 
ficient for  her  wants ;  and  her  son's  practise,  already  large,  had 
made  them  almost  rich.  She  lived  very  quietly,  and  with  the 
exception-  of  one  or  two  friends,  whom  Noel  occasionally  in- 
vited to  dinner,  received  very  few  visitors.  During  more  than 
fifteen  years  that  M.  Tabaret  came  familiarly  to  the  apartments, 
he  had  only  met  the  cure  of  the  parish,  one  of  Noel's  old  pro- 
fessors, and  Madame  Gerdy's  brother,  a  retired  colonel.  When 
these  three  visitors  happened  to  call  on  the  same  evening,  an 
event  somewhat  rare,  they  played  at  a  round  game  called  Bos- 
ton;  on  other  evenings  piquet  or  all-fours  was  the  rule.  Noel, 
however,  seldom  remained  in  the  drawing-room,  but  shut  him- 
self up  after  dinner  in  his  study,  which  with  his  bedroom  formed 
a  separate  apartment  to  his  mother's,  and  immersed  himself  in 
his  law  papers.  He  was  supposed  to  work  far  into  the  night. 
Often  in  winter  his  lamp  was  not  extinguished  before  dawn. 
Mother  and  son  absolutely  lived  for  one  another,  as  all  who 
knew  them  took  pleasure  in  repeating.  They  loved  and  honored 
Noel  for  the  care  he  bestowed  upon  his  mother,  for  his  more 
than  filial  devotion,  for  the  sacrifices  which  all  supposed  he 
made  in  living  at  his  age  like  an  old  man.  The  neighbors  were 
in  the  habit  of  contrasting  the  conduct  of  this  exemplary  young 
man  with  that  of  M.  Tabaret,  the  incorrigible  old  rake,  the 
hairless  dangler.  As  for  Madame  Gerdy,  she  saw  nothing  but 
her  son  in  all  the  world.  Her  love  had  actually  taken  the  form 
of  worship.  In  Noel  she  believed  she  saw  united  all  the  physi- 
cal and  moral  perfections.  To  her  he  seemed  of  a  superior 
order  to  the  rest  of  humanity.  If  he  spoke,  she  was  silent  and 
listened :  his  word  was  a  command,  his  advice  a  decree  of  Provi- 
dence. To  care  for  her  son.  study  his  tastes,  anticipate  his 
wishes,  was  the  sole  aim  of  her  life.     She  was  a  mother. 

"Is  Madame  Gerdy  visible?"  asked  old  Tabaret  of  the  girl 
who  opened  the  door;  and.  without  waiting  for  an  answer,  he 
walked  into  the  room  like  a  man  assured  that  his  presence  can 
not  be  inopportune,  and  ought  to  be  agreeable. 

A  single  candle  lighted  the  drawing-room,  which  was  not  in 
its  accustomed  order.  The  small  marble-top  table,  usuallv  in 
the  middle  of  the  room,  had  been  rolled  into  a  corner.    Madame 


678  THE    LEROUGE    AFFAIR 

Gerdv's  large  armchair  was  near  the  window ;  a  newspaper,  all 
crumpled,  lay  before  it  on  the  carpet.  The  amateur  detective 
took  in  the  whole  at  a  glance.  "Has  any  accident  happened  ?" 
he  asked  of  the  girl. 

"Do  not  speak  of  it,  sir:  we  have  just  had  a  fright!  oh,  such 
a  fright !" 

"What  was  it  ?     Tell  me  quickly  !" 

"You  know  that  madame  has  been  ailing  for  the  last  month. 
She  has  eaten  I  may  say  almost  nothing.  This  morning,  even, 
she  said  to  me — " 

"Yes,  yes!  but  this  evening?" 

"After  her  dinner,  madame  went  into  the  drawing-room  as 
usual.  She  sat  down  and  took  up  one  of  M.  Noel's  newspapers. 
Scarcely  had  she  begun  to  read,  when  she  uttered  a  great  cry 
— oh,  a  terrible  cry !  We  hastened  to  her ;  madame  had  fallen 
on  to  the  floor,  as  one  dead,  M.  Noel  raised  her  in  his  arms, 
and  carried  her  into  her  room.  I  wanted  to  fetch  the  doctor, 
sir,  but  he  said  there  was  no  need ;  he  knew  what  was  the 
matter  with  her." 

"And  how  is  she  now?" 

"She  has  come  to  her  senses;  that  is  to  say,  I  suppose  so; 
for  M.  Xoel  made  me  leave  the  room.  All  that  I  do  know  is, 
that  a  little  while  ago  she  was  talking,  and  talking  very  loudly 
too,  for  I  heard  her.     Ah,  sir,  it  is  all  the  same,  very  strange?" 

"What  is  strange?" 

"What  I  heard  Madame  Gerdy  say  to  M.  Noel." 

"Ah,  ha!  my  girl!"  sneered  old  Tabaret ;  "so  you  listen  at 
keyholes,  do  you  ?" 

"No,  sir,  I  assure  you;  but  madame  cried  out  like  one  lost. 
She  said — " 

"My  girl  !"  interrupted  old  Tabaret  severely,  "one  always 
hears  wrong  through  keyholes.     Ask  Manette  if  that  is  not  so." 

The  poor  girl,  thoroughly  confused,  sought  to  excuse  herself. 

"Enough,  enough  !"  said  the  old  man.  "Return  to  your  work: 
you  need  not  disturb  M.  Noel ;  I  can  wait  for  him  very  well 
here." 

And  satisfied  with  the  reproof  he  had  administered,  he  picked 
up  the  newspaper,  and  seated  himself  beside  the  fire,  placing  th« 
candle  near  him  so  as  to  read  with  ease.  A  minute  had  scarcely 
elapsed  when  he  in  his  turn  bounded  in  his  chair,  and  stifled 
a  cry  of  instinctive  terror  and  surprise.  These  were  the  first 
words  that  met  his  eye : 


THE    LEROUGE   AFFAIR  679 

"A  horrible  crime  has  plunged  the  village  of  La  Jonchere  in 
consternation.  A  poor  widow,  named  Lerouge,  who  enjoyed 
the  general  esteem  and  love  of  the  community,  has  been  assas- 
sinated in  her  home.  The  officers  of  the  law  have  made  the 
usual  preliminary  investigations,  and  everything  leads  us  to 
believe  that  the  police  are  already  on  the  track  of  the  author 
of  this  dastardly  crime." 

"Thunder !"  said  old  Tabaret  to  himself,  "can  it  be  that  Ma- 
dame Gerdy — ?"  The  idea  but  flashed  across  his  mind;  he  fell 
back  into  his  chair,  and,  shrugging  his  shoulders,  murmured : 
"Really,  this  affair  of  La  Jonchere  is  driving  me  out  of  my 
senses !  I  can  think  of  nothing  but  this  Widow  Lerouge.  I 
shall  be  seeing  her  in  everything  now."  An  uncontrollable  curi- 
osity caused  him  to  peruse  the  entire  paper.  He  found  nothing, 
however,  with  the  exception  of  those  lines,  to  justify  or  explain 
a  fainting  fit,  a  cry,  or  even  the  slightest  emotion. 

"This  coincidence  is  extremely  singular,"  thought  the  incor- 
rigible police  agent.  Then,  noticing  that  the  newspaper  was 
slightly  torn  at  the  lower  part,  and  crumpled,  as  if  by  a  con- 
vulsive grasp,  he  repeated :  "It  is  very  strange !" 

At  this  moment  the  door  of  Madame  Gerdy's  bedroom  opened, 
and  Noel  appeared  on  the  threshold.  Without  doubt  the 
accident  to  his  mother  had  greatly  excited  him ;  for  he  was 
very  pale,  and  his  countenance,  ordinarily  so  calm,  wore  an 
expression  of  great  worry.  He  appeared  surprised  to  see  M. 
Tabaret. 

"Ah,  my  dear  Noel !"  cried  the  old  fellow.  "Ease  my  anxiety. 
How  is  your  mother?" 

"Madame  Gerdy  is  as  well  as  can  be  expected." 

"Madame  Gerdy !"  repeated  the  old  fellow  with  an  air  of 
astonishment ;  then  he  continued :  "It  is  plain  you  have  been 
seriously  alarmed." 

"In  truth,"  replied  the  barrister,  seating  himself,  "I  have 
experienced  a  rude  shock." 

Noel  was  visibly  making  the  greatest  effort  to  appear  calm, 
to  listen  to  the  old  fellow,  and  to  answer  him.  M.  Tabaret, 
full  of  anxiety,  perceived  nothing.  "At  least,  my  dear  boy," 
said  he,  "tell  me  how  this  happened !" 

The  young  man  hesitated  a  moment,  as  if  debating  with  him- 
self. No  doubt  he  was  unprepared  for  this  point-blank  ques- 
tion, and  knew  not  what  answer  to  make ;  at  last  he  replied : 
"Madame  Gerdy  has  received  a  severe  blow  in  learning  from 


680  THE    LEROUGE   AFFAIR 

a  paragraph  in  this  paper  that  a  woman  in  whom  she  took  a 
strong  interest  has  been  murdered." 

"Well,  1  never!"  cried  old  Tabaret. 

The  old  fellow  was  so  astonished  that  he  almost  betrayed 
himself  and  revealed  his  connection  with  the  police.  He  was 
on  the  point  of  saying:  "What!  your  mother  knew  the  Widow 
Lerouge?"  By  an  effort  he  restrained  himself.  He  had  more 
trouble  to  hide  his  satisfaction,  for  he  was  delighted  to  find 
himself  so  unexpectedly  on  the  trace  of  the  antecedents  of  the 
victim  of  La  Jonchere. 

"She  was."  continued  Noel,  "the  slave  of  Madame  Gerdy, 
devoted  to  her  in  every  way  !  She  would  have  sacrificed  her- 
self for  her  at  a  sign  from  her  hand." 

"Then  you,  my  dear  friend,  you  knew  this  poor  woman  !" 

"I  had  not  seen  her  for  a  very  long  time,"  replied  Noel,  whose 
voice  seemed  broken  by  emotion ;  "but  I  knew  her  well.  I  ought 
even  to  say  I  loved  her  tenderly.     She  was  my  nurse." 

"She,  this  woman?"  stammered  old  Tabaret. 

This  time  he  was  thunderstruck.  Widow  Lerouge  Noel's 
nurse  ?  He  was  most  fortunate.  Providence  had  evidently 
chosen  him  for  its  instrument,  and  was  leading  him  by  the 
hand.  He  was  about  to  obtain  all  the  information,  which  half 
an  hour  ago  he  had  almost  despaired  of  procuring.  He  re- 
mained seated  before  Noel,  amazed  and  speechless.  Yet  he 
understood  that,  unless  he  would  compromise  himself,  he  must 
speak.    "It  is  a  great  misfortune,"  he  murmured  at  last. 

"What  it  is  for  Madame  Gerdy,  I  can  not  say,"  replied  Noel 
with  a  gloomy  air ;  "but  for  me  it  is  an  overwhelming  misfor- 
tune !  I  am  struck  to  the  heart  by  the  blow  which  has  slain 
this  poor  woman.  Her  death,  M.  Tabaret,  has  annihilated 
all  my  dreams  of  the  future,  and  probably  overthrown  my 
most  cherished  hopes.  I  had  to  avenge  myself  for  cruel 
injuries;  her  death  breaks  the  weapon  in  my  hands,  and 
reduces  me  to  despair,  to  impotence.  Alas !  I  am  indeed 
unfortunate." 

"You  unfortunate?"  cried  old  Tabaret,  singularly  affected  by 
his  dear  Noel's  sadness.  "In  heaven's  name,  what  has  hap- 
pened to  you  ?" 

"I  suffer,"  murmured  the  barrister,  "and  very  cruelly.  Not 
only  do  T  fear  that  the  injustice  is  irreparable;  but  here  am 
I  totally  without  defense  delivered  over  to  the  shafts  of 
calumny.     I   may  be  accused  of   inventing  falsehood,  of  being 


THE    LEROUGE   AFFAIR 


681 


an  ambitious  intriguer,  having  no  regard  for  truth,  no  scruples 
of  conscience." 

Old  Tabaret  was  puzzled.  What  connection  could  possibly 
exist  between  Noel's  honor  and  the  assassination  at  La  Jon- 
chere?  His  brain  was  in  a  whirl.  A  thousand  troubled  and 
confused  ideas  jostled  one  another  in  inextricable  confusion 
"Come,  come,  Noel,"  said  he.  "compose  yourself.  Who  would 
believe  any  calumny  uttered  about  you  ?  Take  courage,  have 
you  not  friends?  am  I  not  here?  Have  confidence,  tell  me 
what  troubles  you,  and  it  will  be  strange,  indeed,  if  between 
us  two — " 

The  barrister  started  to  his  feet,  impressed  by  a  sudden 
resolution. 

"Well !  yes,"  interrupted  he ;  "yes,  you  shall  know  all.  In 
fact,  I  am  tired  of  carrying  all  alone  a  secret  that  is  stifling 
me.  The  part  I  have  been  playing  irritates  and  wearies  me. 
I  have  need  of  a  friend  to  console  me.  I  require  a  counselor 
whose  voice  will  encourage  me,  for  one  is  a  bad  judge  of  his 
mvn  cause,  and  this  crime  has  plunged  me  into  an  abyss  of 
hesitations." 

"You  know,"  replied  M.  Tabaret  kindly,  "that  I  regard  you 
as  my  own  son.     Do  not  scruple  to  let  me  serve  you." 

"Know  then,"  commenced  the  barrister — "but  no,  not  here: 
what  I  have  to  say  must  not  be  overheard.  Let  us  go  into 
my  study." 


T^THEN  Noel  and  old  Tabaret  were  seated  face  to  face  in 
Noel's  study,  and  the  door  had  been  carefully  shut,  the 
old  fellow  felt  uneasy,  and  said :  "What  if  your  mother  should 
require  anything." 

"If  Madame  Gerdy  rings."  replied  the  young  man  dryly,  "the 
servant  will  attend  to  her." 

This  indifference,  this  cold  disdain,  amazed  old  Tabaret,  ac- 
customed as  he  was  to  the  affectionate  relations  always  existing 
between  mother  and  son.     "For  heaven's  sake,  Noel,"  said  he, 


682  THE    LEROUGE   AFFAIR 

"calm  yourself.  Do  not  allow  yourself  to  be  overcome  by  a 
feeling  of  irritation.  You  have,  I  see,  some  little  pique  against 
your  mother,  which  you  will  have  forgotten  to-morrow.  Don't 
speak  of  her  in  this  icy  tone;  but  tell  me  what  you  mean  by 
calling  her  Madame   Gerdy." 

"What  I  mean?"  rejoined  the  barrister  in  a  hollow  tone; 
"what  I  mean?"  Then  rising  from  his  armchair,  he  took  sev- 
eral strides  about  the  room,  and,  returning  to  his  place  near 
the  old  fellow,  said:  "Because,  M.  Tabaret,  Madame  Gerdy  is 
not  my  mother !" 

This  sentence  fell  like  a  heavy  blow  on  the  head  of  the 
amateur  detective.  "Oh !"  he  said  in  the  tone  one  assumes 
when  rejecting  an  absurd  proposition,  "do  you  really  know 
what  you  are  saying,  Noel?    Is  it  credible?    Is  it  probable?" 

"It  is  improbable,"  replied  Noel  with  a  peculiar  emphasis 
which  was  habitual  to  him ;  "it  is  incredible,  if  you  will,  but 
yet  it  is  true.  That  is  to  say,  for  thirty-three  years,  ever  since 
my  birth,  this  woman  has  played  a  most  marvelous  and  un- 
worthy comedy,  to  ennoble  and  enrich  her  son — for  she  has  a 
son — at  my  expense  !" 

"My  friend."  commenced  old  Tabaret,  who  in  the  background 
of  the  picture  presented  by  this  singular  revelation  saw  again 
the  fantom  of  the  murdered  Widow  Lerouge. 

But  Noel  heard  not,  and  seemed  hardly  in  a  state  to  hear. 
The  young  man,  usually  so  cold,  so  self-contained,  could  no 
longer  control  his  anger.  At  the  sound  of  his  own  voice  he 
became  more  and  more  animated,  as  a  good  horse  might  at  the 
jingling  of  his  harness.  "Was  ever  man,"  continued  he,  "more 
cruelly  deceived,  more  miserably  duped,  than  I  have  been?  I, 
who  loved  this  woman,  who  knew  not  how  to  show  my  affec- 
tion for  her,  who,  for  her  sake,  sacrificed  my  youth !  How 
she  must  have  laughed  at  me !  Her  infamy  dates  from  the 
moment  when  for  the  first  time  she  took  me  on  her  knees; 
and,  until  these  few  days  past,  she  has  sustained  without  fal- 
tering her  execrable  role.  Her  love  for  me  was  nothing  but 
hypocrisy !  her  devotion,  falsehood  !  her  caresses,  lies  !  And  I 
adored  her !  Ah  !  why  can  I  not  take  back  all  the  embraces 
I  bestowed  on  her  in  exchange  for  her  Judas  kisses?  And 
for  what  was  all  this  heroism  of  deception,  this  caution,  this 
duplicity?  To  betray  me  more  securely,  to  despoil  me,  to  rob 
me,  to  give  to  her  bastard  all  that  lawfully  appertained  to  me: 
my  name,  a  noble  name,   my  fortune,  a  princely  inheritance  \" 


THE    LEROUGE    AFFAIR  683 

"We  are  getting  near  it !"  thought  old  Tabaret,  who  was 
fast  relapsing  into  the  colleague  of  M.  Gevrol ;  then  aloud  he 
said :  "This  is  very  serious,  all  that  you  have  been  saying,  my 
dear  Noel,  terribly  serious.  We  must  believe  Madame  Gerdy 
possessed  of  an  amount  of  audacity  and  ability  rarely  to  be 
met  with  in  a  woman.  She  must  have  been  assisted,  advised, 
compelled  perhaps.  Who  have  been  her  accomplices  ?  She 
could  never  have  managed  this  unaided :  perhaps  her  husband 
himself." 

"Her  husband !"  interrupted  the  barrister  with  a  laugh.  "Ah  ! 
you  too  have  believed  her  a  widow.  Pshaw !  She  never  had  a 
husband ;  the  defunct  Gerdy  never  existed.  I  was  a  bastard, 
dear  M.  Tabaret.  very  much  a  bastard;  Xoel,  son  of  the  girl 
Gerdy  and  an  unknown  father  !"' 

"Ah!"  cried  the  old  fellow;  "that.  then,  was  the  reason  why 
your  marriage  with  Mademoiselle  Levernois  was  broken  off 
four  years  ago?" 

"Yes,  my  friend,  that  was  the  reason.  And  what  misfortunes 
might  have  been  averted  by  this  marriage  with  a  young  girl 
whom  I  loved !  However,  I  did  not  complain  to  her  whom  I 
then  called  my  mother.  She  wept,  she  accused  herself,  she 
seemed  ready  to  die  of  grief ;  and  I,  poor  fool !  I  consoled  her 
as  best  I  could ;  I  dried  her  tears  and  excused  her  in  her  own 
eyes.  Xo,  there  was  no  husband.  Do  such  women  as  she 
have  husbands?  She  was  my  father's  mistress;  and  on  the 
day  when  he  had  had  enough  of  her,  he  took  up  his  hat  and 
threw  her  three  hundred  thousand  francs,  the  price  of  the 
pleasures   she   had  given  him." 

Xoel  would  probably  have  continued  much  longer  to  pour 
forth  his  furious  denunciations,  but  M.  Tabaret  stopped  him. 
The  old  fellow  felt  he  was  on  the  point  of  learning  a  history 
in  every  way  similar  to  that  which  he  had  imagined ;  and  his 
impatience  to  know  whether  he  had  guessed  aright  almost 
caused  him  to  forget  to  express  any  sympathy  for  his  friend's 
misfortunes. 

"My  dear  boy,"  said  he,  "do  not  let  us  digress.  You  ask 
me  for  advice ;  and  I  am  perhaps  the  best  adviser  you  could 
have  chosen.  Come,  then,  to  the  point.  How  have  you  learned 
this?     Have  you  any  proofs?  where  are  they?" 

The  decided  tone  in  which  the  old  fellow  spoke  should,  no 
doubt,  have  awakened  Xoel's  attention  :  but  he  did  not  notice 
it.      He   had   not   leisure   to   reflect.     He   therefore   answered : 


684  THE    LEROUGE    AFFAIR 

"I  have  known  the  truth  for  three  weeks  oast.  I  made  the 
discovery  by  chance.  I  have  important  moral  proofs,  but  they 
are  mere  presumptive  evidence.  A  word  from  Widow  Lerouge, 
one  single  word,  would  have  rendered  them  decisive.  This 
word  she  can  not  now  pronounce,  since  they  have  killed  her; 
but  she  had  said  it  to  me.  Now  Madame  Gerdy  will  deny  all. 
I  know  her;  with  her  head  on  the  block  she  will  deny  it. 
My  father  doubtless  will  turn  against  me.  I  am  certain,  and 
I  possess  proofs;  now  this  crime  makes  my  certitude  but  a 
vain  boast,  and  renders  my  proofs  null  and  void !" 

"Explain  it  all  to  me,"  said  old  Tabaret  after  a  pause— "all. 
you  understand.  We  old  ones  are  sometimes  able  to  give  good 
advice.     We  will  decide  what's  to  be  done  afterward." 

"Three  weeks  ago,"  commenced  Noel,  "searching  for  some 
old  documents,  I  opened  Madame  Gerdy's  secretary.  Accident- 
ally I  displaced  one  of  the  small  shelves:  some  papers  tum- 
bled out,  and  a  packet  of  letters  fell  in  front  of  my  eyes.  A 
mechanical  impulse,  which  I  can  not  explain,  prompted  me  to 
untie  the  string,  and,  impelled  by  an  invincible  curiosity,  I  read 
the  first  letter  which  came  to  my  hand." 

"You  did  wrong,"  remarked  M.  Tabaret. 

"Be  it  so;  anyhow,  I  read.  At  the  end  of  ten  lines  I  was 
convinced  that  these  letters  were  from  my  father,  whose  name, 
Madame  Gerdy,  in  spite  of  my  prayers,  had  always  hidden 
from  me.  You  can  understand  my  emotion.  I  carried  off" 
the  packet,  shut  myself  up  in  this  room,  and  devoured  the 
correspondence  from  beginning  to  end." 

"And  you  have  been  cruelly  punished,  my  poor  boy !" 

"It  is  true;  but  who  in  my  position  could  have  resisted? 
These  letters  have  given  me  great  pain ;  but  they  afford  the 
proof  of  what  I  just  now  told  you." 

"You  have  at  least  preserved  these  letters?" 

"I  have  them  here,  M.  Tabaret,"  replied  Noel,  "and,  that 
you  may  understand  the  case  in  which  I  have  requested  your 
advice,  I  am  going  to  read  them  to  you." 

The  barrister  opened  one  of  the  drawers  of  his  bureau, 
pressed  an  invisible  spring,  and  from  a  hidden  receptacle  con- 
structed in  the  thick  upper  shelf  he  drew  out  a  bundle  of  let- 
ters. "You  understand,  my  friend,"  he  resumed,  "that  I  will 
spare  you  all  insignificant  details,  which,  however,  add  their 
own  weight  to  the  rest.  I  am  only  going  to  deal  with  the  more 
important  facts,  treating  directly  of  the  affair." 


THE    LEROUGE    AFFAIR  685 

Old  Tabaret  nestled  in  his  armchair,  burning  with  curiosity ; 
his  face  and  his  eyes  expressing  the  most  anxious  attention. 
After  a  selection,  which  he  was  some  time  in  making,  the  bar- 
rister opened  a  letter  and  commenced  reading  in  a  voice  which 
trembled  at  times,  in  spite  of  his  efforts  to  render  it  calm. 

"  'My  dearly  loved  Valerie' — Valerie,"  said  he,  "is  Madame 
Gerdy." 

"I  know,  I  know.     Do  not  interrupt  yourself." 

Noel  then  resumed. 

"  'My  dearly  loved  Valerie  : 

"  'This  is  a  happy  day.  This  morning  I  received  your  dar- 
ling letter ;  I  have  covered  it  with  kisses,  I  have  reread  it  a 
hundred  timea;  and  now  it  has  gone  to  join  the  others,  here 
upon  my  heart.  This  letter,  oh,  my  love !  has  nearly  killed 
me  with  joy.  You  were  not  deceived  then;  it  was  true! 
Heaven  has  blessed  our  love.     We  shall  have  a  son. 

"  'I  shall  have  a  son,  the  living  image  of  my  adored  Valerie ! 
Oh !  why  are  we  separated  by  such  an  immense  distance  ? 
Why  have  I  not  wings,  that  I  might  fly  to  your  feet  and  fail 
into  your  arms,  full  of  the  sweetest  voluptuousness !  No ! 
never  as  at  this  moment  have  I  cursed  the  fatal  union  im- 
posed upon  me  by  an  inexorable  family,  whom  my  tears  could 
not  move. 

"  'I  can  not  help  hating  this  woman,  who,  in  spite  of  me. 
bears  my  name,  innocent  victim  though  she  is  of  the  barbarity 
of  our  parents.  And,  to  complete  my  misery,  she  too  will  soon 
render  me  a  father.  Who  can  describe  my  sorrow  when  I  com- 
pare the  fortunes  of  these  two  children? 

"  The  one,  the  son  of  the  object  of  my  tenderest  love,  will 
have  neither  father  nor  family,  nor  even  a  name,  since  a  law 
framed  to  make  lovers  unhappy  prevents  my  acknowledging 
him.  While  the  other,  the  son  of  my  detested  wife,  by  the 
sole  fact  of  his  birth,  will  be  rich,  noble,  surrounded  by  devo- 
tion and  homage,  with  a  great  position  in  the  world.  I  can 
not  bear  the  thought  of  this  terrible  injustice  !  How  it  is  to 
be  prevented,  I  do  not  know ;  but  rest  assured  I  shall  find  a 
way.  It  is  to  him  who  is  the  most  desired,  the  most  cherished, 
the  most  beloved,  that  the  greater  fortunes  should  come ;  and 
come  to  him  it  shall,  for  I  so  will  it.'  " 

"From  where  is  that  letter  dated  ?"  asked  old  Tabaret.  The 
style  in  which  it  was  written  had  already  settled  one  point  in 
his  mind. 


686  THE    LEROUGE    AFFAIR 

"See,"  replied  Noel.  He  handed  the  letter  to  the  old  fellow, 
who  read:  "Venice,  December,  1828." 

"You  perceive,"  resumed  the  barrister,  "all  the  importance 
of  this  first  letter.  It  is  like  a  brief  statement  of  the  facts. 
My  father,  married  in  spite  of  himself,  adores  his  mistress  and 
detests  his  wife.  Both  find  themselves  enceinte  at  the  same 
time,  and  his  feelings  toward  the  two  infants  about  to  be  born 
are  not  at  all  concealed.  Toward  the  end  one  almost  sees 
peeping  forth  the  germ  of  the  idea  which  later  on  he  will 
not  be  afraid  to  put  into  execution,  in  defiance  of  all  law, 
human  or  divine  !" 

He  was  speaking  as  though  pleading  the  cause,  when  old 
Tabaret  interrupted  him.  "It  is  not  necessary  to  explain  it," 
said  he.  "Thank  goodness,  what  you  have  just  read  is  explicit 
enough.  I  am  not  an  adept  in  such  matters,  I  am  as  simple  as 
a  juryman;  however,  I  understand  it  admirably  so  far." 

"I  pass  over  several  letters,"  continued  Noel,  "and  I  come 
to  this  one,  dated  January  23,  1829.  It  is  very  long,  and  filled 
with  matters  altogether  foreign  to  the  subject  which  now  oc- 
cupies us.  However,  it  contains  two  passages,  which  attest  the 
slow  but  steady  growth  of  my  father's  project.  'A  destiny 
more  powerful  than  my  will,  chains  me  to  this  country ;  but 
my  soul  is  with  you,  my  Valerie !  Without  ceasing,  my 
thoughts  rest  upon  the  adored  pledge  of  our  love  which  moves 
within  you.  Take  care,  my  darling,  take  care  of  yourself,  now 
doubly  precious.  It  is  the  lover,  the  father,  who  implores  you. 
The  last  part  of  your  letter  wounds  my  heart.  Is  it  not  an 
insult  to  me  for  you  to  express  anxiety  as  to  the  future  of  our 
child?  Oh,  heaven!  she  loves  me,  she  knows  me,  and  yet  she 
doubts !' 

"I  skip,"  said  Noel,  "two  pages  of  passionate  rhapsody,  and 
stop  at  these  few  lines  at  the  end.  'The  comtesse's  condition 
causes  her  to  suffer  very  much !  Unfortunate  wife !  I  hate 
and  at  the  same  time  pity  her.  She  seems  to  divine  the  reason 
of  my  sadness  and  my  coldness.  By  her  timid  submission  and 
unalterable  sweetness  one  would  think  she  sought  pardon  for 
our  unhappy  union.  Poor,  sacrificed  creature!  She  also  may 
have  given  her  heart  to  another  before  being  dragged  to  the 
altar.  Our  fates  would  then  be  the  same.  Your  good  heart 
will  pardon  my  pitying  her.' 

"That  one  was  my  mother,"  cried  the  barrister  in  a  trem- 
bling voice.     "A  saint !     And  he  asks  pardon  for  the  pity  she 


THE    LEROUGE   AFFAIR  68? 

inspires !  Poor  woman."  He  passed  his  hands  over  his  eyes, 
as  if  to  force  back  his  tears,  and  added :  "She  is  dead !" 

In  spite  of  his  impatience,  old  Tabaret  dared  not  utter  a 
word.  Besides,  he  felt  keenly  the  profound  sorrow  of  his 
young  friend,  and  respected  it.  After  a  rather  long  silence, 
Noel  raised  his  head,  and  returned  to  the  correspondence. 

"All  the  letters  which  follow,"  said  he,  "carry  traces  of  the 
preoccupation  of  my  father's  mind  on  the  subject  of  his  bas- 
tard son.  I  lay  them,  however,  aside.  But  this  is  what  strikes 
me  in  the  one  written  from  Rome,  on  March  5,  1829.  'My  son, 
our  son,  that  is  my  great,  my  only  anxiety.  How  to  secure  for 
him  the  future  position  of  which  I  dream?  The  nobles  of 
former  times  were  not  worried  in  this  way.  In  those  days  I 
would  have  gone  to  the  king,  who,  with  a  word,  would  have 
assured  the  child's  position  in  the  world.  To-day  the  king  who 
governs  with  difficulty  his  disaffected  subjects  can  do  nothing. 
The  nobility  has  lost  its  rights,  and  the  highest  in  the  land  are 
treated  the  same  as  the  meanest  peasants!'  Lower  down  I  find: 
'My  heart  loves  to  picture  to  itself  the  likeness  of  our  son.  He 
will  have  the  spirit,  the  mind,  the  beauty,  the  grace,  all  the 
fascinations  of  his  mother.  He  will  inherit  from  his  father, 
pride,  valor,  and  the  sentiments  of  a  noble  race.  And  the 
other,  what  will  he  be  like?  I  tremble  to  think  of  it.  Hatred 
can  only  engender  a  monster.  Heaven  reserves  strength  and 
beauty  for  the  children  of  love !'  The  monster,  that  is  I  !" 
said  the  barrister  with  intense  rage.  "While  the  other —  But 
let  us  ignore  these  preliminaries  to  an  outrageous  action.  I 
only  desired  up  to  the  present  to  show  you  the  aberration  of 
my  father's  reason  under  the  influence  of  his  passion.  We  shall 
soon  come  to  the  point." 

M.  Tabaret  was  astonished  at  the  strength  of  this  passion, 
of  which  Noel  was  disturbing  the  ashes.  Perhaps  he  felt  it 
all  the  more  keenly  on  account  of  those  expressions  which  re- 
called his  own  youth.  He  understood  how  irresistible  must 
have  been  the  strength  of  such  a  love ;  and  he  trembled  to 
speculate  as  to  the  result. 

"Here  is,"  resumed  Noel,  holding  up  a  sheet  of  paper,  "not 
one  of  those  interminable  epistles  from  which  I  have  read  you 
short  extracts,  but  a  simple  billet.  It  is  dated  from  Venice  at 
the  beginning  of  May ;  it  is  short  but  nevertheless  decisive : 
'Dear  Valerie — Tell  me,  as  near  as  possible,  the  probable  date 
of  your  confinement.     I  await  your  reply  with  an  anxiety  you 


688  THE    LEROUGE    AFFAIR 

would  imagine  could  you  but  guess  my  projects  with  regard  to 
our  child !' 

"I  do  not  know,"  said  Xoel,  "whether  Madame  Gerdy  under- 
stood; anyhow  she  must  have  answered  at  once,  for  this  is 
what  my  father  wrote  on  the  14th:  'Your  reply,  my  darling,  is 
what  I  did  not  dare  expect  it  to  be.  The  project  I  had  con- 
ceived is  now  practicable.  I  begin  to  feel  more  calm  and  secure. 
Our  son  shall  bear  my  name ;  I  shall  not  be  obliged  to  separate 
myself  from  him.  He  shall  be  reared  by  my  side,  in  my  man- 
sion, under  my  eyes,  on  my  knees,  in  my  arms.  Shall  I  have 
strength  enough  to  bear  this  excess  of  happiness?  I  have  a 
soul  for  grief,  shall  I  have  one  for  joy?  Oh!  my  adored  one, 
oh !  my  precious  child,  fear  nothing,  my  heart  is  vast  enough 
to  love  you  both  !  I  set  out  to-morrow  for  Naples,  from  whence 
I  shall  write  to  you  at  length.  Happen  what  may,  however, 
though  I  should  have  to  sacrifice  the  important  interests  con- 
fided to  me,  I  shall  be  in  Paris  for  the  critical  hour.  My  pres- 
ence will  double  your  courage:  the  strength  of  my  love  will 
diminish  your  sufferings.'  " 

"I  beg  your  pardon  for  interrupting  you,  Noel,"  said  old 
Tabaret,  "do  you  know  what  important  affairs  detained  your 
father  abroad  ?" 

"My  father,  my  old  friend,"  replied  the  barrister,  "was.  in 
spite  of  his  youth,  one  of  the  friends,  one  of  the  confidants,  of 
Charles  X ;  and  he  had  been  entrusted  by  him  with  a  secret 
mission  to  Italy.     My  father  is  Comte  Rheteau  de  Commarin." 

"Whew!"  exclaimed  the  old  fellow;  and  the  better  to  engrave 
the  name  upon  his  memory,  he  repeated  several  times,  between 
his  teeth,  "Rheteau  de  Commarin." 

For  a  few  minutes  Noel  remained  silent.  After  having  ap- 
peared to  do  everything  to  control  his  resentment,  he  seemed 
utterly  dejected,  as  though  he  had  formed  the  determination  to 
attempt  nothing  to  repair  the  injury  he  had  sustained.  "In  the 
middle  of  the  month  of  May,  then,"  he  continued,  "my  father 
is  at  Naples.  It  is  while  there  that  he,  a  man  of  prudence  and 
sense,  a  dignified  diplomatist,  a  nobleman,  prompted  by  an  in- 
sensate passion,  dares  to  confide  to  paper  this  most  monstrous 
of  projects.  Listen!  'My  adored  one — It  is  Germain,  my  old 
valet,  who  will  hand  you  this  letter.  I  am  sending  him  to  Nor- 
mandy, charged  with  a  commission  of  the  most  delicate  nature. 
He  is  one  of  those  servitors  who  may  be  trusted  implicitly. 
The  time  has  come  for  me  to  explain  to  you  my  projects  respect- 


THE    LEROUGE   AFFAIR  689 

ing  my  son.  In  three  weeks,  at  the  latest,  I  shall  be  in  Paris. 
If  my  previsions  are  not  deceived,  the  comtesse  and  you  will 
be  confined  at  the  same  time.  An  interval  of  three  or  four 
days  will  not  alter  my  plan.    This  is  what  I  have  resolved.     My 

two  children  will  be  entrusted  to  two  nurses  of  N ,  where  my 

estates  are  nearly  all  situated.  One  of  these  women,  known  to 
Germain,  and  to  whom  I  am  sending  him.  will  be  in  our  in- 
terests. It  is  to  this  person,  Valerie,  that  our  son  will  be  con- 
fided. These  two  women  will  leave  Paris  the  same  clay,  Ger- 
main accompanying  her  who  will  have  charge  of  the  son  of  the 
comtesse.  An  accident,  devised  beforehand,  will  compel  these 
two  women  to  pass  one  night  on  the  road.  Germain  will  ar- 
range so  they  will  have  to  sleep  in  the  same  inn  and  in  the 
same  chamber !  During  the  night  our  nurse  will  change  the 
infants  in  their  cradles.  I  have  foreseen  everything,  as  I  will 
explain  to  you.  and  every  precaution  has  been  taken  to  prevent 
our  secret  from  escaping.  Germain  has  instructions  to  procure, 
while  in  Paris,  two  sets  of  baby  linen  exactly  similar.  Assist 
him  with  your  advice. 

"  'Your  maternal  heart,  my  sweet  Valerie,  may  perhaps  bleed 
at  the  thought  of  being  deprived  of  the  innocent  caresses  of 
your  child.  You  will  console  yourself  by  thinking  of  the  posi- 
tion secured  to  him  by  your  sacrifice.  What  excess  of  tender- 
ness can  serve  him  as  powerfully  as  this  separation?  As  to 
the  other.  I  know  your  fond  heart,  you  will  cherish  him.  Will 
it  not  be  another  proof  of  your  love  for  me  ?  Besides,  he  will  have 
nothing  to  complain  of.  Knowing  nothing,  he  will  have  noth- 
ing to  regret ;  and  all  that  money  can  secure  in  this  world  he 
shall  have.  Do  not  tell  me  that  this  attempt  is  criminal.  No, 
my  well  beloved,  no.  The  success  of  our  plan  depends  upon  so 
many  unlikely  circumstances,  so  many  coincidences,  independent 
of  our  will,  that,  without  the  evident  protection  of  Providence, 
we  can  not  succeed.  If,  then,  success  crowns  our  efforts,  it 
will  be  because  heaven  decreed  it.     Meanwhile  I  hope.' ' 

"Just  what  I  expected,"  murmured  old  Tabaret. 

"And  the  wretched  man,"  cried  Noel,  "dares  to  invoke 
the  aid  of  Providence!  He  would  make  heaven  his  accom- 
plice !" 

"But,"  asked  the  old  fellow,  "how  did  your  mother — par- 
don me,  I  would  say,  how  did  Madame  Gerdy  receive  this 
proposition  ?" 

"She  would  appear  to  have  rejected  it  at  first,  for  here  are 

3— Vol.  Ill— Oab. 


690  THE    LEROUGE   AFFAIR 

twenty  pages  of  eloquent  persuasion  from  the  comte,  urging  her 
to  agree  to  it,  trying  to  convince  her.    Oh,  that  woman !" 

"Come,  my  child,"  said  M.  Tabaret  softly,  "try  not  to  be  too 
unjust.  You  seem  to  direct  all  your  resentment  against  Madame 
Gerdy.  Really,  in  my  opinion,  the  comte  is  far  more  deserving 
of  your  anger  than  she  is." 

"True,"  interrupted  Noel,  with  a  certain  degree  of  violence — 
"true,  the  comte  is  guilty,  very  guilty.  He  is  the  author  of  the 
infamous  conspiracy,  and  yet  I  feel  no  hatred  against  him.  He 
has  committed  a  crime,  but  he  has  an  excuse,  his  passion.  More- 
over, my  father  has  not  deceived  me,  like  this  miserable  woman, 
every  hour  of  my  life,  during  thirty  years.  Besides,  M.  de  Com- 
marin  has  been  so  cruelly  punished  that,  at  the  present  moment, 
I  can  only  pardon  and  pity  him." 

"Ah !  so  he  has  been  punished  ?"  interrogated  the  old  fellow. 

"Yes,  fearfully,  as  you  will  admit.  But  allow  me  to  continue. 
Toward  the  end  of  May,  or,  rather,  during  the  first  days  of 
June,  the  comte  must  have  arrived  in  Paris,  for  the  correspond- 
ence ceases.  He  saw  Madame  Gerdy,  and  the  final  arrange- 
ments of  the  conspiracy  were  decided  on.  Here  is  a  note  which 
removes  all  uncertainty  on  that  point.  On  the  day  it  was  written 
the  comte  was  on  service  at  the  Tuileries,  and  unable  to  leave 
his  post.  He  has  written  it  even  in  the  king's  study,  on  the 
king's  paper ;  see  the  royal  arms !  The  bargain  has  been  con- 
cluded, and  the  woman  who  has  consented  to  become  the  instru- 
ment of  my  father's  projects  is  in  Paris.  He  informs  his  mis- 
tress of  the  fact.  'Dear  Valerie — Germain  informs  me  of  the 
arrival  of  your  son's,  our  son's,  nurse.  She  will  call  at  your 
house  during  the  day.  She  is  to  be  depended  upon ;  a  magnifi- 
cent recompense  insures  her  discretion.  Do  not,  however,  men- 
tion our  plans  to  her;  for  she  has  been  given  to  understand 
that  you  know  nothing.  I  wish  to  charge  myself  with  the  sole 
responsibility  of  the  deed;  it  is  more  prudent.     This  woman  is 

a  native  of  N .     She  was  born  on  our  estate,  almost  in  our 

house.  Her  husband  is  a  brave  and  honest  sailor.  Her  name 
is  Claudine  Lerouge.  Be  of  good  courage,  my  dear  love !  I 
am  exacting  from  you  the  greatest  sacrifice  that  a  lover  can 
hope  for  from  a  mother.  Heaven,  you  can  no  longer  doubt  it, 
protects  us.  Everything  depends  now  upon  our  skill  and  our 
prudence,  so  that  we  are  sure  to  succeed !'  " 

On  one  point,  at  least,  M.  Tabaret  was  sufficiently  enlight- 
ened.   The  researches  into  the  past  life  of  Widow  Lerouge  were 


THE    LEROUGE   AFFAIR  691 

no  longer  difficult.  He  could  not  restrain  an  exclamation  of 
satisfaction,  which  passed  unnoticed  hy  Noel. 

"This  note,"  resumed  the  barrister,  "closes  the  comte's  cor- 
respondence with  Madame  Gerdy." 

"What !"  exclaimed  the  old  fellow,  "you  are  in  possession 
of  nothing  more  ?" 

"I  have  also  ten  lines,  written  many  years  later,  which  cer- 
tainly have  some  weight,  but  after  all  are  only  a  moral  proof." 

"What  a  misfortune !"  murmured  M.  Tabaret.  Noel  laid  on 
the  bureau  the  letters  he  had  held  in  his  hand,  and  turning 
toward  his  old  friend,  he  looked  at  him  steadily. 

"Suppose,"  said  he  slowly  and  emphasizing  every  syllable — 
"suppose  that  all  my  information  ends  here.  We  will  admit, 
for  a  moment,  that  I  know  nothing  more  than  you  do  now. 
What  is  your  opinion  ?" 

Old  Tabaret  remained  some  minutes  without  answering;  he 
was  estimating  the  probabilities  resulting  from  M.  de  Com- 
marin's  letters.  "For  my  own  part,"  said  l.e  at  length,  "I  believe 
on  my  conscience  that  you  are  not  Madame  Gerdy's  son." 

"And  you  are  right !"  answered  the  barrister  forcibly.  "You 
will  easily  believe,  will  you  not,  that  I  went  and  saw  Claudine. 
She  loved  me,  this  poor  woman  who  had  given  me  her  milk ; 
she  suffered  from  the  knowledge  of  the  injustice  that  had  been 
done  me.  Must  I  say  it,  her  complicity  in  the  matter  weighed 
upon  her  conscience;  it  was  a  remorse  too  great  for  her  old 
age.  I  saw  her,  I  interrogated  her,  and  she  told  me  all.  The 
comte's  scheme,  simply  and  yet  ingeniously  conceived,  succeeded 
without  any  effort.  Three  days  after  my  birth  the  crime  was 
committed,  and  I,  poor,  helpless  infant,  was  betrayed,  despoiled, 
and  disinherited  by  my  natural  protector,  by  my  own  father ! 
Poor  Claudine !  She  promised  me  her  testimony  for  the  day  on 
which  I  should  reclaim  my  rights !" 

"And  she  is  gone,  carrying  her  secret  with  her !"  murmured 
the  old  fellow  in  a  tone  of  regret. 

"Perhaps !"  replied  Noel,  "for  I  have  yet  one  hope.  Claudine 
had  in  her  possession  several  letters  which  had  been  written 
to  her  a  long  time  ago,  some  by  the  comte,  some  by  Madame 
Gerdy,  letters  both  imprudent  and  explicit.  They  will  be  found, 
no  doubt,  and  their  evidence  will  be  decisive.  I  have  held  these 
letters  in  my  hands,  I  have  read  them ;  Claudine  particularly 
wished  me  to  keep  them ;  why  did  I  not  do  so  ?" 

No !  there  was  no  hope  on  that  side,  and  old  Tabaret  knew 


692  THE    LEROUGE   AFFAIR 

so  better  than  any  one.  It  was  these  very  letters,  no  doubt, 
that  the  assassin  of  La  Jonchere  wanted.  He  had  found  them 
and  burned  them  with  the  other  papers  in  the  little  stove.  The 
old  amateur  detective  was  beginning  to  understand.  "All  the 
same,"  said  he,  "from  what  I  know  of  your  affairs,  which  I 
think  I  know  as  well  as  my  own,  it  appears  to  me  that  the 
comte  has  not  overwell  kept  the  dazzling  promises  of  fortune 
he  made  Madame  Gerdy  on  your  behalf." 

"He  never  even  kept  them  in  the  least  degree,  my  old  friend." 

"That  now,"  cried  the  old  fellow  indignantly,  "is  even  more 
infamous  than  all  the  rest." 

"Do  not  accuse  my  father,"  answered  Noel  gravely ;  "his  con- 
nection with  Madame  Gerdy  lasted  a  long  time.  I  remember  a 
haughty  looking  man  who  used  sometimes  to  come  and  see  me 
at  school,  and  who  could  be  no  other  than  the  comte.  But  the 
rupture  came." 

"Naturally,"  sneered  M.  Tabaret,  "a  great  nobleman — " 

"Wait  before  judging,"  interrupted  the  barrister.  "M.  de 
Commarin  had  his  reasons.  His  mistress  was  false  to  him,  he 
learned  it,  and  cast  her  off  with  just  indignation.  The  ten  lines 
which  I  mentioned  to  you  were  written  then." 

Noel  searched  a  considerable  time  among  the  papers  scat- 
tered upon  the  table,  and  at  length  selected  a  letter  more  faded 
and  creased  than  the  others.  Judging  from  the  number  of 
folds  in  the  paper,  one  could  guess  that  it  had  been  read  and 
reread  many  times.  The  writing  even  was  here  and  there  partly 
obliterated.  "In  this,"  said  he  in  a  bitter  tone,  "Madame  Gerdy 
is  no  longer  the  adored  Valerie :  'A  friend,  cruel  as  all  true 
friends,  has  opened  my  eyes.  I  doubted.  You  have  been 
watched,  and  to-day,  unhappily,  I  can  doubt  no  more.  You, 
Valerie,  you  to  whom  I  have  given  more  than  n„y  life,  you 
deceive  me  and  have  been  deceiving  me  for  a  long  time  past. 
Unhappy  man  that  I  am !  I  am  no  longer  certain  that  I  am 
the  father  of  your  child.' " 

"But  this  note  is  a  proof,"  cried  old  Tabaret ;  "an  overwhelm- 
ing proof.  Of  what  importance  to  the  comte  would  be  a  doubt 
of  his  paternity  had  he  not  sacrificed  his  legitimate  son  to  his 
bastard  ?  Yes,  you  have  said  truly,  his  punishment  has  been 
severe." 

"Madame  Gerdy."  resumed  Noel,  "wished  to  justify  herself. 
She  wrote  to  the  comte ;  but  he  returned  her  letters  unopened. 
She  called  on  him,  but  he  would  not  receive  her.     At  length 


THE   LEROUGE   AFFAIR  693 

she  grew  tired  of  her  useless  attempts  to  see  him.  She  knew 
that  all  was  well  over  when  the  comte's  steward  brought  her 
for  me  a  legal  settlement  of  fifteen  thousand  francs  a  year.  The 
son  had  tak^n  my  place,  and  the  mother  had  ruined  me !" 

Three  or  four  light  knocks  at  the  door  of  the  study  inter- 
rupted Noel.     "Who  is  there?"  he  asked  without  stirring. 

"Sir,"  answered  the  servant  from  the  other  side  of  the  door, 
"madame  wishes  to  speak  to  you." 

The  barrister  appeared  to  hesitate.  "Go,  my  son,"  advised 
M.  Tabaret ;  "do  not  be  merciless ;  only  bigots  have  that  right." 
Noel  arose  with  visible  reluctance,  and  passed  into  Madame 
Gerdy's  sleeping  apartment. 

"Poor  boy !"  thought  M.  Tabaret  when  left  alone.  "What  a 
fatal  discovery !  and  how  he  must  feel  it.  Such  a  noble  young 
man  !  such  a  brave  heart !  In  his  candid  honesty  he  does  not 
even  suspect  from  whence  the  blow  has  fallen.  Fortunately 
I  am  shrewd  enough  for  two,  and  it  is  just  when  he  despairs 
of  justice,  I  am  confident  of  obtaining  it  for  him.  Thanks  to 
his  information,  I  am  now  on  the  track.  A  child  might  now 
divine  whose  hand  struck  the  blow.  But  how  has  it  happened? 
He  will  tell  me  without  knowing  it.  Ah  !  if  I  had  one  of  those 
letters  for  four  and  twenty  hours.  He  has  probably  counted 
them.  If  I  ask  for  one,  I  must  acknowledge  my  connection 
with  the  police.  I  had  better  take  one,  no  matter  which,  just 
to  verify  the  handwriting." 

Old  Tabaret  had  just  thrust  one  of  the  letters  into  the  depths 
of  his  capacious  pocket  when  the  barrister  returned.  He  was 
one  of  those  men  of  strongly  formed  character,  who  never  lose 
their  self-control.  He  was  very  cunning  and  had  long  accus- 
tomed himself  to  dissimulation,  that  indispensable  armor  of  the 
ambitious.  As  he  entered  the  room  nothing  in  his  manner  be- 
trayed what  had  taken  place  between  Madame  Gerdy  and  him- 
self. He  was  absolutely  as  calm  as  when,  seated  in  his  arm- 
chair, he  listened  to  the  interminable  stories  of  his  clients. 

"Well,"  asked  old  Tabaret,  "how  is  she  now?" 

"Worse,"  answered  Noel.  "She  is  now  delirious,  and  no 
longer  knows  what  she  says.  She  has  just  assailed  me  with 
the  most  atrocious  abuse,  upbraiding  me  as  the  vilest  of  man- 
kind !    I  really  believe  she  is  going  out  of  her  mind." 

"One  might  do  so  with  less  cause,"  murmured  M.  Tabaret; 
"and  I  think  you  ought  to  send  for  the  doctor." 

"I  have  just  done  so." 


694  THE   LEROUGE   AFFAIR 

The  barrister  had  resumed  his  seat  before  his  bureau,  and 
was  rearranging  the  scattered  letters  accoroing  to  their  dates. 
He  seemed  to  have  forgotten  that  he  had  asked  his  old  friend's 
advice ;  nor  did  he  appear  in  any  way  desirous  of  renewing  the 
interrupted  conversation.  This  was  not  at  all  what  old  Tabaret 
wanted.  'The  more  I  ponder  over  your  history,  my  dear  Noel," 
he  observed,  "the  more  I  am  bewildered.  I  really  do  not  know 
what  resolution  I  should  adopt  were  I  in  your  situation." 

"Yes,  my  old  friend,"  replied  the  barrister  sadly,  "it  is  a 
situation  that  might  well  perplex  even  more  profound  experi- 
ences than  yours." 

The  old  amateur  detective  repressed  with  difficulty  the  sly 
smile,  which  for  an  instant  hovered  about  his  lips.  "I  confess 
it  humbly,"  he  said,  taking  pleasure  in  assuming  an  air  of  in- 
tense simplicity,  "but  you,  what  have  you  done  ?  Your  first  im- 
pulse must  have  been  to  ask  Madame  Gerdy  for  an  explanation." 

Noel  made  a  startled  movement,  which  passed  unnoticed  by 
old  Tabaret,  preoccupied  as  he  was  in  trying  to  give  the  turn 
he  desired  to  the  conversation.  "It  was  by  that,"  answered 
Noel,  "that  I  began." 

"And  what  did  she  say?" 

"What  could  she  say !  Was  she  not  overwhelmed  by  the  dis- 
covery ?'' 

"What!  did  she  not  attempt  to  exculpate  herself?"  inquired 
the  detective,  greatly  surprised. 

"Yes !  she  attempted  the  impossible.  She  pretended  she  could 
explain  the  correspondence.  She  told  me —  But  can  I  remem- 
ber what  she  said  ?  Lies,  absurd,  infamous  lies."  The  barrister 
had  finished  gathering  up  his  letters,  without  noticing  the  ab- 
straction. He  tied  them  together  carefully,  and  replaced  them 
in  the  secret  drawer  of  his  bureau. 

"Yes,"  continued  he,  rising  and  walking  backward  and  for- 
ward across  his  study,  as  if  the  constant  movement  could  calm 
his  anger,  "yes,  she  pretended  she  could  show  me  I  was  wrong. 
It  was  easy,  was  it  not,  with  the  proofs  I  held  against  her? 
The  fact  is,  she  adores  her  son,  and  her  heart  is  breaking  at 
the  idea  that  he  may  be  obliged  to  restitute  what  he  has  stolen 
from  me.  And  I.  idiot,  fool,  coward,  almost  wished  not  to 
mention  the  matter  to  her.  I  said  to  myself:  I  will  forgive,  for 
after  all  she  has  loved  me !  Loved  ?  No.  She  would  see  me 
suffer  the  most  horrible  tortures,  without  shedding  a  tear,  to 
prevent  a  single  hair  falling  from  her  son's  head." 


THE    LEROUGE   AFFAIR  695 

"She  has  probably  warned  the  comte,"  observed  old  Tabaret. 
still  pursuing  his  idea. 

"She  may  have  tried,  but  can  not  have  succeeded,  for  the 
comte  has  been  absent  from  Paris  for  more  than  a  month  and 
is  not  expected  to  return  until  the  end  of  the  week." 

"How  do  you  know  that?" 

"I  wished  to  see  the  comte,  my  father,  to  speak  with  him — " 

"You?" 

"Yes,  I.  Do  you  think  that  I  shall  not  reclaim  my  own?  Do 
you  imagine  that  I  shall  not  raise  my  voice?  On  what  account 
should  I  keep  silent?  Whom  have  I  to  consider?  I  have  rights, 
and  I  will  make  them  good.    What  do  you  find  surprising  in  that  ?" 

"Nothing,  certainly,  my  friend.  So  then  you  called  at  M.  de 
Commarin's  house?" 

"Oh !  I  did  not  decide  on  doing  so  all  at  once,"  continued 
Noel.  "At  first  my  discovery  almost  drove  me  mad.  Then  I 
required  time  to  reflect.  A  thousand  opposing  sentiments  agi- 
tated me.  At  one  moment,  my  fury  blinded  me ;  the  next,  my 
courage  deserted  me.  I  would,  and  I  would  not.  I  was  unde- 
cided, uncertain,  wild.  The  scandal  that  must  arise  from  the 
publicity  of  such  an  affair  terrified  me.  I  desired,  I  still  desire 
to  recover  my  name,  that  much  is  certain.  But  on  the  eve  of 
recovering  it,  I  wish  to  preserve  it  from  stain.  I  was  seek- 
ing a  means  of  arranging  everything,  without  noise,  without 
scandal." 

"At  length,  however,  you  made  up  your  mind?" 

"Yes,  after  a  struggle  of  fifteen  days,  fifteen  days  of  torture, 
of  anguish  !  Ah !  what  I  suffered  in  that  time  !  I  neglected 
my  business,  being  totally  unfit  for  work.  During  the  day,  I 
tried  by  incessant  action  to  fatigue  my  body,  that  at  night  I 
might  find  forgetfulness  in  sleep.  Vain  hope !  Since  I  found 
these  letters,  I  have  not  slept  an  hour." 

From  time  to  time,  old  Tabaret  slyly  consulted  his  watch. 
"M.  Daburon  will  be  in  bed,"  thought  he. 

"At  last,  one  morning,"  continued  Noel,  "after  a  night  of 
rage,  I  determined  to  end  all  uncertainty.  I  was  in  that  des- 
perate state  of  mind,  in  which  the  gambler,  after  successive 
losses,  stakes  upon  a  card  his  last  remaining  coin.  I  plucked 
up  courage,  sent  for  a  cab,  and  was  driven  to  the  De  Com- 
marin  mansion." 

The  old  amateur  detective  here  allowed  a  sigh  of  satisfac- 
tion to  escape  him. 


696  THE    LEROUGE   AFFAIR 

"It  is  one  of  the  most  magnificent  houses  in  the  Faubourg 
St.  Germain,  my  friend,  a  princely  dwelling,  worthy  a  great 
noble  twenty  times  a  millionaire ;  almost  a  palace  in  fact.  One 
enters  at  first  a  vast  courtyard,  to  the  right  and  left  of  which 
are  the  stables,  containing  twenty  most  valuable  horses,  and 
the  coach-houses.  At  the  end  rises  the  grand  facade  of  the 
main  building,  majestic  and  severe,  with  its  immense  windows, 
and  its  double  flight  of  marble  steps.  Behind  the  house  is  a 
magnificent  garden,  I  should  say  a  park,  shaded  by  the  oldest 
trees  which  perhaps  exist  in  all  Paris." 

This  enthusiastic  description  was  not  at  all  what  M.  Tabaret 
wanted.  But  what  could  he  do,  how  could  he  press  Noel  for 
the  result  of  his  visit !  An  indiscreet  word  might  awaken  the 
barrister's  suspicions,  and  reveal  to  him  that  he  was  speaking 
not  to  a  friend,  but  to  a  detective. 

"Were  you  then  shown  over  the  house  and  grounds?"  asked 
the  old  fellow. 

"Xo,  but  I  have  examined  them  alone.  Since  I  discovered 
that  I  was  the  only  heir  of  the  Rheteau  de  Commarins.  I  have 
found  out  the  antecedents  of  my  new  family.  I  have  studied 
our  history  at  the  Bibliotheque ;  it  is  a  noble  history.  At  night, 
utterly  distracted,  I  have  again  and  again  wandered  round  the 
dwelling  of  my  ancestors.  Ah !  you  can  not  understand  my 
emotions  !  'It  is  there,'  said  I  to  myself,  'that  I  was  born ;  there 
that  I  should  have  been  brought  up ;  there  that  I  ought  to  reign 
to-day !'  I  tasted  that  awful  bitterness  of  which  banished  men 
have  died.  I  compared  the  bastard's  brilliant  destinies  with  my 
own  sad  and  laborious  career ;  and  my  indignation  well-nigh 
mastered  me.  A  mad  impulse  stirred  me  to  force  the  doors, 
to  rush  into  the  principal  drawing-room  and  drive  out  the  in- 
truder, the  girl  Gerdy's  son,  crying:  'Get  out,  bastard,  get  out, 
I  am  the  master  here !'  The  uncertainty  of  obtaining  my  rights 
whenever  I  wished  alone  restrained  me.  Oh  !  yes,  I  know  it 
well,  this  dwelling  of  my  ancestors !  I  love  its  old  sculptures, 
its  grand  old  trees,  even  the  flagstones  of  the  courtyard  worn 
by  the  footsteps  of  my  mother !  I  love  all ;  especially  the  proud 
escutcheon,  which  frowns  down  from  above  the  principal  en- 
trance and  flings  a  haughty  defiance  to  the  stupid  theories  of 
this  age  of  levelers." 

This  last  phrase  contrasted  so  strongly  with  the  opinions 
usually  expressed  by  the  young  barrister  that  M.  Tabaret 
was  obliged  to  turn  away  his  head  to  conceal  his  amusement. 


THE   LEROUGE   AFFAIR  697 

"Poor  humanity !"  thought  he.  "He  sees  himself  a  grand  lord 
already." 

"When  I  arrived,"  resumed  Noel,  "a  Swiss  porter,  dressed 
in  a  gorgeous  livery,  was  standing  at  the  door.  I  asked  to  see 
the  Comte  de  jTommarin.  The  Swiss  replied  that  the  comte  was 
traveling,  but  that  the  vicomte  was  at  home.  This  interfered 
with  my  plans;  however,  as  I  had  gone  so  far,  I  insisted  on 
speaking  to  the  son  in  default  of  the  father.  The  Swiss  stared 
at  me  with  astonishment.  He  had  seen  me  alight  from  a  hired 
vehicle  and  so  deliberated  with  himself  for  some  moments  as  to 
whether  I  was  not  too  insignificant  a  person  to  have  the  honor 
of  appearing  before  the  vicomte." 

"However,  you  were  able  to  speak  with  him?" 

"What,  like  that,  all  at  once !"  replied  the  barrister  in  a  tone 
of  bitter  raillery:  "can  you  possibly  think  so,  my  dear  M.  Taba- 
ret !  The  inspection,  however,  was  favorable  to  me;  my  white 
cravat  and  black  clothes  produced  an  effect.  The  Swiss  en- 
trusted me  to  the  guidance  of  a  huntsman  with  a  plumed  hat, 
who  led  the  way  across  the  courtyard  to  a  superb  vestibule, 
where  five  or  six  footmen  were  lolling  and  gaping  on  their 
seats.  One  of  these  gentlemen  asked  me  to  follow  him.  He 
ted  me  up  a  spacious  staircase,  wide  enough  for  a  carriage  to 
ascend,  preceded  me  along  an  extensive  picture  gallery,  guided 
me  across  vast  apartments,  the  furniture  of  which  was  fading 
under  its  coverings,  and  finally  delivered  me  into  the  hands  of 
M.  Albert's  valet.  That  is  the  name  by  which  Madame  Gerdy's 
son  is  known,  that  is  to  say,  my  name." 

"I  understand,  I  understand." 

"I  had  passed  an  inspection;  now  I  had  to  undergo  an  ex- 
amination. The  valet  desired  to  be  informed  who  I  was,  whence 
I  came,  what  was  my  profession,  what  I  wanted,  and  all  the 
rest.  I  answered  simply  that,  quite  unknown  to  the  vicomte,  I 
desired  five  minutes'  conversation  with  him  on  a  matter  of  im- 
portance. He  left  me,  requesting  me  to  sit  down  and  wait.  I 
had  waited  more  than  a  quarter  of  an  hour,  when  he  reap- 
peared.    His  master  graciously  deigned  to  receive  me." 

It  was  easy  to  perceive  that  the  barrister's  reception  rankled 
in  his  breast,  and  that  he  considered  it  an  insult.  He  could  not 
forgive  Albert  his  lackeys  and  his  valet.  He  forgot  the  words 
of  the  illustrious  duke,  who  said:  "I  pay  my  lackeys  to  be  inso- 
lent, to  save  myself  the  trouble  and  ridicule  of  being  so  "  Old 
Tabaret  was  surprised  at  his  voung  friend's  display  of  bitter- 


698  THE    LEROUGE   AFFAIR 

ness,  in  speaking  of  these  trivial  details.  "What  narrow- 
mindedness,"  thought  he,  "for  a  man  of  such  intelligence  !  Can 
it  be  true  that  the  arrogance  of  lackeys  is  the  secret  of  the 
people's  hatred  of  an  amiable  and  polite  aristocracy?" 

"I  was  ushered  into  a  small  apartment,"  continued  Noel, 
"simply  furnished,  the  only  ornaments  of  which  were  weapons. 
These,  ranged  against  the  walls,  were  of  all  times  and  coun- 
tries. Never  have  I  seen  in  so  small  a  space  so  many  muskets, 
pistols,  swords,  sabres,  and  foils.  One  might  have  imagined 
himself  in  a  fencing  master's  arsenal." 

The  weapon  used  by  Widow  Lerouge's  assassin  naturally  re- 
curred to  the  old  fellow's  memory. 

"The  vicomte,"  said  Noel,  speaking  slowly,  "was  half  lying 
on  a  divan  when  I  entered.  He  was  dressed  in  a  velvet  jacket 
and  loose  trousers  of  the  same  material,  and  had  around  his 
neck  an  immense  white  silk  scarf.  I  do  not  cherish  any  resent- 
ment against  this  young  man ;  he  has  never  to  his  knowledge 
injured  me:  he  was  in  ignorance  of  our  father's  crime;  I  am 
therefore  able  to  speak  of  him  with  justice.  He  is  handsome, 
bears  himself  well,  and  nobly  carries  the  name  which  does  not 
belong  to  him.  He  is  about  my  height,  of  the  same  dark  com- 
plexion, and  would  resemble  me,  perhaps,  if  he  did  not  wear  a 
beard.  Only  he  looks  five  or  six  years  younger;  but  this  is 
readily  explained,  he  has  neither  worked,  struggled,  nor  suf- 
fered. He  is  one  of  the  fortunate  ones  who  arrive  without 
having  to  start,  or  who  traverse  life's  road  on  such  soft  cush- 
ions that  they  are  never  injured  by  the  jolting  of  their  car- 
riage.   On  seeing  me,  he  arose  and  saluted  me  graciously." 

"You  must  have  been  dreadfully  excited,"  remarked  old 
Tabaret. 

"Less  than  I  am  at  this  moment.  Fifteen  preparatory  days 
of  mental  torture  exhausts  one's  emotions.  I  answered  the 
question  I  saw  upon  his  lips.  'Sir,'  said  I,  'you  do  not  know 
me ;  but  that  is  of  little  consequence.  I  come  to  you,  charged 
with  a  very  grave,  a  very  sad  mission,  which  touches  the  honor 
of  the  name  you  bear.'  Without  doubt  he  did  not  believe  me, 
for,  in  an  impertinent  tone,  he  asked  me:  'Shall  you  be  long?' 
I  answered  simply:  'Yes.'" 

"Pray,"  interrupted  old  Tabaret,  now  become  very  attentive, 
"do  not  omit  a  single  detail ;  it  may  be  very  important,  you 
understand." 

"The   vicomte,"    continued    Noel,    "appeared    very    much   put 


THE    LEROUGE   AFFAIR  699 

out.  'The  fact  is,'  he  explained,  'I  had  already  disposed  of  my 
time.  This  is  the  hour  at  which  I  call  on  the  young  lady  to 
whom  I  am  engaged,  Mademoiselle  d'Arlange.  Can  we  not 
postpone  this  conversation?" 

"Good  !  another  woman  !"  said  the  old  fellow  to  himself. 

"I  answered  the  vicomte  that  an  explanation  would  admit  of 
no  delay;  and,  as  I  saw  him  prepare  to  dismiss  me,  I  drew  from 
my  pocket  the  comte's  correspondence,  and  presented  one  of  the 
letters  to  him.  On  recognizing  his  father's  handwriting,  he 
became  more  tractable,  declared  himself  at  my  service,  and 
asked  permission  to  write  a  word  of  apology  to  the  lady  by 
whom  he  was  expected.  Having  hastily  written  the  note,  he 
handed  it  to  his  valet,  and  ordered  him  to  send  it  at  once  to 
Madame  d'Arlange.  He  then  asked  me  to  pass  into  the  next 
room,  which  was  his  library." 

"One  word,"  interrupted  the  old  fellow ;  "was  he  troubled 
on  seeing  the  letters?" 

"Not  the  least  in  the  world.  After  carefully  closing  the 
door,  he  pointed  to  a  chair,  seated  himself,  and  said :  'Now,  sir, 
explain  yourself.'  I  had  had  time  to  prepare  myself  for  this 
interview  while  waiting  in  the  anteroom.  I  had  decided  to  go 
straight  to  the  point.  'Sir,'  said  I,  'my  mission  is  painful.  The 
facts  I  am  about  to  reveal  to  you  are  incredible.  I  beg  you,  do 
not  answer  me  until  you  have  read  the  letters  I  have  here.  I 
beseech  you,  above  all,  to  keep  calm.'  He  looked  at  me  with 
an  air  of  extreme  surprise,  and  answered:  'Speak!  I  can  hear 
all.'  I  stood  up,  and  said:  'Sir,  I  must  inform  you  that  you 
are  not  the  legitimate  son  of  M.  de  Commarin,  as  this  corre- 
spondence will  prove  to  you.  The  legitimate  son  exists ;  and 
he  it  is  who  sends  me.'  I  kept  my  eyes  on  his  while  speaking, 
and  I  saw  there  a  passing  gleam  of  fury.  For  a  moment  I 
thought  he  was  about  to  spring  at  my  throat.  He  soon  recov- 
ered himself.  'The  letters,'  said  he  in  a  short  tone.  I  handed 
them  to  him." 

"How !"  cried  old  Tabaret,  "these  letters — the  true  ones  ? 
How  imprudent!" 

"And  why?" 

"If  he  had— I  don't  know ;  but—"  the  old  fellow  hesitated. 

The  barrister  laid  his  hand  upon  his  friend's  shoulder.  "I 
was  there,"  said  he  in  a  hollow  tone ;  "and  I  promise  you  the 
letters  were  in  no  danger." 

Noel's  features  assumed  such  an  expression  of  ferocity  that 


700  THE    LEROUGE   AFFAIR 

the  old  fellow  was  almost  afraid,  and  recoiled  instinctively. 
"He  would  have  killed  him,"  thought  he. 

"That  which  I  have  done  for  you  this  evening,  my  friend,"' 
resumed  the  barrister,  "I  did  for  the  vicomte.  I  obviated,  at 
least  for  the  moment,  the  necessity  of  reading  all  of  these  one 
hundred  and  fifty-six  letters.  I  told  him  only  to  stop  at  those 
marked  with  a  cross,  and  to  carefully  read  the  passages  indi- 
cated with  a  red  pencil." 

"It  was  an  abridgment  of  his  penance,"  remarked  old  Tabaret. 

"He  was  seated,"  continued  Noel,  "before  a  little  table,  too 
fragile  even  to  lean  upon.  I  was  standing  with  my  back  to  the 
fireplace  in  which  a  fire  was  burning.  I  followed  his  slightest 
movements ;  and  I  scanned  his  features  closely.  Never  in  my 
life  have  I  seen  so  sad  a  spectacle,  nor  shall  I  forget  it.  if  I 
live  for  a  thousand  years.  In  less  than  five  minutes  his  face 
changed  to  such  an  extent  that  his  own  valet  would  not  have 
recognized  him.  He  held  his  handkerchief  in  his  hand,  with 
which  from  time  to  time  he  mechanically  wiped  his  lips.  He 
grew  paler  and  paler,  and  his  lips  became  as  white  as  his  hand- 
kerchief. Large  drops  of  sweat  stood  upon  his  forehead,  and 
his  eyes  became  dull  and  clouded,  as  if  a  film  had  covered 
them ;  but  not  an  exclamation,  not  a  sigh,  not  a  groan,  not  even 
a  gesture,  escaped  him.  At  one  moment,  I  felt  such  pity  for 
him  that  I  was  almost  on  the  point  of  snatching  the  letters 
from  his  hands,  throwing  them  into  the  fire  and  taking  him 
in  my  arms,  crying :  'No,  you  are  my  brother !  Forget  all ;  let 
us  remain  as  we  are  and  love  one  another !'  " 

M.  Tabaret  took  Noel's  hand,  and  pressed  it.  "Ah!"  he 
said,  "I  recognize  my  generous  boy." 

"If  I  have  not  done  this,  my  friend,  it  is  because  I  thought 
to  myself:  'Once  these  letters  destroyed,  would  he  recognize 
me  as  his  brother?'" 

"Ah!  very  true." 

"In  about  half  an  hour,  he  had  finished  reading;  he  arose, 
and  facing  me  directly,  said:  'You  are  right,  sir.  If  these  let- 
ters are  really  written  by  my  father,  as  I  believe  them  to  be, 
they  distinctly  prove  that  I  am  not  the  son  of  the  Comtesse  de 
Commarin.'  I  did  not  answer.  'Meanwhile,'  continued  he, 
'these  are  only  presumptions.  Are  you  possessed  of  other 
proofs?'  I  expected,  of  course,  a  great  many  other  objections. 
'Germain,'  said  I,  'can  speak.'  He  told  me  that  Germain  had 
been  dead  for  several  years.    Then  I  spoke  of  the  nurse,  Widow 


THE    LEROUGE   AFFAIR  701 

Lerouge.  I  explained  how  easily  she  could  be  found  and  ques- 
tioned, adding-  that  she  lived  at  La  Jonchere." 

"And  what  said  he,  Noel,  to  this  ?"  asked  old  Tabaret  anxiously. 

"He  remained  silent  at  first,  and  appeared  to  reflect.  All  on 
a  sudden  he  struck  his  forehead,  and  said :  'I  remember ;  I  know 
her.  I  have  accompanied  my  father  to  her  house  three  times, 
and  in  my  presence  he  gave  her  a  considerable  sum  of  money.' 
I  remarked  to  him  that  this  was  yet  another  proof.  He  made 
no  answer,  but  walked  up  and  down  the  room.  At  length  he 
turned  toward  me,  saying:  'Sir,  you  know  M.  de  Commarin's 
legitimate  son  ?'  I  answered :  'I  am  he.'  He  bowed  his  head 
and  murmured :  'I  thought  so.'  He  then  took  my  hand  and 
added :  'Brother,  I  bear  you  no  ill  will  for  this.'  " 

"It  seems  to  me,"  remarked  old  Tabaret,  that  he  might  have 
left  that  to  you  to  say,  and  with  more  reason  and  justice." 

"No,  my  friend,  for  he  is  more  ill-used  than  I.  I  have  not 
been  lowered,  for  I  did  not  know,  while  he  !  .  .  ." 

The  old  police  agent  nodded  his  head,  he  had  to  hide  his 
thoughts,  and  they  were  stifling  him. 

"At  length,"  resumed  Noel,  after  a  rather  long  pause,  "I 
asked  him  what  he  proposed  doing.  'Listen,'  he  said,  'I  expect 
my  father  in  about  eight  or  ten  days.  You  will  allow  me  this 
delay.  As  soon  as  he  returns  I  will  have  an  explanation  with 
him,  and  justice  shall  be  done.  I  give  you  my  word  of  honor. 
Take  back  your  letters  and  leave  me  to  myself.  This  news 
has  utterly  overwhelmed  me.  In  a  moment  I  lose  everything: 
a  great  name  that  I  have  always  borne  as  worthily  as  possible, 
a  magnificent  position,  an  immense  fortune,  and,  more  than  all 
that,  perhaps,  the  woman  who  is  dearer  to  me  than  life.  In 
exchange,  it  is  true,  I  shall  find  a  mother.  We  will  console 
each  other.  And  I  will  try,  sir,  to  make  her  forget  you,  for  she 
must  love  you,  and  will  miss  you.'  " 

"Did  he  really  say  that?" 

"Almost  word  for  word." 

"Hypocrite  !"  growled  the  old  fellow  between  his  teeth. 

"What  did  you  say?"  asked  Noel. 

"I  say  that  he  is  a  fine  young  man ;  and  I  shall  be  delighted 
to  make  his  acquaintance." 

"I  did  not  show  him  the  letter  referring  to  the  rupture," 
added  Noel ;  "it  is  best  that  he  should  ignore  Madame  Gerdy's 
misconduct.  I  voluntarily  deprived  myself  of  this  proof  rather 
than  give  him  further  pain." 


702  THE    LEROUGE   AFFAIR 

"And  now?" 

"What  am  I  to  do?  I  am  waiting  the  comte's  return.  I  shall 
act  more  freely  after  hearing  what  he  has  to  say.  To-morrow 
I  shall  ask  permission  to  examine  the  papers  belonging  to 
Claudine.-  If  I  find  the  letters,  I  am  saved;  if  not — but,  as  I 
have  told  you,  I  have  formed  no  plan  since  I  heard  of  the 
assassination.     Now,  what  do  you  advise?" 

"The  briefest  counsel  demands  long  reflection,"  replied  the 
old  fellow,  who  was  in  haste  to  depart.  "Alas !  my  poor  boy, 
what  worry  you  have  had !" 

"Terrible  !  and,  in  addition,  I  have  pecuniary  embarrassments." 

"How!  you  who  spend  nothing?" 

"I  have  entered  into  various  engagements.  Can  I  now  make 
use  of  Madame  Gerdy's  fortune,  which  I  have  hitherto  used  as 
my  own?    I  think  not." 

"You  certainly  ought  not  to.  But  listen  !  I  am  glad  you  have 
spoken  of  this ;  you  can  render  me  a  service." 

"Very  willingly.     What  is  it?" 

"I  have,  locked  up  in  my  secretary,  twelve  or  fifteen  thou- 
sand francs,  which  trouble  me  exceedingly.  You  see,  I  am  old, 
and  not  very  brave,  if  any  one  heard  I  had  this  money — " 

"I  fear  I  can  not — "  commented  the  barrister. 

"Nonsense !"  said  the  old  fellow.  "To-morrow  I  will  give 
them  you  to  take  care  of."  But  remembering  he  was  about 
to  put  himself  at  M.  Daburon's  disposal,  and  that  perhaps  he 
might  not  be  free  on  the  morrow,  he  quickly  added :  "No,  not 
to-morrow ;  but  this  very  evening.  This  infernal  money  shall 
not  remain  another  night  in  my  keeping." 

He  hurried  out,  and  presently  reappeared,  holding  in  his  hand 
fifteen  notes  of  a  thousand  francs  each.  "If  that  is  not  suffi- 
cient," said  he,  handing  them  to  Noel,  "you  can  have  more." 

"Anyhow,"  replied  the  barrister,  "I  will  give  you  a  receipt 
for  these." 

"Oh !  never  mind.     Time  enough  to-morrow." 

"And  if  I  die  to-night?" 

Then  said  the  old  fellow  to  him,  thinking  of  his  will :  "I  shall 
still  be  your  debtor.  Good  night!"  added  he  aloud.  "You  have 
asked  my  advice,  I  shall  require  the  night  for  reflection.  At 
present  my  brain  is  whirling;  I  must  go  into  the  air.  If  I  go 
to  bed  now,  I  am  sure  to  have  a  horrible  nightmare.  Come, 
my  boy ;  patience  and  courage.  Who  knows  whether  at  this 
very  hour  Providence  is  not  working  for  you?" 


THE    LEROUGE    AFFAIR 


703 


He  went  out,  and  Noel,  leaving  his  door  open,  listened  to  the 
sound  of  his  footsteps  as  he  descended  the  stairs.  Almost  im- 
mediately the  cry  of,  "Open,  if  you  please,"  and  the  banging 
of  the  door  apprised  him  that  M.  Tabaret  had  gone  out.  He 
waited  a  few  minutes  and  refilled  his  lamp.  Then  he  took  a 
small  packet  from  one  of  his  bureau  drawers,  slipped  into  his 
pocket  the  bank-notes  lent  him  by  his  old  friend,  and  left  his 
study,  the  door  of  which  he  double-locked.  On  reaching  the 
landing,  he  paused.  He  listened  intently,  as  though  the  sound 
of  Madame  Gerdy's  moans  could  reach  him  where  he  stood. 
Hearing  nothing,  he  descended  the  stairs  on  tiptoe.  A  minute 
later,  he  was  in  the  street. 


INCLUDED  in  Madame  Gerdy's  lease  was  a  coach-house, 
•*■  which  was  used  by  her  as  a  lumber  room.  Here  were  heaped 
together  all  the  old  rubbish  of  the  household,  broken  pieces  of 
furniture,  utensils  past  service,  articles  become  useless  or  cum- 
brous. It  was  also  used  to  store  the  provision  of  wood  and 
coal  for  the  winter.  This  old  coach-house  had  a  small  door 
opening  on  the  street,  which  had  been  in  disuse  for  many 
years;  but  which  Noel  had  had  secretly  repaired  and  provided 
with  a  lock.  He  could  thus  enter  or  leave  the  house  at  any 
hour  without  the  concierge  or  any  one  else  knowing.  It  was  by 
this  door  that  the  barrister  went  out,  though  not  without  using 
the  utmost  caution  in  opening  and  closing  it.  Once  in  the 
street,  he  stood  still  a  moment,  as  if  hesitating  which  way  to 
go.  Then,  he  slowly  proceeded  in  the  direction  of  the  St. 
Lazare  railway  station,  where  a  cab  happening  to  pass,  he 
hailed  it.  "Rue  du  Faubourg  Montmartre,  at  the  corner  of  the 
Rue  de  Provence,"  said  Noel,  entering  the  vehicle,  "and  drive 
quick." 

The  barrister  alighted  at  the  spot  named,  and  dismissed  the 
cabman.  When  he  had  seen  him  drive  off,  Noel  turned  into 
the  Rue  de  Provence,  and,  after  walking  a  few  yards,  rang  the 
bell  of  one  of  the  handsomest  houses  in  the  street.     The  door 


704  THE   LEROUGE   AFFAIR 

was  immediately  opened.  As  Noel  passed  before  him  the  con- 
cierge made  a  most  respectful,  and  at  the  same  time  patroniz- 
ing, bow,  one  of  those  salutations  which  Parisian  concierges 
reserve  for  their  favorite  tenants,  generous  mortals  always  ready 
to  give.  On  reaching  the  second  floor,  the  barrister  paused, 
drew  a  key  from  his  pocket,  and  opening  the  door  facing  him, 
entered  as  if  at  home.  But  at  the  sound  of  the  key  in  the 
lock,  though  very  faint,  a  lady's  maid,  rather  young  and  pretty, 
with  a  bold  pair  of  eyes,  ran  toward  him.  "Ah  !  it  is  you,  sir," 
cried  she.  This  exclamation  escaped  her  just  loud  enough  to 
be  audible  at  the  extremity  of  the  apartment,  and  serve  as  a 
signal  if  needed.  It  was  as  if  she  had  cried:  "Take  care!" 
Noel  did  not  seem  to  notice  it.     "Madame  is  there  ?"  asked  he. 

"Yes,  sir,  and  very  angry  too.  This  morning  she  wanted 
to  send  some  one  to  you.  A  little  while  ago  she  spoke  of  going 
to  find  you,  sir,  herself.  I  have  had  much  difficulty  in  prevail- 
ing on  her  not  to  disobey  your  orders." 

"Very  well,"  said  the  barrister. 

"Madame  is  in  the  smoking-room,"  continued  the  girl.  "I 
am  making  her  a  cup  of  tea.    Will  you  have  one,  sir?" 

"Yes,"  replied  Noel.     "Show  me  a  light,  Charlotte." 

He  passed  successively  through  a  magnificent  dining-room, 
a  splendid  gilded  drawing-room  in  Louis  XIV  style  and  entered 
the  smoking-room.  This  was  a  rather  large  apartment  with  a 
very  high  ceiling.  Once  inside  one  might  almost  fancy  one's 
self  three  thousand  miles  from  Paris,  in  the  house  of  some 
opulent  mandarin  of  the  Celestial  Empire.  Furniture,  carpet, 
hangings,  pictures,  all  had  evidently  been  imported  direct  from 
Hong  Kong  or  Shanghai.  A  rich  silk  tapestry,  representing 
brilliantly  colored  figures,  covered  the  walls,  and  hid  the  doors 
from  view.  All  the  empire  of  the  sun  and  moon  was  depicted 
thereon  in  vermilion  landscapes ;  corpulent  mandarins  sur- 
rounded by  their  lantern-bearers ;  learned  men  lay  stupefied  with 
opium,  sleeping  under  their  parasols;  young  girls,  with  elevated 
eyebrows,  stumbled  upon  their  diminutive  feet,  swathed  in  ban- 
dages. The  carpet  of  a  manufacture  unknown  to  Europeans 
was  strewn  with  fruits  and  flowers,  so  true  to  nature  that  they 
might  have  deceived  a  bee.  Some  great  artist  of  Peking  had 
painted  on  the  silk  which  covered  the  ceiling  numerous  fan- 
tastic birds,  opening  on  azure  ground  their  wings  of  purple  and 
gold.  Slender  rods  of  lacker,  inlaid  with  mother-of-pearl,  bor- 
dered the  draperies,  and  marked  the  angles  of  the  apartment. 


THE   LEROUGE   AFFAIR  705 

Two  fantastic-looking  chests  entirely  occupied  one  side  of  the 
room.  Articles  of  furniture  of  capricious  and  incoherent  forms, 
tables  with  porcelain  tops,  and  chiffoniers  of  precious  woods 
encumbered  every  recess  or  angle.  There  were  also  ornamental 
cabinets  and  shelves  purchased  of  Lien-Tsi,  the  Tahan  of  Sou- 
Tcheou,  the  artistic  city,  and  a  thousand  curiosities,  both  mis- 
cellaneous and  costly,  from  the  ivory  sticks  which  are  used 
instead  of  forks,  to  the  porcelain  teacups,  thinner  than  soap 
bubbles — miracles  of  the  reign  of  Kien-Loung.  A  very  large 
and  very  low  divan  piled  up  with  cushions,  covered  with  tapes- 
try similar  to  the  hangings,  occupied  one  end  of  the  room. 
There  was  no  regular  window,  but  instead  a  large  single  pane 
of  glass,  fixed  into  the  wall  of  the  house;  in  front  of  it  was 
a  double  glass  door  with  movable  panels,  and  the  space  between 
was  filled  with  the  most  rare  flowers.  The  grate  was  replaced 
by  registers  adroitly  concealed,  which  maintained  in  the  apart- 
ment a  temperature  fit  for  hatching  silkworms,  thus  truly  har- 
monizing with  the  furniture. 

When  Noel  entered,  a  womr.n,  still  young,  was  reclining  on 
the  divan,  smoking  a  cigarette.  In  spite  of  the  tropical  heat, 
she  was  enveloped  in  heavy  Cashmere  shawls.  She  was  small, 
but  then  only  small  women  can  unite  in  their  persons  every 
perfection.  Women  who  are  above  the  medium  height  must 
be  either  essays  or  errors  of  nature.  No  matter  how  lovely 
they  may  look,  they  invariably  present  some  defect,  like  the 
work  of  a  statuary,  who,  though  possessed  of  genius,  attempts 
for  the  first  time  sculpture  on  a  grand  scale.  She  was  small, 
but  her  neck,  her  shoulders,  and  her  arms  had  the  most  ex- 
quisite contours.  Her  hands  with  their  tapering  fingers  and 
rosy  nails  looked  like  jewels  preciously  cared  for.  Her  feet, 
encased  in  silken  stockings  almost  as  thin  as  a  spider's  web, 
were  a  marvel;  not  that  they  recalled  the  very  fabulous  foot 
which  Cinderella  thrust  into  the  glass  slipper;  but  the  other, 
very  real,  very  celebrated,  and  very  palpable  foot,  of  which  the 
fair  owner  (the  lovely  wife  of  a  well-known  banker)  used  to 
present  the  model  either  in  bronze  or  in  marble  to  her  numer- 
ous admirers.  Her  face  was  not  beautiful,  nor  even  pretty ;  but 
her  features  were  such  as  one  seldom  forgets ;  for,  at  the  first 
glance,  they  startled  the  beholder  like  a  flash  of  lightning.  Her 
forehead  was  a  little  high,  and  her  mouth  unmistakably  large, 
notwithstanding  the  provoking  freshness  of  her  lips.  Her  eye- 
brows were  so  perfect  they  seemed  to  have  been  drawn  with  India 


706  THE    LEROUGE   AFFAIR 

ink ;  but,  unhappily  the  pencil  had  been  used  too  heavily ;  and 
they  gave  her  an  unpleasant  expression  when  she  frowned.  On 
the  other  hand,  her  smooth  complexion  had  a  rich  golden 
pallor;  and  her  black  and  velvety  eyes  possessed  enormous 
magnetic  power.  Her  teeth  were  of  a  pearly  brilliancy  and 
whiteness,  and  her  hair,  of  prodigious  opulence,  was  black  and 
fine,  and  glossy  as  a  raven's  wing. 

On  perceiving  Noel,  as  he  pushed  aside  the  silken  hangings, 
she  half  arose  and  leaned  upon  her  elbow.  "So  you  have  come 
at  last  ?"  she  observed  in  a  tone  of  vexation ;  "you  are  verv 
kind." 

The  barrister  felt  almost  suffocated  by  the  oppressive  tem- 
perature of  the  room.  "How  warm  it  is !"  said  he ;  "it  is 
enough  to  stifle  one !" 

"Do  you  find  it  so?"  replied  the  young  woman.  "Well,  I 
am  actually  shivering!  It  is  true,  though,  that  I  am  very  un- 
well. Waiting  is  unbearable  to  me,  it  acts  upon  my  nerves; 
and  I  have  been  waiting  for  you  ever  since  yesterday." 

"It  was  quite  impossible  for  me  to  come,"  explained  Noel, 
"quite  impossible !" 

"You  knew,  however,"  continued  the  lady,  "that  to-day  was 
my  settling  day;  and  that  I  had  several  heavy  accounts  to  set- 
tle. The  tradesmen  all  came,  and  I  had  not  a  halfpenny  to  give 
them.  The  coachmaker  sent  his  bill,  but  there  was  no  money. 
Then  that  old  rascal  Clergot,  to  whom  I  had  given  an  accept- 
ance for  three  thousand  francs,  came  and  kicked  up  a  row. 
How  pleasant  all  this  is !" 

Noel  bowed  his  head  like  a  schoolboy  rebuked  for  having 
neglected  his  lessons.    "It  is  but  one  day  behind,"  he  murmured. 

"And  that  is  nothing,  is  it?"  retorted  the  young  woman.  "A 
man  who  respects  himself,  my  friend,  may  allow  his  own  sig- 
nature to  be  dishonored,  but  never  that  of  his  mistress !  Do 
you  wish  to  destroy  my  credit  altogether?  You  know  very 
well  that  the  only  consideration  I  receive  is  what  my  money 
pays  for.  So  as  soon  as  I  am  unable  to  pay,  it  will  be  all  up 
with  me." 

"My  dear  Juliette,"  began  the  barrister  gently. 

"Oh,  yes !  that's  all  very  fine,"  interrupted  she.  "Your  dear 
Juliette  !  Your  adored  Juliette !  So  long  as  you  are  here  it 
is  really  charming;  but  no  sooner  are  you  outside  than  you 
forget  everything.  Do  you  ever  remember  then  that  there  is 
such  a  person  as  Juliette?" 


THE    LEROUGE   AFFAIR  707 

"How  unjust  you  are !"  replied  Noel.  "Do  you  not  know 
that  I  am  always  thinking  of  you?  Have  I  not  proved  it  to 
you  a  thousand  times  ?  Look  here !  I  am  going  to  prove  it  to 
you  again  this  very  instant."  He  withdrew  from  his  pocket 
the  small  packet  he  had  taken  out  of  his  bureau  drawer,  and, 
undoing  it,  showed  her  a  handsome  velvet  casket.  "Here," 
said  he  exultingly,  "is  the  bracelet  you  longed  for  so  much  a 
week  ago  at  Beaugran's." 

Madame  Juliette,  without  rising,  held  out  her  hand  to  take 
the  casket,  and,  opening  it  with  the  utmost  indifference,  just 
glanced  at  the  jewel,  and  merely  said:  "Ah!" 

"Is  this  the  one  you  wanted  ?"  asked  Noel. 

"Yes,  but  it  looked  much  prettier  in  the  shop  window."  She 
closed  the  casket,  and  threw  it  carelessly  on  to  a  small  table 
near  her. 

"I  am  unfortunate  this  evening,"  said  the  barrister,  much 
mortified. 

"How  so?" 

"I  see  plainly  the  bracelet  does  not  please  you." 

"Oh,  but  it  does.  I  think  it  lovely  .  .  .  besides,  it  will  com- 
plete the  two  dozen." 

It  was  now  Noel's  turn  to  say :  "Ah  !  .  .  ."  and  as  Juliette 
said  nothing,  he  added :  "Well,  if  you  are  pleased,  you  do  not 
show  it." 

"Oh !  so  that  is  what  you  are  driving  at  I"  cried  the  lady. 
"I  am  not  grateful  enough  to  suit  you !  You  bring  me  a 
present,  and  I  ought  at  once  to  pay  cash,  fill  the  house  with 
cries  of  joy,  and  throw  myself  upon  my  knees  before  you, 
calling  you  a  great  and  magnificent  lord !" 

Noel  was  unable  this  time  to  restrain  a  gesture  of  impatience, 
which  Juliette  perceived  plainly  enough,  to  her  great  delight. 

"Would  that  be  sufficient?"  continued  she.  "Shall  I  call 
Charlotte,  so  that  she  may  admire  this  superb  bracelet,  this 
monument  of  your  generosity  ?  Shall  I  have  the  concierge  up, 
and  call  the  cook  to  tell  them  how  happy  I  am  to  possess  such 
a  magnificent  lover?" 

The  barrister  shrugged  his  shoulders  like  a  philosopher,  in- 
capable of  noticing  a  child's  banter.  "What  is  the  use  of  these 
insulting  jests?"  said  he.  "If  you  have  any  real  complaint 
against  me,  better  to  say  so  simply  and  seriously." 

"Very  well,"  said  Juliette,  "let  us  be  serious.  And  that 
being   so,  I   will   tell  you  it  would   have  been  better  to  have 


708  THE    LEROUGE   AFFAIR 

forgotten  the  bracelet,  and  to  have  brought  me  last  night  or 
this  morning  the  eight  thousand  francs  I  wanted." 

"I  could  not  come." 

"You  should  have  sent  them;  messengers  are  still  to  be  found 
at  the' street  corners." 

"If  I  neither  brought  nor  sent  them,  my  dear  Juliette,  it  was 
because  I  did  not  have  them.  I  had  trouble  enough  in  getting 
them  promised  me  for  to-morrow.  If  I  have  the  sum  this 
evening,  I  owe  it  to  chance  upon  which  I  could  not  have 
counted  an  hour  ago ;  but  by  which  I  profited,  at  the  risk  of 
compromising  myself." 

"Poor  man !"  said  Juliette,  with  an  ironical  touch  of  pity  in 
her  voice.  "Do  you  dare  to  tell  me  you  have  had  difficulty  in 
obtaining  ten  thousand  francs — you?" 

"Yes— I !" 

The  young  woman  looked  at  her  lover,  and  burst  into  a  fit 
of  laughter.  "You  are  really  superb  when  you  act  the  poor 
young  man !"  said  she. 

"I  am  not  acting." 

"So  you  say,  my  own.  But  I  see  what  you  are  aiming  at. 
This  amiable  confession  is  the  preface.  To-morrow  you  will 
declare  that  your  affairs  are  very  much  embarrassed,  and  the 
day  after  to-morrow.  .  .  .  Ah  !  you  are  becoming  very  avari- 
cious. It  is  a  virtue  you  used  not  to  possess.  Do  you  not 
already  regret  the  money  you  have  given  me?" 

"Wretched  woman !'  murmured  Noel,  fast  losing  patience. 

"Really,"  continued  the  lady,  "I  pity  you,  oh !  so  much.  Un- 
fortunate lover !  Shall  I  get  up  a  subscription  for  you  ?  In 
your  place,  I  would  appeal  to  public  charity." 

Xoel  could  stand  it  no  longer,  in  spite  of  his  resolution  to 
remain  calm.  "You  think  it  a  laughing  matter?"  cried  he. 
"Well !  let  me  tell  you,  Juliette,  I  am  ruined,  and  I  have  ex- 
hausted my  last  resources !     I  am  reduced  to  expedients  !" 

The  eyes  of  the  young  woman  brightened.  She  looked  at 
her  lover  tenderly.  "Oh,  if  'twas  only  true,  my  big  pet !"  said 
she.    "If  I  only  could  believe  you !" 

The  barrister  was  wounded  to  the  heart.  "She  believes  me," 
thought  he;  "and  she  is  glad.     She  detests  me." 

He  was  mistaken.  The  idea  that  a  man  had  loved  her  suffi- 
ciently to  ruin  himself  for  her,  without  allowing  even  a  re- 
proach to  escape  him,  filled  this  woman  with  joy.  She  felt 
herself  on  the  point  of  loving  the  man,  now  poor  and  humbled, 


THE    LEROUGE   AFFAIR  709 

whom  she  had  despised  when  rich  and  proud.  But  the  expres- 
sion of  her  eyes  suddenly  changed.  "What  a  fool  I  am,"  cried 
she,  "I  was  on  the  point  of  believing  all  that,  and  of  trying  to 
console  you.  Don't  pretend  that  you  are  one  of  those  gentle- 
men who  scatter  their  money  broadcast.  Tell  that  to  somebody 
else,  my  friend !  All  men  in  our  days  calculate  like  money- 
lenders. There  are  only  a  few  fools  who  ruin  themselves  now, 
some  conceited  youngsters,  and  occasionally  an  amorous  old 
dotard.  Well,  you  are  a  very  calm,  very  grave,  and  very  seri- 
ous fellow,  but  above  all,  a  very  strong  one." 

"Not  with  you,  anyhow,"  murmured  Noel. 

"Come  now,  stop  that  nonsense  !  You  know  very  well  what 
you  are  about.  Instead  of  a  heart,  you  have  a  great  big  double 
zero,  just  like  a  Homburg.  When  you  took  a  fancy  to  me,  you 
said  to  yourself:  'I  will  expend  so  much  on  passion,'  and  you 
have  kept  your  word.  It  is  an  investment,  like  any  other,  in 
which  one  receives  interest  in  the  form  of  pleasure.  You  are 
capable  of  all  the  extravagance  in  the  world,  to  the  extent  of 
your  fixed  price  of  four  thousand  francs  a  month  !  If  it  re- 
quired a  franc  more  you  would  very  soon  take  back  your  heart 
and  your  hat,  and  carry  them  elsewhere;  to  one  or  other  of 
my  rivals  in  the  neighborhood." 

"It  is  true,"  answered  the  barrister,  coolly.  "I  know  how  to 
count,  and  that  accomplishment  is  very  useful  to  me !  It  enables 
me  to  know  exactly  how  and  where  I  have  got  rid  of  my  fortune." 

"So  you  really  know?"  sneered  Juliette. 

"And  I  can  tell  you,  madame,"  continued  he.  "At  first  you 
were  not  very  exacting,  but  the  appetite  came  with  eating. 
You  wished  for  luxury,  you  have  it;  splendid  furniture,  you 
have  it;  a  complete  establishment,  extravagant  dresses,  I  could 
refuse  you  nothing.  You  required  a  carriage,  a  horse,  I  gave 
them  you.  And  I  do  not  mention  a  thousand  other  whims.  I 
include  neither  this  Chinese  cabinet  nor  the  two  dozen  brace- 
lets.    The  total  is  four  hundred  thousand  francs !" 

"Are  you  sure?" 

"As  sure  as  any  one  can  be  who  has  had  that  amount,  and 
has  it  no   longer." 

"Four  hundred  thousand  francs,  only  fancy !  Are  there 
no  centimes?" 

"No." 

"Then,  my  dear  friend,  if  I  make  up  my  bill,  you  will  still 
owe   me   something." 


710  THE    LEROUGE   AFFAIR 

The  entrance  of  the  maid  with  the  tea-tray  interrupted  this 
amorous  duet,  of  which  Noel  had  experienced  more  than  one 
repetition.  The  barrister  held  his  tongue  on  account  of  the 
servant.  Juliette  did  the  same  on  account  of  her  lover,  for 
she  had  no  secrets  for  Charlotte,  who  had  been  with  her  three 
years,  and  with  whom  she  had  shared  everything,  sometimes 
even  her  lovers. 

Madame  Juliette   Chaffour  was  a   Parisian.     She  was  born 
about  1839,  somewhere  in  the  upper  end  of  the  Faubourg  Mont- 
martre.     Her  father  was  unknown.     Her  infancy  was  a  long 
alternation  of  beatings  and  caresses,  equally  furious.     She  had 
lived   as   best   she   could,   on   sweetmeats   and  damaged   fruit; 
so   that   now   her   stomach   could   stand   anything.     At   twelve 
years  old  she  was  as  thin  as  a  nail,  as  green  as  a  June  apple, 
and    more   depraved   than   the    inmates    of   the   prison   of    St. 
Lazare.    Prudhomme  would  have  said  that  this  precocious  little 
hussy    was    totally    destitute    of    morality.      She   had    not    the 
slightest    idea    what    morality    was.      She    thought    the    world 
was    full   of   honest   people    living   like   her   mother,   and   her 
mother's  friends.     She  feared  neither  God  nor  devil,  but  she 
was  afraid  of  the  police.     She  dreaded  also  certain  mysterious 
and  cruel  persons,  whom  she  had  heard  spoken  of,  who  dwelt 
near  the  Palais  de  Justice,  and  who  experienced  a  malicious 
pleasure    in   seeing   pretty   girls   in   trouble.     As   she   gave   no 
promise  of  beauty,  she  was  on  the  point  of  being  placed  in  a 
shop,  when  an  old  and  respectable  gentleman,  who  had  known 
her  mama  some  years  previously,  accorded  her  his  protection. 
This  old  gentleman,  prudent  and  provident,  like  all  old  gentle- 
men, was  a  connoisseur,  and  knew  that  to  reap  one  must  sow. 
He  resolved  first  of  all  to  give  his  protege  just  a  varnish  of 
education.    He  procured  masters  for  her,  who  in  less  than  three 
years  taught  her  to   write,   to  play  the  piano,  and  to  dance. 
What  he  did  not  procure  for  her,  however,  was  a  lover.     She 
therefore    found    one    for    herself,    an   artist   who    taught   her 
nothing  very  new,  but  who  carried  her  off  to  offer  her  half  of 
what   he  possessed,   that   is   to   say,   nothing.     At  the  end  of 
three  months,  having  had  enough  of  it,  she  left  the  nest  of  her 
first  love,   with   all   she  possessed  tied  up   in  a  cotton  pocket 
handkerchief. 

During  the  four  years  which  followed,  she  led  a  precarious 
existence,  sometimes  with  little  else  to  live  upon  but  hope, 
which   never   wholly   abandons  a  young  girl   who  knows  she 


THE    LEROUGE   AFFAIR  711 

has  pretty  eyes.  By  turns  she  sunk  to  the  bottom,  or  rose  to 
the  surface  of  the  stream  in  which  she  found  herself.  Twice 
had  fortune  in  new  gloves  come  knocking  at  her  door,  but  she 
had  not  the  sense  to  keep  her.  With  the  assistance  of  a 
strolling  player,  she  had  just  appeared  on  the  stage  of  a 
small  theatre,  and  spoken  her  lines  rather  well,  when  Noel  by 
chance  met  her,  loved  her,  and  made  her  his  mistress.  Her 
barrister,  as  she  called  him,  did  not  displease  her  at  first. 
After  a  few  months,  though,  she  could  not  bear  him.  She 
detested  him  for  his  polite  and  polished  manners,  his  manly 
bearing,  his  distinguished  air,  his  contempt,  which  he  did 
not  care  to  hide,  for  all  that  is  low  and  vulgar,  and,  above  all, 
for  his  unalterable  patience,  which  nothing  could  tire.  Her 
great  complaint  against  him  was  that  he  was  not  at  all  funny, 
and  also,  that  he  absolutely  declined  to  conduct  her  to  those 
places  where  one  can  give  a  free  vent  to  one's  spirits.  To 
amuse  herself,  she  began  to  squander  money;  and  her  aversion 
for  her  lover  increased  at  the  same  rate  as  her  ambition  and 
his  sacrifices.  She  rendered  him  the  most  miserable  of  men, 
and  treated  him  like  a  dog;  and  this  not  from  any  natural  bad- 
ness of  disposition,  but  from  principle.  She  was  persuaded  that 
a  woman  is  beloved  in  proportion  to  the  trouble  she  causes 
and  the  mischief  she  does. 

Juliette  was  not  wicked,  and  she  believed  she  had  much  to 
complain  of.  The  dream  of  her  life  was  to  be  loved  in  a 
way  which  she  felt,  but  could  scarcely  have  explained.  She 
had  never  been  to  her  lovers  more  than  a  plaything.  She 
understood  this;  and,  as  she  was  naturally  proud,  the  idea 
enraged  her.  She  dreamed  of  a  man  who  would  be  devoted 
enough  to  make  a  real  sacrifice  for  her,  a  lover  who  would 
descend  to  her  level,  instead  of  attempting  to  raise  her  to  his. 
She  despaired  of  ever  meeting  such  a  one.  Noel's  extravagance 
left  her  as  cold  as  ice.  She  believed  he  was  very  rich,  and  sin- 
gularly, in  spite  of  her  greediness,  she  did  not  care  much  for 
money.  Noel  would  have  won  her  easier  by  a  brutal  frankness 
that  would  have  shown  her  clearly  his  situation.  He  lost  her 
love  by  the  delicacy  of  his  dissimulation,  that  left  her  ignorant 
of  the  sacrifices  he  was  making  for  her. 

Noel  adored  Juliette.  Until  the  fatal  day  he  saw  her,  he 
had  lived  like  a  sage.  This,  his  first  passion,  burned  him 
up ;  and,  from  the  disaster,  he  saved  only  appearances. 

The  four  walls  remained   standing,  but  the  interior  of  the 


712  THE    LEROUGE   AFFAIR 

edifice  was  destroyed.  Even  heroes  have  their  vulnerable  parts, 
Achilles  died  from  a  wound  in  the  heel.  The  most  artfully 
constructed  armor  has  a  flaw  somewhere.  Noel  was  assail- 
able by  means  of  Juliette,  and  through  her  was  at  the  mercy 
of  everything  and  every  one.  In  four  years,  this  model 
young  man,  this  barrister  of  immaculate  reputation,  this  austere 
moralist,  had  squandered  not  only  his  own  fortune  on  her,  but 
Madame  Gerdy's  also.  He  loved  her  madly,  without  reflection, 
without  measure,  with  his  eyes  shut.  At  her  side,  he  forgot 
all  prudence,  and  thought  out  loud.  In  her  boudoir,  he  dropped 
his  mask  of  habitual  dissimulation,  and  his  vices  displayed 
themselves  at  ease,  as  his  limbs  in  a  bath.  He  felt  himself 
so  powerless  against  her,  that  he  never  essayed  to  struggle. 
She  possessed  him.  Once  or  twice  he  attempted  to  firmly  op- 
pose her  ruinous  caprices;  but  she  had  made  him  pliable  as 
the  osier.  Under  the  dark  glances  of  this  girl,  his  strongest 
resolutions  melted  more  quickly  than  snow  beneath  an  April 
sun.  She  tortured  him;  but  she  had  also  the  power  to  make 
him  forget  all  by  a  smile,  a  tear,  or  a  kiss.  Away  from  the 
enchantress,  reason  returned  at  intervals,  and,  in  his  lucid 
moments,  he  said  to  himself,  "She  does  not  love  me.  She  is 
amusing  herself  at  my  expense !"  But  the  belief  in  her  love 
had  taken  such  deep  root  in  his  heart  that  he  could  not  pluck 
it  forth.  He  made  himself  a  monster  of  jealousy,  and  then 
argued  with  himself  respecting  her  fidelity.  On  several  occa- 
sions he  had  strong  reasons  to  doubt  her  constancy,  but  he 
never  had  the  courage  to  declare  his  suspicions.  "If  I  am 
not  mistaken,  I  shall  either  have  to  leave  her,"  thought  he, 
"or  accept  everything  in  the  future."  At  the  idea  of  a  sep- 
aration from  Juliette,  he  trembled,  and  felt  his  passion  strong 
enough  to  compel  him  to  submit  to  the  lowest  indignity.  He 
preferred  even  these  heartbreaking  doubts  to  a  still  more 
dreadful  certainty. 

The  presence  of  the  maid  who  took  a  considerable  time  in 
arranging  the  tea-table  gave  Noel  an  opportunity  to  recover 
himself.  He  looked  at  Juliette ;  and  his  anger  took  flight. 
Already  he  began  to  ask  himself  if  he  had  not  been  a  little 
cruel  to  her.  When  Charlotte  retired,  he  came  and  took  a  seat 
on  the  divan  beside  his  mistress,  and  attempted  to  put  his  arms 
round  her.  "Come,"  said  he  in  a  caressing  tone,  "you  have  been 
angry  enough  for  this  evening.  If  I  have  done  wrong,  you  have 
punished  me  sufficiently.    Kiss  me,  and  make  it  up." 


THE    LEROUGE    AFFAIR  713 

She  repulsed  him  angrily,  and  said  in  a  dry  tone:  "Let  me 
alone  !  How  many  times  must  I  tell  you  that  I  am  very  unwell 
this  evening:" 

"You  suffer,  my  love  ?"  resumed  the  barrister,  "where  ?  Shall 
I  send  for  the  doctor?" 

"There  is  no  need.  I  know  the  nature  of  my  malady;  it  is 
called  ennui.  You  are  not  at  all  the  doctor  who  could  do  any- 
thing for  me." 

Noel  rose  with  a  discouraged  air,  and  took  his  place  at  the 
side  of  the  tea-table,  facing  her.  His  resignation  bespoke  how 
habituated  he  had  become  to  these  rebuffs.  Juliette  snubbed 
him ;  but  he  returned  always,  like  the  poor  dog  who  lies  in 
wait  all  day  for  the  time  when  his  caresses  will  not  be  in- 
opportune. "You  have  told  me  very  often  during  the  last  few 
months,  that  I  bother  you.     What  have  I  done?"  he  asked. 

"Nothing." 

"Well,  then,  why—?" 

"My  life  is  nothing  more  than  a  continual  yawn,"  answered 
the  young  woman;  "is  it  my  fault?  Do  you  think  it  very 
amusing  to  be  your  mistress  ?  Look  at  yourself.  Does  there 
exist  another  being  as  sad,  as  dull  as  you,  more  uneasy,  more 
suspicious,  devoured  by  a  greater  jealousy?" 

"Your  reception  of  me,  my  dear  Juliette,"  ventured  Noel, 
"is  enough  to  extinguish  gaiety  and  freeze  all  effusion.  Then 
one  always  fears  when  one  loves !" 

"Really !  Then  one  should  seek  a  woman  to  suit  one's  self,  or 
have  her  made  to  order ;  shut  her  up  in  the  cellar,  and  have  her 
brought  upstairs  once  a  day,  at  the  end  of  dinner,  during 
dessert,  or  with  the  champagne  just  by  way  of  amusement." 

"I  should  have  done  better  not  to  have  come,"  murmured 
the   barrister. 

"Of  course.  I  am  to  remain  alone  here,  without  anything  to 
occupy  me  except  a  cigarette  and  a  stupid  book,  that  I  go 
to  sleep  over?  Do  you  call  this  an  existence,  never  to  budge 
out  of  the  house  even?" 

"It  is  the  life  of  all  the  respectable  women  that  I  know," 
replied  the  barrister  dryly. 

"Then  I  can  not  compliment  them  on  their  enjoyment. 
Happily,  though,  I  am  not  a  respectable  woman,  and  I  can 
tell  you  that  I  am  tired  of  living  more  closely  shut  up  than 
the  wife  of  a  Turk,  with  your  face  for  sole  amusement." 

"You  live  shut  up,  you?" 

4— Vol.  Ill— Gab. 


714  THE    LEROUGE   AFFAIR 

"Certainly !"  continued  Juliette,  with  increased  bitterness. 
"Come,  have  you  ever  brought  one  of  your  friends  here?  No, 
you  hide  me.  When  have  you  offered  me  your  arm  for  a 
walk?  Never,  your  dignity  would  be  sullied,  if  you  were 
seen  in  my  company.  I  have  a  carriage.  Have  you  entered 
it  half  a  dozen  times?  Perhaps;  but  then  you  let  down  the 
blinds !     I  go  out  alone.     I  walk  about  alone !" 

"Always  the  same  refrain,"  interrupted  Noel,  anger  getting  the 
better  of  him,  "always  these  uncalled-for  complaints.  As  though 
you  had  still  to  learn  the  reason  why  this  state  of  things  exists." 

"I  know  well  enough,"  pursued  the  young  woman,  "that 
you  are  ashamed  of  me.  Yet  I  know  many  bigger  swells  than 
you  who  do  not  mind  being  seen  with  their  mistresses.  My 
lord  trembles  for  his  fine  name  of  Gerdy  that  I  might  sully, 
while  the  sons  of  the  most  noble  families  are  not  afraid  of 
showing  themselves  in  public  places  in  the  company  of  the 
stupidest  of  kept  women." 

At  last  Noel  could  stand  it  no  longer,  to  the  great  delight 
of  Madame  Chaffour.  "Enough  of  these  recriminations!" 
cried  he,  rising.  "If  I  hide  our  relations,  it  is  because  I  am 
constrained  to  do  so.  Of  what  do  you  complain?  You  have 
unrestrained  liberty;  and  you  use  it,  too,  and  so  largely  that 
your  actions  altogether  escape  me.  You  accuse  me  of  creat- 
ing a  vacuum  around  you.  Who  is  to  blame?  Did  I  grow  tired 
of  a  happy  and  quiet  existence?  My  friends  would  have  come 
to  see  us  in  a  home  in  accordance  with  a  modest  competence. 
Can  I  bring  them  here?  On  seeing  all  this  luxury,  this  in- 
solent display  of  my  folly,  they  would  ask  each  other  where  I 
obtained  all  the  money  I  have  spent  on  you.  I  may  have  a 
mistress,  but  I  have  not  the  right  to  squander  a  fortune  that 
does  not  belong  to  me.  If  my  acquaintances  learned  to-mor- 
row that  it  is  I  who  keep  you,  my  future  prospects  would  be 
destroyed.  What  client  would  confide  his  interests  to  the 
imbecile  who  ruined  himself  for  the  woman  who  has  been 
the  talk  of  all  Paris?  I  am  not  a  great  lord,  I  have  neither 
an  historical  name  to  tarnish,  nor  an  immense  fortune  to  lose. 
I  am  plain  Noel  Gerdy,  a  barrister.  My  reputation  is  all 
that  I  possess.  It  is  a  false  one,  I  admit.  Such  as  it  is,  how- 
ever, I  must  keep  it,  and  I  will  keep  it." 

Juliette  who  knew  her  Noel  thoroughly,  saw  that  she  had 
gone  far  enough.  She  determined,  therefore,  to  put  him  in 
a  good  humor  again.     "My  friend,"  said  she,  tenderly,  "I  did 


THE    LEROUGE   AFFAIR  715 

not  wish  to  cause  you  pain.  You  must  be  indulgent,  I  am  so 
horribly  nervous  this  evening." 

This  sudden  change  delighted  the  barrister,  and  almost 
sufficed  to  calm  his  anger.  "You  will  drive  me  mad  with  your 
injustice,"  said  he.  "While  I  exhaust  my  imagination  to 
find  what  can  be  agreeable  to  you,  you  are  perpetually  attacking 
my  gravity;  yet  it  is  not  forty-eight  hours  since  we  were 
plunged  in  all  the  gaiety  of  the  carnival.  I  kept  the  fete  of 
Shrove  Tuesday  like  a  student.  We  went  to  a  theatre;  I  then 
put  on  a  domino,  and  accompanied  you  to  the  ball  at  the  opera, 
and  even  invited  two  of  my  friends  to  sup  with  us." 

"It  was  very  gay  indeed !"  answered  the  young  woman, 
making  a  wry  face. 

"So  I  think." 

"Do  you !  Then  you  are  not  hard  to  please.  We  went  to 
the  Vaudeville,  it  is  true,  but  separately,  as  we  always  do,  I 
alone  above,  you  below.  At  the  ball  you  looked  as  though  you 
were  burying  the  devil.  At  the  supper-table  your  friends  were 
as  melancholy  as  a  pair  of  owls.  I  obeyed  your  orders  by 
affecting  hardly  to  know  you.  You  imbibed  like  a  sponge,  with- 
out my  being  able  to  tell  whether  you  were  drunk  or  not." 

"That  proves,"  interrupted  Noel,  "that  we  ought  not  to 
force  our  tastes.  Let  us  talk  of  something  else."  He  took  a 
few  steps  in  the  room,  then  looking  at  his  watch  said :  "Almost 
one  o'clock ;  my  love,  I  must  leave  you." 

"What !  you  are  not  going  to  remain  ?" 

"No,  to  my  great  regret;  my  mother  is  dangerously  ill.  He 
unfolded  and  counted  out  on  the  table  the  bank-notes  he  had 
received  from  old  Tabaret. 

"My  little  one,"  said  he,  "here  are  not  eight  thousand  francs, 
but  ten  thousand.    You  will  not  see  me  again  for  a  few  days." 

"Are  you  leaving  Paris,  then?" 

"No;  but  my  entire  time  will  be  absorbed  by  an  affair  of 
immense  importance  to  myself.  If  I  succeed  in  my  undertaking, 
my  dear,  our  future  happiness  is  assured,  and  you  will  then  see 
whether  I  love  you !" 

"Oh,  my  dear  Noel,  tell  me  what  it  is." 

"I  can  not  now." 

"Tell  me.  I  beseech  you,"  pleaded  the  young  woman,  hanging 
round  his  neck,  raising  herself  upon  the  tips  of  her  toes  to  press 
her  lips  to  his.  The  barrister  embraced  her;  and  his  resolution 
seemed  to  waver. 


716  THE    LEROUGE   AFFAIR 

"No."  said  he  at  length;  "seriously,  I  can  not.  Of  what  use 
to  awaken  in  you  hopes  which  can  never  be  realized?  Now, 
mv  darling,  listen  to  me.  Whatever  may  happen,  understand, 
you  must  under  no  pretext  whatever  again  come  to  my  house, 
as  you  once  had  the  imprudence  to  do.  Do  not  even  write  to 
me.  By  disobeying,  you  may  do  me  an  irreparable  injury.  If 
any  accident  occurs,  send  that  old  rascal  Clergot  to  me.  I  shall 
have  a  visit  from  him  the  day  after  to-morrow,  for  he  holds 
some  bills  of  mine." 

Juliette  recoiled,  menacing  Noel  with  a  mutinous  gesture. 
"You  will  not  tell  me  anything?"  insisted  she. 

"Not  this  evening,  but  very  soon,"  replied  the  barrister,  em- 
barrassed by  the  piercing  glance  of  his  mistress. 

"Always  some  mystery!"  cried  Juliette,  piqued  at  the  want 
of  success  attending  her  blandishments. 

"This  will  be  the  last,  I  swear  to  you !" 

"Noel,  my  good  man."  said  the  young  woman  in  a  serious 
tone,  "you  are  hiding  something  from  me.  I  understand  you, 
as  you  know;  for  several  days  past  there  has  been  something 
or  other  the  matter  with  you ;  you  have  completely  changed." 

"I  swear  to  you,  Juliette — " 

"No,  swear  nothing ;  I  should  not  believe  you.  Only  remem- 
ber, no  attempt  at  deceiving  me,  I  forewarn  you.  I  am  a  woman 
capable  of  revenge." 

The  barrister  was  evidently  ill  at  ease.  "The  affair  in  ques- 
tion," stammered  he,  "can  as  well  fail  as  succeed." 

"Enough,"  interrupted  Juliette;  "your  will  shall  be  obeyed. 
I  promise  that.     Come,  sir,  kiss  me.     I  am  going  to  bed." 

The  door  was  hardly  shut  upon  Noel  when  Charlotte  was 
installed  on  the  divan  near  her  mistress.  Had  the  barrister  been 
listening  at  the  door,  he  might  have  heard  Madame  Juliette  say- 
ing, "No,  really,  I  can  no  longer  endure  him.  What  a  bore  he 
is,  my  girl.  Ah !  if  I  was  not  so  afraid  of  him,  wouldn't  I  leave 
him  at  once?    But  he  is  capable  of  killing  me!" 

The  girl  vainly  tried  to  defend  Noel ;  but  her  mistress  did 
not  listen.  She  murmured:  "Why  does  he  absent  himself,  and 
what  is  he  plotting?  An  absence  of  eight  days  is  suspicious. 
Can  he  by  any  chance  intend  to  be  married?  Ah!  if  I  only 
knew.  You  weary  me  to  death,  my  good  Noel,  and  I  am  deter- 
mined to  leave  you  to  yourself  one  of  these  fine  mornings;  but 
I  can  not  permit  you  to  quit  me  first.  Supposing  he  is  going  to 
get  married?    But  I  will  not  allow  it.    I  must  make  inquiries." 


THE    LEROUGE   AFFAIR  717 

Noel,  however,  was  not  listening  at  the  door.  He  went  along 
the  Rue  de  Provence  as  quickly  as  possible,  gained  the  Rue  St. 
Lazare,  and  entered  the  house  as  he  had  departed,  by  the  stable 
door.  He  had  but  just  sat  down  in  his  sutdy  when  the  servant. 
knocked.     '"Sir,"  cried  she,  "in  heaven's  name,  answer  me!" 

He  opened  the  door  and  said  impatiently:  "What  is  it  now ?" 

"Sir,"  stammered  the  girl  in  tears,  "this  is  the  third  time  I 
have  knocked,  and  you  have  not  answered.  Come,  I  implore 
you.     I  am  afraid  madame  is  dying !" 

He  followed  her  to  Madame  Gerdy's  room.  He  must  have 
found  the  poor  woman  terribly  changed,  for  he  could  not  re- 
strain a  movement  of  terror.  The  invalid  struggled  painfully 
beneath  her  coverings.  Her  face  was  of  a  livid  paleness,  as 
though  there  was  not  a  drop  of  blood  left  in  her  veins ;  and  her 
eyes,  which  glittered  with  a  sombre  light,  seemed  filled  with  a 
fine  dust.  Her  hair,  loose  and  disordered,  falling  over  her 
cheeks  and  upon  her  shoulders,  contributed  to  her  wild  appear- 
ance. She  uttered  from  time  to  time  a  groan  hardly  audible, 
or  murmured  unintelligible  words.  At  times  a  fiercer  pang  than 
the  former  ones  forced  a  cry  of  anguish  from  her.  She  did  not 
recognize  Noel. 

"You  see,  sir,"  said  the  servant. 

"Yes.  Who  would  have  supposed  her  malady  could  advance 
so  rapidly?  Quick,  run  to  Dr.  Herve's ;  tell  him  to  get  up  and 
to  come  at  once ;  tell  him  it  is  for  me."  And  he  seated  himself 
in  an  armchair,  facing  the  suffering  woman. 

Dr.  Herve  was  one  of  Noel's  friends,  an  old  school-fellow, 
and  the  companion  of  his  student  days.  The  doctor's  history 
differed  in  nothing  from  that  of  most  young  men,  who,  without 
fortune,  friends,  or  influence,  enter  upon  the  practise  of  the  most 
difficult,  the  most  hazardous  of  professions  that  exist  in  Paris, 
where  one  sees  so  many  talented  young  doctors  forced,  to  earn 
the  bread,  to  place  themselves  at  the  disposition  of  infamous 
drug  vendors.  A  man  of  remarkable  courage  and  self-reliance, 
Herve,  his  studies  over,  said  to  himself,  "No,  I  will  not  go  and 
bury  myself  in  the  country;  I  will  remain  in  Paris;  I  will  there 
become  celebrated.  I  shall  be  surgeon-in-chief  of  a  hospital  and 
a  knight  of  the  Legion  of  Honor."  To  enter  upon  this  path 
of  thorns,  leading  to  a  magnificent  triumphal  arch,  the  future 
academician  ran  himself  twenty  thousand  francs  in  debt  to  fur- 
nish a  small  apartment.  Here,  armed  with  a  patience  which 
nothing  could   fatigue,  an   iron   resolution   that   nothing  could 


718  THE    LEROUGE   AFFAIR 

subdue,  he  struggled  and  waited.  Only  those  who  have  experi- 
enced it  can  understand  what  sufferings  are  endured  by  the 
poor,  proud  man,  who  waits  in  a  black  coat,  freshly  shaven,  with 
smiling  lips,  while  he  is  starving  of  hunger !  The  refinements 
of  civilization  have  inaugurated  punishments  which  put  in  the 
shade  the  cruelties  of  the  savage.  The  unknown  physician  must 
begin  by  attending  the  poor  who  can  not  pay  him.  Sometimes, 
too,  the  patient  is  ungrateful.  He  is  profuse  in  promises  while 
in  danger ;  but  when  cured  he  scorns  the  doctor,  and  forgets  to 
pay  him  his  fee. 

After  seven  years  of  heroic  perseverance,  Herve  has  secured 
at  last  a  circle  of  patients  who  pay  him.  During  this  he  lived 
and  paid  the  exorbitant  interest  of  his  debt,  but  he  is  getting  on. 
Three  or  four  pamphlets,  and  a  prize  won  without  much  in- 
trigue, have  attracted  public  attention  to  him.  But  he  is  no 
longer  the  brave  young  enthusiast,  full  of  the  faith  and  hope 
that  attended  him  on  his  first  visits.  He  still  wishes,  and  more 
than  ever,  to  acquire  distinction,  but  he  no  longer  expects  any 
pleasure  from  his  success.  He  used  up  that  feeling  in  the  days 
when  he  had  not  wherewith  to  pay  for  his  dinner.  No  matter 
how  great  his  fortune  may  be  in  the  days  to  come,  he  has  al- 
ready paid  too  dearly  for  it.  For  him  future  success  is  only  a 
kind  of  revenge.  Less  than  thirty-five  years  old,  he  is  already 
sick  of  the  world,  and  believes  in  nothing.  Under  the  appear- 
ance of  universal  benevolence  he  conceals  universal  scorn.  His 
finesse,  sharpened  by  the  grindstone  of  adversity,  has  become 
mischievous.  And,  while  he  sees  through  all  disguises  worn 
by  others,  he  hides  his  penetration  carefully  under  a  mask  of 
cheerful  good  nature  and  jovialness.  But  he  is  kind,  he  loves 
his  friends,  and  is  devoted  to  them. 

He  arrived,  hardly  dressed,  so  great  had  been  his  haste.  His 
first  words  on  entering  were:  "What  is  the  matter?" 

Noel  pressed  his  hand  in  silence,  and,  by  way  of  answer, 
pointed  to  the  bed.  In  less  than  a  minute,  the  doctor  seized 
the  lamp,  examined  the  sick  woman,  and  returned  to  his  friend. 
"What  has  happened?"  he  asked  sharply.  "It  is  necessary  I 
should  know." 

The  barrister  started.     "Know  what?"  stammered  he. 

"Everything!"  answered  Herve.  "She  is  suffering  from  in- 
flammation of  the  brain.  There  is  no  mistaking  that.  It  is  by 
no  means  a  common  complaint,  in  spite  of  the  constant  work- 
ing of  that  organ.     What  can  have  caused  it?    There  appears 


THE   LEROUGE   AFFAIR 


719 


to  be  no  injury  to  the  brain  or  its  bony  covering;  the  mischief, 
then,  must  have  been  caused  by  some  violent  emotion,  a  great 
grief,  some  unexpected  catastrophe — " 

Noel  interrupted  his  friend  by  a  gesture,  and  drew  him  into 
the  embrasure  of  the  window.  "Yes,  my  friend,"  said  he  in  a 
low  tone,  "Madame  Gerdy  has  experienced  great  mental  suf- 
fering; she  has  been  frightfully  tortured  by  remorse.  Listen, 
Herve.  I  will  confide  our  secret  to  your  honor  and  your  friend- 
ship. Madame  Gerdy  is  not  my  mother;  she  despoiled  me,  to 
enrich  her  son  with  my  fortune  and  my  name.  Three  weeks 
ago  I  discovered  this  unworthy  fraud ;  she  knows  it,  and  the 
consequences  terrify  her.  Ever  since  she  has  been  dying  min- 
ute by  minute." 

The  barrister  expected  some  exclamations  of  astonishment 
and  a  host  of  questions  from  his  friend;  but  the  doctor  received 
the  explanation  without  remark,  as  a  simple  statement,  indis- 
pensable to  his  understanding  the  case.  "Three  weeks,"  he 
murmured ;  "then  that  explains  everything.  Has  she  appeared 
to  suffer  much  during  the  time?" 

"She  complained  of  violent  headaches,  dimness  of  sight,  and 
intolerable  pains  in  her  ears ;  she  attributed  all  that  though  to 
megrims.  Do  not,  however,  conceal  anything  from  me,  Herve ; 
is  her  complaint  very  serious?" 

"So  serious,  my  friend,  so  invariably  fatal,  that  I  am  almost 
undertaking  a  hopeless  task  in  attempting  a  cure." 

"Ah  !  good  heaven  !" 

"You  asked  for  the  truth,  and  I  have  told  it  you.  If  I  had 
that  courage,  it  was  because  you  told  me  this  poor  woman  is 
not  your  mother.  Nothing  short  of  a  miracle  can  save  her ;  but 
this  miracle  we  hay  hope  and  prepare  for.    And  now  to  work !" 


THE  clock  of  the  St.  Lazare  terminus  was  striking  eleven 
as  old  Tabaret,  after  shaking  hands  with  Noel,  left  his 
house,  still  bewildered  by  what  he  had  just  heard.  Obliged  to 
restrain  himself  at  the  time,  he  now  fully  appreciated  his  liberty 


720  THE    LEROUGE   AFFAIR 

of  action.  It  was  with  an  unsteady  gait  that  he  took  his  first 
steps  in  the  street,  like  the  toper  who,  after  jeing  shut  up  in  a 
warm  room,  suddenly  goes  out  into  the  open  air.  He  was  beam- 
ing with  pleasure,  but  at  the  same  time  felt  rather  giddy,  from 
that  rapid  succession  of  unexpected  revelations,  which,  so  he 
thought,  had  suddenly  placed  him  in  possession  of  the  truth. 
Notwithstanding  his  haste  to  arrive  at  M.  Daburon's,  he  did 
not  take  a  cab.  He  felt  the  necessity  of  walking.  He  was  one 
of  those  who  require  exercise  to  see  things  clearly.  When  he 
moved  about  his  ideas  fitted  and  classified  themselves  in  his 
brain,  like  grains  of  wheat  when  shaken  in  a  bushel.  Without 
hastening  his  pace,  he  reached  the  Rue  de  la  Chaussee  d'Antin, 
crossed  the  Boulevard  with  its  resplendent  cafes,  and  turned  to 
the  Rue  Richelieu.  He  walked  along,  unconscious  of  external 
objects,  tripping  and  stumbling  over  the  inequalities  of  the  side- 
walk, or  slipping  on  the  greasy  pavement.  If  he  followed  the 
proper  road,  it  was  a  purely  mechanical  impulse  that  guided 
him.  His  mind  was  wandering  at  random  through  the  field 
of  probabilities,  and  following  in  the  darkness  the  mysterious 
thread,  the  almost  imperceptible  end  of  which  he  had  seized  at 
La  Jonchere.  Like  all  persons  laboring  under  strong  emotion 
without  knowing  it,  he  talked  aloud,  little  thinking  into  what 
indiscreet  ears  his  exclamations  and  disjointed  phrases  might 
fall.  At  every  step  we  meet  in  Paris  people  babbling  to  them- 
selves, and  unconsciously  confiding  to  the  four  winds  of  heaven 
their  dearest  secrets,  like  cracked  vases  that  allow  their  con- 
tents to  steal  away.  Often  the  passers-by  mistake  these  eccen- 
tric monologuists  for  lunatics.  Sometimes  the  curious  follow 
them,  and  amuse  themselves  by  receiving  these  strange  confi- 
dences. It  was  an  indiscretion  of  this  kind  which  told  the  ruin 
of  Riscara,  the  rich  banker.  Lambreth,  the  assassin  of  the  Rue 
de  Venise,  betrayed  himself  in  a  similar  manner. 

"What  luck !"  exclaimed  old  Tabaret.  "What  an  incredible 
piece  of  good  fortune !  Gevrol  may  dispute  it  if  he  likes,  but 
after  all  chance  is  the  cleverest  agent  of  the  police.  Who  would 
have  imagined  such  a  history?  I  was  not,  however,  very  far 
from  the  reality.  I  guessed  there  was  a  child  in  the  case.  But 
who  would  have  dreamed  of  a  substitution  ? — an  old  sensational 
effect,  that  playwrights  no  longer  dare  make  use  of.  This  is  a 
striking  example  of  the  danger  of  following  preconceived  ideas 
in  police  investigation.  We  are  affrighted  at  unlikelihood ;  and, 
as  in  this  case,  the  greatest  unlikelihood  often  proves  to  be  the 


THE    LEROUGE    AFFAIR  721 

truth.  We  retire  before  the  absurd,  and  it  is  the  absurd  that 
we  should  examine.  Everything  is  possible.  I  would  not  take 
a  thousand  crowns  for  what  I  have  learned  this  evening.  I  shall 
kill  two  birds  with  one  stone.  I  deliver  up  the  criminal,  and 
I  give  Noel  a  hearty  lift  up  to  recover  his  title  and  his  for- 
tune. There,  at  least,  is  one  who  deserves  what  he  will  get. 
For  once  I  shall  not  be  sorry  to  see  a  lad  get  on  who  has  been 
brought  up  in  the  school  of  adversity.  But,  pshaw !  he  will  be 
like  all  the  rest.  Prosperity  will  turn  his  brain.  Already  he 
begins  to  prate  of  his  ancestors —  Poor  humanity  !  he  almost 
made  me  laugh —  But  it  is  Mother  Gerdy  who  surprises  me 
most.  A  woman  to  whom  I  would  have  given  absolution  with- 
out waiting  to  hear  her  confess.  When  I  think  that  I  was  on 
the  point  of  proposing  to  her,  ready  to  marry  her!  B-r-r-r!" 
At  this  thought  the  old  fellow  shivered.  He  saw  himself  mar- 
ried, and  all  on  a  sudden,  discovering  the  antecedents  of  Ma- 
dame Tabaret,  becoming  mixed  up  with  a  scandalous  prosecu- 
tion, compromised,  and  rendered  ridiculous.  "When  I  think," 
he  continued,  "that  my  worthy  Gevrol  is  running  after  the  man 
with  the  earrings !  Run,  my  boy,  run !  Travel  is  a  good  thing 
for  youth.  Won't  he  be  vexed?  He  will  wish  me  dead.  But 
I  don't  care.  If  any  one  wishes  to  do  me  an  injury,  M.  Daburon 
will  protect  me.  Ah !  there  is  one  to  whom  I  am  going  to  do 
a  good  turn.  I  can  see  him  now  opening  his  eyes  like  saucers 
when  I  say  to  him,  'I  have  the  rascal !'  He  can  boast  of  owing 
me  something.  This  investigation  will  bring  him  honor,  or  jus- 
tice is  not  justice.  He  will,  at  least,  be  made  an  officer  of  the 
Legion  of  Honor.  So  much  the  better !  I  like  Kim.  If  he  is 
asleep,  I  am  going  to  give  him  an  agreeable  waking.  Won't  he 
just  overpower  me  with  questions  !  He  will  want  to  know  every- 
thing at  once."  Old  Tabaret,  who  was  now  crossing  the  Pont 
des  Saints-Peres,  stopped  suddenly.  "But  the  details !"  said  he. 
"By  Jove !  I  have  none.  I  only  know  the  bare  facts."  He  re- 
sumed his  walk,  and  continued :  "They  are  right  at  the  office, 
I  am  too  enthusiastic;  I  jump  at  conclusions,  as  Gevrol  says. 
When  I  was  with  Noel,  I  should  have  cross-examined  him,  got 
hold  of  a  quantity  of  useful  details ;  but  I  did  not  even  think  of 
doing  so.  I  drank  in  his  words.  I  would  have  had  him  tell  the 
story  in  a  sentence.  All  the  same,  it  is  but  natural :  when  one 
is  pursuing  a  stag,  one  does  not  stop  to  shoot  a  blackbird.  But 
I  see  very  well  now,  I  did  not  draw  him  out  enough.  On  the 
other  hand,  by  questioning  him  more.  I  might  have  awakened 


722  THE    LEROUGE   AFFAIR 

suspicions  in  Noel's  mind,  and  led  him  to  discover  that  I  am 
working  for  the  Rue  de  Jerusalem.  To  be  sure,  I  do  not  blush 
for  my  connection  with  the  police,  I  am  even  vain  of  it;  but 
at  the  same  time  I  prefer  that  no  one  should  know  of  it.  People 
are  so  stupid  that  they  detest  the  police,  who  protect  them.  I 
must  be  calm  and  on  my  best  behavior,  for  here  I  am  at  the 
end  of  my  journey." 

M.  Daburon  had  just  gone  to  bed,  but  had  given  orders  to 
his  servant;  so  that  M.  Tabaret  had  but  to  give  his  name  to 
be  at  once  conducted  to  the  magistrate's  sleeping  apartment. 
At  sight  of  his  amateur  detective,  M.  Daburon  raised  himself 
in  his  bed,  saying:  "There  is  something  extraordinary!  What 
have  you  discovered?  have  you  got  a  clue?" 

"Better  than  that,"  answered  the  old  fellow,  smiling  with 
pleasure. 

"Speak  quickly!" 

"I  know  the  culprit !" 

Old  Tabaret  ought  to  have  been  satisfied ;  he  certainly  pro- 
duced an  effect.  The  magistrate  bounded  in  his  bed.  "Al- 
ready!"  said  he.     "Is  it  possible?" 

"I  have  the  honor  to  repeat  to  you,  sir,"  resumed  the  old  fel- 
low, "that  I  know  the  author  of  the  crime  of  La  Jonchere." 

"And  I,"  said  M.  Daburon,  "I  proclaim  you  the  greatest  of 
all  detectives,  past  or  future.  I  shall  certainly  never  hereafter 
undertake  an  investigation  without  your  assistance." 

"You  are  too  kind.  sir.  I  have  had  little  or  nothing  to  do 
in  the  matter.     The  discovery  is  due  to  chance  alone." 

"You  are  modest.  M.  Tabaret.  Chance  assists  only  the  clever, 
and  it  is  that  which  annoys  the  stupid.  But  I  beg  you  will  be 
seated  and  proceed." 

Then  with  the  lucidness  and  precision  of  which  few  would 
have  believed  him  capable,  the  old  fellow  repeated  to  the  mag- 
istrate all  that  he  had  learned  from  Noel.  He  quoted  from 
memory  the  extracts  from  the  letters,  almost  without  changing 
a  word.  "These  letters,"  added  he,  "I  have  seen;  and  I  have 
even  taken  one,  in  order  to  verify  the  writing.     Here  it  is." 

"Yes,"  murmured  the  magistrate.  "Yes,  M.  Tabaret.  you 
have  discovered  the  criminal.  The  evidence  is  palpable,  even 
to  the  blind.  Heaven  has  willed  this.  Crime  engenders  crime. 
The  great  sin  of  the  father  has  made  the  son  an  assassin." 

"I  have  not  given  you  the  names,  sir,"  resumed  old  Tabaret. 
"I  wished  first  to  hear  your  opinion." 


THE    LEROUGE   AFFAIR  723 

"Oh !  you  can  name  them,"  interrupted  M.  Daburon  with  a 
certain  degree  of  animation ;  "no  matter  how  high  he  may  have 
to  strike,  a  French  magistrate  has  never  hesitated." 

"I  know  it,  sir,  but  we  are  going  very  high  this  time;  the 
father  who  has  sacrificed  his  legitimate  son  for  the  sake  of  his 
bastard  is  Comte  Rheteau  de  Commarin,  and  the  assassin  of 
Widow  Lerouge  is  the  bastard,  Vicomte  Albert  de  Commarin!" 

M.  Tabaret,  like  an  accomplished  artist,  had  uttered  these 
words  slowly,  and  with  a  deliberate  emphasis,  confidently  ex- 
pecting to  produce  a  great  impression.  His  expectation  was 
more  than  realized.  M.  Daburon  was  struck  with  stupor.  He 
remained  motionless,  his  eyes  dilated  with  astonishment.  Me- 
chanically he  repeated  like  a  word  without  meaning  which  he 
was  trying  to  impress  upon  his  memory :  "Albert  de  Commarin ! 
Albert  de  Commarin !" 

"Yes,"  insisted  old  Tabaret,  "the  noble  vicomte.  It  is  in- 
credible, I  know."  But  he  perceived  the  alteration  in  the  mag- 
istrate's face,  and,  a  little  frightened,  he  approached  the  bed. 
"Are  you  unwell,  sir?"  he  asked. 

"No,"  answered  M.  Daburon,  without  exactly  knowing  what 
he  said.    "I  am  very  well ;  but  the  surprise,  the  emotion — " 

"I  understand  that,"  said  the  old  fellow. 

"Yes,  it  is  not  surprising,  is  it  ?  I  should  like  to  be  alone  a  few 
minutes.  Do  not  leave  the  house  though ;  we  must  converse  at 
some  length  on  this  business.  Kindly  pass  into  my  study,  there 
ought  still  to  be  a  fire  burning  there.    I  will  join  you  directly." 

Then  M.  Daburon  slowly  got  out  of  bed,  put  on  a  dressing- 
gown,  and  seated  himself,  or  rather  fell,  into  an  armchair.  His 
face,  to  which  in  the  exercise  of  his  austere  functions  he  had 
managed  to  give  the  immobility  of  marble,  reflected  the  most 
cruel  agitation ;  while  his  eyes  betrayed  the  inward  agony  of  his 
soul.  The  name  of  Commarin,  so  unexpectedly  pronounced, 
awakened  in  him  the  most  sorrowful  recollections,  and  tore 
open  a  wound  but  badly  healed.  This  name  recalled  to  him  an 
event  which  had  rudely  extinguished  his  youth  and  spoiled  his 
life.  Involuntarily  he  carried  his  thoughts  back  to  this  epoch, 
so  as  to  taste  again  all  its  bitterness.  An  hour  ago  it  had  seemed 
to  him  far  removed  and  already  hidden  in  the  mists  of  the  past; 
one  word  had  sufficed  to  recall  it  clearly  and  distinctly.  It  seemed 
to  him  now  that  this  event,  in  which  the  name  of  Albert  de 
Commarin  was  mixed  up,  dated  from  yesterday.  In  reality  nearly 
two  years  had  elapsed  since. 


724  THE    LEROUGE   AFFAIR 

Pierre-Marie  Daburon  belonged  to  one  of  the  oldest  families 
of  Poitou.     Three  or  four  of  his  ancestors  had  filled  succes- 
sively the  most  important  positions  in  the  province.    Why,  then, 
had  they  not  bequeathed  a  title  and  a  coat  "of  arms  to  their  de- 
scendants?    The  magistrate's  father  possesses,  round  about  the 
ugly  modern  chateau  which  he  inhabits,  more  than  eight  hun- 
dred thousand  francs'  worth  of  the  most  valuable  land.     By  his 
mother,  a  Cottevise-Luxe,  he  is  related  to  the  highest  nobility 
of  Poitou,  one  of  the  most  exclusive  that  exists  in  France,  as 
every  one  knows.     When  he  received  his  nomination  in  Paris, 
his  relationship  caused  him  to  be  received  at  once  by  five  or  six 
aristocratic  families,  and  it  was  not  long  before  he  extended  his 
circle  of  acquaintance.     He  possessed,  however,  none  of  the 
qualifications  which  insure  social  success.     He  was  cold  and 
grave  even  to  sadness,  reserved  and  timid  even  to  excess.    His 
mind  wanted  brilliancy  and  lightness;  he  lacked  the  facility  of 
repartee  and  the  amiable  art  of  conversing  without  a  subject; 
he  could  neither  tell  a  lie  nor  pay  an  insipid  compliment.    Like 
most  men  who  feel  deeply,  he  was  unable  to  interpret  his  im- 
pressions   immediately.     He   required   to   reflect   and   consider 
within  himself.     However,  he  was  sought  after  for  more  solid 
qualities  than  these:  for  the  nobleness  of  his  sentiments,  his 
pleasant  disposition,  and  the  certainty  of  his  connections.    Those 
who  knew  him  intimately  quickly  learned  to  esteem  his  sound 
judgment,  his  keen  sense  of  honor,  and  to  discover  under  his 
cold  exterior  a  warm  heart,  an  excessive  sensibility,  and  a  deli- 
cacy almost  feminine.    In  a  word,  although  he  might  be  eclipsed 
in  a  room  full  of  strangers  or  simpletons,  he  charmed  all  hearts 
in  a  smaller  circle  where  he  felt  warmed  by  an  atmosphere  of 
sympathy.     He  accustomed  himself  to  go  about  a  great  deal. 
He  reasoned,  wisely  perhaps,  that  a  magistrate  can  make  bet- 
ter use  of  his  time  than  by  remaining  shut  up  in  his  study  in 
company  with  books  of  law.    He  thought  that  a  man  called  upon 
to  judge  others  ought  to  know  them,  and  for  that  purpose  study 
them.    An  attentive  and  discreet  observer,  he  examined  the  play 
of  human  interests  and  passions,  exercised  himself  in  disentan- 
gling and  maneuvnng  at  need  the  strings  of  the  puppets  he  saw 
moving  around  him.     Piece  by  piece,  so  to  say,  he  labored  to 
comprehend  the  working  of  the  complicated  machine  called  so- 
ciety, of  which  he  was   charged  to  overlook  the  movements, 
regulate  the  springs,  and  keep  the  wheels  in  order. 
And  on  a  sudden,  in  the  early  part  of  the  winter  of  1 860  and 


THE   LEROUGE   AFFAIR  72:. 

1861,  M.  Daburon  disappeared.  His  friends  sought  for  him, 
but  he  was  nowhere  to  be  met  with.  What  could  he  be  doing? 
Inquiry  resulted  in  the  discovery  that  he  passed  nearly  all  his 
evenings  at  the  house  of  the  Marquise  d'Arlange.  The  sur- 
prise was  as  great  as  it  was  natural.  This  dear  marquise 
was,  or  rather  is — for  she  is  still  in  the  land  of  the  living — a 
personage  whom  one  would  consider  rather  out  of  date.  She 
is  surely  the  most  singular  legacy  bequeathed  us  by  the  eigh- 
teenth century.  How  and  by  what  marvelous  process  she  had 
been  preserved  such  as  we  see  her,  it  is  impossible  to  say. 
Listening  to  \\er,  you  would  swear  that  she  was  yesterday  at 
one  of  those  parties  given  by  the  queen  where  cards  and  high 
stakes  were  the  rule,  much  to  the  annoyance  of  Louis  XVI, 
and  where  the  great  ladies  cheated  openly  in  emulation  of  each 
other.  Manners,  language,  habits,  almost  costume,  she  has  pre- 
served everything  belonging  to  that  period  about  which  authors 
have  written  only  to  display  the  defects.  Her  appearance  alone 
will  tell  more  than  an  exhaustive  article,  and  an  hour's  con- 
versation with  her,  more  than  a  volume.  She  was  born  in  a 
little  principality,  where  her  parents  had  taken  refuge  while 
awaiting  the  chastisements  and  repentance  of  an  erring  and 
rebellious  people.  She  had  been  brought  up  among  the  old 
nobles  of  the  emigration,  in  some  very  ancient  and  very  gilded 
apartment,  just  as  though  she  had  been  in  a  cabinet  of  curi- 
osities. Her  mind  had  awakened  amid  the  hum  of  antediluvian 
conversations,  her  imagination  had  first  been  aroused  by  argu- 
ments a  little  less  profitable  than  those  of  an  assembly  of  deaf 
persons  convoked  to  decide  upon  the  merits  of  the  work  of 
some  distinguished  musician.  Here  she  imbibed  a  fund  of  ideas, 
which,  applied  to  the  forms  of  society  of  to-day,  are  as  gro- 
tesque as  would  be  those  of  a  child  shut  up  until  twenty  years 
of  age  in  an  Assyrian  museum.  The  First  Empire,  the  Restora- 
tion, the  monarchy  of  July,  the  Second  Republic,  the  Second 
Empire,  have  passed  beneath  her  windows,  but  she  has  not  taken 
the  trouble  to  open  them.  All  that  has  happened  since  '89  she 
considers  as  never  having  been.  For  her  it  is  a  nightmare  from 
which  she  is  still  awaiting  a  release.  She  has  looked  at  every- 
thing, but  then  she  looks  through  her  own  pretty  glasses  which 
show  her  everything  as  she  would  wish  it.  and  which  are  to  be 
obtained  of  dealers  in  illusions. 

Though  over  sixty-eight  years  old,   she  is  as  straight  as  a 
poplar,  and  has  never  been  ill.     She  is  vivacious  and  active  tc 


726  THE    LEROUGE   AFFAIR 

excess,  and  can  only  keep  still  when  asleep  or  when  playing 
her  favorite  game  of  piquet.  She  has  her  four  meals  a  day, 
eats  like  a  vintager,  and  takes  her  wine  neat.  She  professes 
an  undisguised  contempt  for  the  silly  women  of  our  century 
who  live  for  a  week  on  a  partridge,  and  inundate  with  water 
grand  sentiments  which  they  entangle  in  long  phrases.  She 
has  always  been,  and  still  is,  very  positive,  and  her  word  is 
prompt  and  easily  understood.  She  never  shrinks  from  using 
the  most  appropriate  word  to  express  her  meaning.  So  much 
the  worse  if  some  delicate  ears  object!  She  heartily  detests 
hypocrisy.  She  believes  in  God,  but  she  believes  also  in  M.  de 
Voltaire,  so  that  her  devotion  is,  to  say  the  least,  problematical. 
However,  she  is  on  good  terms  with  the  curate  of  her  parish, 
and  is  very  particular  about  the  arrangement  of  her  dinner  on 
the  days  she  honors  him  with  an  invitation  to  her  table.  She 
seems  to  consider  him  a  subaltern,  very  useful  to  her  salvation, 
and  capable  of  opening  the  gate  of  paradise  for  her.  Such  as 
she  is,  she  is  shunned  like  the  plague.  Everybody  dreads  her 
loud  voice,  her  terrible  indiscretion,  and  the  frankness  of  speech 
which  she  affects,  in  order  to  have  the  right  of  saying  the  most 
unpleasant  things  which  pass  through  her  head.  Of  all  her 
family,  there  only  remains  her  granddaughter,  whose  father 
died  very  young.  Of  a  fortune  originally  large,  and  partly  re- 
stored by  the  indemnity  allowed  by  the  government,  but  since 
administered  in  the  most  careless  manner,  she  has  only  been 
able  to  preserve  an  income  of  twenty  thousand  francs,  which 
diminishes  day  by  day.  She  is  also  proprietor  of  the  pretty 
little  house  which  she  inhabits,  situated  near  the  Invalides, 
between  a  rather  narrow  courtyard  and  a  very  extensive  gar- 
den. So  circumstanced,  she  considers  herself  the  most  unfor- 
tunate of  God's  creatures,  and  passes  the  greater  part  of  her 
life  complaining  of  her  poverty.  From  time  to  time,  especially 
after  some  exceptionally  bad  speculation,  she  confesses  that  what 
she  fears  most  is  to  die  in  a  pauper's  bed. 

A  friend  of  M.  Daburon's  presented  him  one  evening  to  the 
Marquise  d'Arlange,  having  dragged  him  to  her  house  in  a 
mirthful  mood,  saying:  "Come  with  me,  and  I  will  show  you 
a  phenomenon,  a  ghost  of  the  past  in  flesh  and  bone."  The 
marquise  rather  puzzled  the  magistrate  the  first  time  he  was 
admitted  to  her  presence.  On  his  second  visit  she  amused  him 
very  much ;  for  which  reason  he  came  again.  But  after  a  while 
she  no  longer  amused  him,  though  he  still  continued  a  faithful 


THE   LEROUGE   AFFAIR  727 

and  constant  visitor  to  the  rose-colored  boudoir  wherein  she 
passed  the  greater  part  of  her  life.  Madame  d'Arlange  con- 
ceived a  violent  friendship  for  him,  and  became  eloquent  in  his 
praises.  "A  most  charming  young  man,"  she  declared ;  "deli- 
cate and  sensible  !  What  a  pity  he  is  not  'born' !  One  can 
receive  him,  though,  all  the  same ;  his  forefathers  were  very 
decent  people,  and  his  mother  was  a  Cottevise,  who,  however, 
went  wrong.  I  wish  him  well,  and  will  do  all  I  can  to  push 
him  forward."  The  strongest  proof  of  friendship  he  received 
from  her  was  that  she  condescended  to  pronounce  his  name  like 
the  rest  of  the  world.  She  had  preserved  that  ridiculous  affec- 
tation of  forgetfulness  of  the  names  of  people  who  were  not  of 
noble  birth,  and  who  in  her  opinion  had  no  right  to  names.  She 
was  so  confirmed  in  this  habit  that,  if  by  accident  she  pro- 
nounced such  a  name  correctly,  she  immediately  repeated  it  with 
some  ludicrous  alteration.  During  his  first  visit,  M.  Daburon 
was  extremely  amused  at  hearing  his  name  altered  every  time 
she  addressed  him.  Successively  she  made  it  Taburon,  Dabiron, 
Maliron,  Laliron,  Laridon;  but  in  three  months'  time  she  called 
him  Daburon  as  distinctly  as  if  he  had  been  a  duke  of  some- 
thing and  a  lord  of  somewhere. 

Occasionally  she  exerted  herself  to  prove  to  the  worthy  mag- 
istrate that  he  was  a  nobleman,  or  at  least  ought  to  be.  She 
would  have  been  happy  if  she  could  have  persuaded  him  to  adopt 
some  title,  and  have  a  helmet  engraved  upon  his  visiting  cards. 
"How  is  it  possible,"  said  she,  "that  your  ancestors,  eminent, 
wealthy,  and  influential,  never  thought  of  being  raised  from  the 
common  herd  and  securing  a  title  for  their  descendants?  To- 
day you  would  possess  a  presentable  pedigree." 

"My  ancestors  were  wise,"  responded  M.  Daburon.  "They 
preferred  being  foremost  among  their  fellow  citizens  to  becom- 
ing last  among  the  nobles."  Upon  which  the  marquise  explained, 
and  proved  to  demonstration,  that  between  the  most  influential 
and  wealthy  citizen  and  the  smallest  scion  of  nobility  there  was 
an  abyss  that  all  the  money  in  the  world  could  not  fill  up. 

They  who  were  so  surprised  at  the  frequency  of  the  magis- 
trate's visits  to  this  ce'ebrated  "relic  of  the  past"  did  not  know 
that  lady's  granddaughter,  or,  at  least,  did  not  recollect  her; 
she  went  out  so  seldom !  The  old  marquise  did  not  care,  so  she 
said,  to  be  bothered  with  a  young  spy  who  would  be  in  her  way 
when  she  related  some  of  her  choice  anecdotes.  Claire  d'Arlange 
was  just  seventeen  years  old.     She  was  extremely  graceful  and 


728  THE    LEROUGE   AFFAIR 

gentle  in  manner,  and  lovely  in  her  natural  innocence.  She 
had  a  profusion  of  fine  light-brown  hair,  which  fell  in  ringlets 
over  her  well-shaped  neck  and  shoulders.  Her  figure  was  still 
rather  slender,  but  her  features  recalled  Guido's  most  celestial 
faces.  Her  blue  eyes,  shaded  by  long  lashes  of  a  hue  darker 
than  her  hair,  had  above  all  an  adorable  expression.  A  certain 
air  of  antiquity,  the  result  of  her  association  with  her  grand- 
mother, added  yet  another  charm  to  the  young  girl's  manner. 
She  had  more  sense,  however,  than  her  relative;  and,  as  her 
education  had  not  been  neglected,  she  had  imbibed  pretty  cor- 
rect ideas  of  the  world  in  which  she  lived.  This  education, 
these  practical  ideas,  Claire  owed  to  her  governess,  upon  whose 
shoulders  the  marquise  had  thrown  the  entire  responsibility  of 
cultivating  her  mind.  This  governess,  Mademoiselle  Schmidt, 
chosen  at  hazard,  happened  by  the  most  fortunate  chance  to 
be  both  well  informed  and  possessed  of  principle.  She  was, 
what  is  often  met  with  on  the  other  side  of  the  Rhine,  a  woman 
at  once  romantic  and  practical,  of  the  tenderest  sensibility  and 
the  severest  virtue.  This  good  woman,  while  she  carried  her 
pupil  into  the  land  of  sentimental  fantasy  and  poetical  imag- 
inings, gave  her  at  the  same  time  the  most  practical  instruction 
in  matters  relating  to  actual  life.  She  revealed  to  Claire  all 
the  peculiarities  of  thought  and  manner  that  rendered  her  grand- 
mother so  ridiculous,  and  taught  her  to  avoid  them,  but  without 
ceasing  to  respect  them. 

Every  evening,  on  arriving  at  Madame  d'Arlange's,  M.  Da- 
buron  was  sure  to  find  Claire  seated  beside  her  grandmother, 
and  it  was  for  that  that  he  called.  While  listening  with  an 
inattentive  ear  to  the  old  lady's  rigmaroles  and  her  interminable 
anecdotes  of  the  emigration,  he  gazed  upon  Claire,  as  a  fanatic 
upon  his  idol.  Often  in  his  ecstasy  he  forgot  where  he  was  for 
the  moment  and  became  absolutely  oblivious  of  the  old  lady's 
presence,  although  her  shrill  voice  was  piercing  the  tympanum 
of  his  ear  like  a  needle.  Then  he  would  answer  her  at  cross- 
purposes,  committing  the  most  singular  blunders,  which  he  la- 
bored afterward  to  explain.  But  he  need  not  have  taken  the 
trouble.  Madame  d'Arlange  did  not  perceive  her  courtier's  ab- 
sence of  mind ;  her  questions  were  of  such  a  length  that  she  did 
not  care  about  the  answers.  Having  a  listener,  she  was  satis- 
fied, provided  that  from  time  to  time  he  gave  signs  of  life. 
When  obliged  to  sit  down  to  play  piquet,  he  cursed  below  his 
breath  the  game  and  its  detestable  inventor.    He  paid  no  atten- 


THE   LEROUGE   AFFAIR  729 

tion  to  his  cards.  He  made  mistakes  every  moment,  discarding 
what  he  should  keep  in  and  forgetting  to  cut.  The  old  lady  was 
annoyed  by  these  continual  distractions,  but  she  did  not  scruple 
to  profit  by  them.  She  looked  at  the  discard,  changed  the  cards 
which  did  not  suit  her,  while  she  audaciously  scored  points  she 
never  made,  and  pocketed  the  money  thus  won  without  shame 
or  remorse.  M.  Daburon's  timidity  was  extreme,  and  Claire 
was  unsociable  to  excess ;  they  therefore  seldom  spoke  to  each 
other.  During  the  entire  winter  the  magistrate  did  not  directly 
address  the  young  girl  ten  times ;  and  on  these  rare  occasions 
he  had  learned  mechanically  by  heart  the  phrase  he  proposed  to 
repeat  to  her,  well  knowing  that,  without  this  precaution,  he 
would  most  likely  be  unable  to  finish  what  he  had  to  say.  But 
at  least  he  saw  her,  he  breathed  the  same  air  with  her.  he  heard 
her  voice,  whose  pure  and  harmonious  vibrations  thrilled  his 
very  soul.  By  constantly  watching  her  eyes  he  learned  to  un- 
derstand all  their  expressions.  Pie  believed  he  could  read  in 
them  all  her  thought,  and  through  them  look  into  her  soul  as 
through  an  open  window.  "She  is  pleased  to-day,"  he  would 
say  to  himself;  and  then  he  would  be  happy.  At  other  times, 
he  thought,  "She  has  met  with  some  annoyance  to-day":  and 
immediately  he  became  sad.  The  idea  of  asking  for  her  hand 
many  times  presented  itself  to  his  imagination :  but  he  never 
dared  to  entertain  it.  Knowing,  as  he  did.  the  marquise's 
prejudices,  her  devotion  to  titles,  her  dread  of  any  approach 
to  a  mesalliance,  he  was  convinced  she  would  shut  his  mouth 
at  the  first  word  by  a  very  decided  "no,"  which  she  would 
maintain.  To  attempt  the  thing  would  be  to  risk,  without  a 
chance  of  success,  his  present  happiness,  which  he  thought  im- 
mense, for  love  lives  upon  its  own  misery.  "Once  repulsed." 
thought  he,  "the  house  is  shut  against  me ;  and  then  farewell  to 
happiness,  for  life  will  end  for  me."  Upon  the  other  hand,  the 
very  rational  thought  occurred  to  him  that  another  might  see 
Mademoiselle  d'Arlange,  love  her,  and,  in  consequence,  ask  for 
and  obtain  her.  In  either  case,  hazarding  a  proposal,  or  hesi- 
tating still,  he  must  certainly  lose  her  in  the  end.  By  the  com- 
mencement of  spring,  his  mind  was  made  up. 

One  fine  afternoon,  in  the  month  of  April,  he  bent  his  steps 
toward  the  residence  of  Madame  dArlange.  having  truly  need 
of  more  bravery  than  a  soldier  about  to  face  a  battery.  He. 
like  the  soldier,  whispered  to  himself,  "Victory  or  death  !"'  The 
marquise,  who  had  gone  out  shortly  after  breakfast,  had  just 


730  THE    LEROUGE   AFFAIR 

returned  in  a  terrible  rage,  and  was  uttering  screams  like  an 
eagle. 

This  was  what  had  taken  place.  She  had  had  some  work 
done  by  a  neighboring  painter  some  eight  or  ten  months  before, 
and  the  workman  had  presented  himself  a  hundred  times  to 
receive  payment,  without  avail.  Tired  of  this  proceeding,  he 
had  summoned  the  high  and  mighty  Marquise  d'Arlange  before 
the  Justice  of  the  Peace.  This  summons  had  exasperated  the 
marquise;  but  she  kept  the  matter  to  herself,  having  decided, 
in  her  wisdom,  to  call  upon  the  judge  and  request  him  to  repri- 
mand the  insolent  painter  who  had  dared  to  plague  her  for  a 
paltry  sum  of  money.  The  result  of  this  fine  project  may  be 
guessed.  The  judge  had  been  compelled  to  eject  her  forcibly 
from  his  office;  hence  her  fury. 

M.  Daburon  found  her  in  the  rose-colored  boudoir  half  un- 
dressed, her  hair  in  disorder,  red  as  a  peony,  and  surrounded  by 
the  debris  of  the  glass  and  china  which  had  fallen  under  her 
hands  in  the  first  moments  of  her  passion.  Unfortunately,  too, 
Claire  and  her  governess  were  gone  out.  A  maid  was  occupied 
in  inundating  the  old  lady  with  all  sorts  of  waters,  in  the  hope 
of  calming  her  nerves.  She  received  Daburon  as  a  messenger 
direct  from  Providence.  In  a  little  more  than  half  an  hour  she 
told  her  story,  interlarded  with  numerous  interjections  and 
imprecations.  "Do  you  comprehend  this  judge?"  cried  she. 
"He  must  be  some  frantic  Jacobin — some  son  of  the  furies, 
who  washed  their  hands  in  the  blood  of  their  king.  Ah  !  my 
friend,  I  read  stupor  and  indignation  in  your  glance.  He  lis- 
tened to  the  complaint  of  that  impudent  scoundrel  whom  I  en- 
abled to  live  by  employing  him!  And  when  I  addressed  some 
severe  remonstrances  to  this  judge,  as  it  was  my  duty  to  do, 
he  had  me  turned  out!  Do  you  hear?  turned  out!"  At  this 
painful  recollection  she  made  a  menacing  gesture  with  her 
arm.  In  her  sudden  movement  she  struck  a  handsome  scent 
bottle  that  her  maid  held  in  her  hand.  The  force  of  the  blow 
sent  it  to  the  other  end  of  the  room,  where  it  broke  into  pieces. 
"Stupid,  awkward  fool !"  cried  the  marquise,  venting  her  anger 
upon  the  frightened  girl.  M.  Daburon,  bewildered  at  first,  now 
endeavored  to  calm  her  exasperation.  She  did  not  allow  him 
to  pronounce  three  words.  "Happily  you  are  here,"  she  con- 
tinued; "you  are  always  willing  to  serve  me,  I  know.  I  count 
upon  you !  you  will  exercise  your  influence,  your  powerful 
friends,  your  credit,  to  have  this  pitiful  painter  and  this  mis- 


THE    LEROUGE    AFFAIR  731 

creant  of  a  judge  flung  into  some  deep  ditch,  to  teach  them  the 
respect  due  to  a  woman  of  my  rank." 

The  magistrate  did  not  permit  himself  even  to  smile  at  this 
imperative  demand.  He  had  heard  many  speeches  as  absurd 
issue  from  her  lips  without  ever  making  fun  of  them.  Was 
she  not  Claire's  grandmother?  For  tha^  alone  he  loved  and 
venerated  her.  He  blessed  her  for  her  granddaughter,  as  an 
admirer  of  nature  blesses  heaven  for  the  wild-flower  that  de- 
lights him  with  its  perfume.  The  fury  of  the  old  lady  was 
terrible;  nor  was  it  of  short  duration.  At  the  end  of  an  hour, 
however,  she  was,  or  appeared  to  be,  pacified.  They  replaced 
her  head-dress,  repaired  the  disorder  of  her  toilet,  and  picked 
up  the  fragments  of  broken  glass  and  china.  Vanquished  by 
her  own  violence,  the  reaction  was  immediate  and  complete. 
She  fell  back  helpless  and  exhausted  into  an  armchair.  This 
magnificent  result  was  due  to  the  magistrate.  To  accomplish 
it,  he  had  had  to  use  all  his  ability,  to  exercise  the  most  angelic 
patience,  the  greatest  tact.  His  triumph  was  the  more  meritori- 
ous because  he  came  completely  unprepared  for  this  adventure, 
which  interfered  with  his  intended  proposal.  The  first  time 
that  he  had  felt  sufficient  courage  to  speak,  fortune  seemed  to 
declare  against  him,  for  this  untoward  event  had  quite  upset  his 
plans.  Arming  'limself,  however,  with  his  professional  elo- 
quence, he  talked  the  ^  Id  lady  into  calmness.  He  was  not  so 
foolish  as  to  contradict  her.  On  the  contrary,  he  caressed  her 
hobby.  He  was  humorous  and  pathetic  by  turns.  He  attacked 
the  authors  of  the  Revolution,  cursed  its  errors,  deplored  its 
crimes,  and  almost  wept  over  its  disastrous  results.  Com- 
mencing with  the  infamous  Marat,  he  eventually  reached  the 
rascal  of  a  judge  who  had  offended  her.  He  abused  his  scan- 
dalous conduct  in  good  set  terms,  and  was  exceedingly  severe 
upon  the  dishonest  scamp  of  a  painter.  However,  he  thought 
it  best  to  let  them  off  the  punishment  they  so  richly  deserved ; 
and  ended  by  suggesting  that  it  would  perhaps  be  prudent,  wise, 
noble  even  to  pay. 

The  unfortunate  word  "pay"  brought  Madame  d'Arlange  to 
her  feet  in  the  fiercest  attitude.  "Pay!"  she  screamed.  "In 
order  that  these  scoundrels  may  persist  in  their  obduracy!  En- 
courage them  by  a  culpable  weakness !  Never !  Besides,  to 
pay  one  must  have  money,  and  I  have  none !" 

"Why !"  said  M.  Daburon,  "it  amounts  to  but  eighty-seven 
francs !" 


732  THE    LEROUGE   AFFAIR 

"And  is  that  nothing?"  asked  the  marquise;  "you  talk  very 
foolishly,  my  dear  sir.  It  is  easy  to  see  th~t  you  have  money; 
your  ancestors  were  people  of  no  rank,  and  the  Revolution  passed 
a  hundred  feet  above  their  heads.  Who  can  tell  whether  they 
may  not  have  been  the  gainers  by  it?  It  took  all  from  the 
D'Arlanges.    What  will  they  do  to  me  if  I  do  not  ?ay?" 

"Well,  madame,  they  can  do  many  things;  almost  ruin  you 
in  costs.    They  may  seize  your  furniture." 

"Alas !"  cried  the  old  lady,  "the  Revolution  is  not  ended  yet. 
We  shall  all  be  swallowed  up  by  it,  my  poor  Daburon !  Ah ! 
you  are  happy,  you  who  belong  to  the  people !  I  see  plainly  that 
I  must  pay  this  man  without  delay,  and  it  is  frightfully  sad  for 
me,  for  I  have  nothing,  and  am  forced  to  make  such  sacrifices 
for  the  sake  of  my  grandchild !" 

This  statement  surprised  the  magistrate  so  strongly  that  in- 
voluntarily he  repeated  half-aloud :  "Sacrifices  ?" 

"Certainly!"  resumed  Madame  d'Arlange.  Without  her, 
would  I  have  to  live  as  I  am  doing,  refusing  myself  every- 
thing to  make  both  ends  meet?  Not  a  bit  of  it!  I  would 
invest  my  fortune  in  a  life  annuity.  But  I  know,  thank  heaven, 
the  duties  of  a  mother;  and  I  economize  all  I  can  for  my  little 
Claire."  This  devotion  appeared  so  admirable  to  M.  Daburon 
that  he  could  not  utter  a  word.  "Ah!  I  am  terribly  anxious 
about  this  dear  child,"  continued  the  marquise.  "I  confess,  M. 
Daburon,  it  makes  me  giddy  when  I  wonder  how  I  am  to 
marry  her." 

The  magistrate  reddened  with  pleasure.  At  last  his  oppor- 
tunity had  arrived;  he  must  take  advantage  of  it  at  once.  "It 
seems  to  me,"  stammered  he,  "that  to  find  Mademoiselle  Claire 
a  husband  ought  not  to  be  difficult." 

"Unfortunately,  it  is.  She  is  pretty  enough,  I  admit,  although 
rather  thin,  but,  nowadays,  beauty  goes  for  nothing.  Men  are 
so  mercenary  they  think  only  of  money.  I  do  not  know  of  one 
who  has  the  manhood  to  take  a  D'Arlange  with  her  bright 
eyes  for  a  dowry." 

"I  believe  that  you  exaggerate,"  remarked  M.  Daburon, 
timidly. 

"By  no  means.  Trust  to  my  experience,  which  is  far  greater 
than  yours.  Besides,  when  I  find  a  son-in-law,  he  will  cause 
me  a  thousand  troubles.  Of  this  I  am  assured  by  my  lawyer. 
I  shall  be  compelled,  it  seems,  to  render  an  account  of  Claire's 
patrimony.    As  if  ever  I  kept  accounts  !    It  is  shameful !     Ah ! 


THE   LEROUGE   AFFAIR  733 

if  Claire  had  any  sense  of  filial  duty,  she  would  quietly  take  the 
veil  in  some  convent.  I  would  use  every  effort  to  pay  the  nec- 
essary dower ;  but  she  has  no  affection  for  me." 

M.  Daburon  felt  that  now  was  the  time  to  speak.  He  collected 
his  courage,  as  a  good  horseman  pulls  his  horse  together  when 
going  to  leap  a  hedge,  and  in  a  voice  which  he  tried  to  render 
firm,  he  said :  "Well !  madame,  I  believe  I  know  a  man  who 
would  suit  Mademoiselle  Claire — an  honest  man,  who  loves  her, 
and  who  will  do  everything  in  the  world  to  make  her  happy." 

"That,"  said  Madame  d'Arlange,  "is  always  understood." 

"The  man  of  whom  I  speak,"  continued  the  magistrate,  "is 
still  young,  and  is  rich.  He  will  be  only  too  happy  to  receive 
Mademoiselle  Claire  without  a  dowry.  Not  only  will  he  de- 
cline an  examination  of  your  accounts  of  guardianship,  but  he 
will  beg  you  to  invest  your  fortune  as  you  think  fit." 

"Really !  Daburon,  my  friend,  you  are  by  no  means  a  fool !" 
exclaimed  the  old  lady. 

"If  you  prefer  not  to  invest  your  fortune  in  a  life  annuity, 
your  son-in-law  will  allow  you  sufficient  to  make  up  what  you 
now  find  wanting." 

"Ah !  really  I  am  stifling,"  interrupted  the  marquise.  "What ! 
you  know  such  a  man,  and  have  never  yet  mentioned  him  to 
me  !    You  ought  to  have  introduced  him  long  ago." 

"I  did  not  dare,  madame,  I  was  afraid — " 

"Quick  !  tell  me  who  is  this  admirable  son-in-law,  this  white 
blackbird?    Where  does  he  nestle?" 

The  magistrate  felt  a  strange  fluttering  of  the  heart ;  he  was 
going  to  stake  his  happiness  on  a  word.  At  length  he  stam- 
mered :  "It  is  I,  madame !" 

His  voice,  his  look,  his  gesture  was  beseeching.  He  was  sur- 
prised at  his  own  audacity,  frightened  at  having  vanquished  his 
timidity,  and  was  on  the  point  of  falling  at  the  old  lady's  feet. 
She,  however,  laughed  until  the  tears  came  into  her  eyes,  then 
shrugging  her  shoulders,  she  said :  "Really,  dear  Daburon  is  too 
ridiculous,  he  will  make  me  die  of  laughing!  He  is  so  amus- 
ing !"  After  which  she  burst  out  laughing  again.  But  sud- 
denly she  stopped,  in  the  very  height  of  her  merriment,  and 
assumed  her  most  dignified  air.  "Are  you  perfectly  serious  in 
all  you  have  told  me,  M.  Daburon?"  she  asked. 

"I  have  stated  the  truth."  murmured  the  magistrate. 

"You  are  then  very  rich?" 

"I  inherited,  madame,  from  my  mother,  about  twenty  thou- 


734  THE   LEROUGE   AFFAIR 

sands  francs  a  year.  One  of  my  uncles,  who  died  last  year, 
bequeathed  me  over  a  hundred  thousand  crowns.  My  father  is 
worth  about  a  million.  Were  I  to  ask  him  for  the  half  to- 
morrow, he  would  give  it  to  me;  he  would  give  me  all  his 
fortune,  if  it  were  necessary  to  my  happiness,  and  be  but  too 
well  contented  should  I  leave  him  the  administration  of  it." 

Madame  d'Arlange  signed  to  him  to  be  silent;  and  for  five 
good  minutes  at  least  she  remained  plunged  in  reflection,  her 
forehead  resting  in  her  hands.  At  length  she  raised  her  head. 
"Listen,"  said  she.  "Had  you  been  so  bold  as  to  make  this 
proposal  to  Claire's  father,  he  would  have  called  his  servants 
to  show  you  the  door.  For  the  sake  of  our  name  I  ought  to 
do  the  same ;  but  I  can  not  do  so.  I  am  old  and  desolate ;  I  am 
poor ;  my  grandchild's  prospects  disquiet  me ;  that  is  my  excuse. 
I  can  not,  however,  consent  to  speak  to  Claire  of  this  horrible 
mesalliance.  What  I  can  promise  you,  and  that  is  too  much,  is 
that  I  will  not  be  against  you.  Take  your  own  measures;  pay 
your  addresses  to  Mademoiselle  d'Arlange,  and  try  to  per- 
suade her.  If  she  says  'yes'  °*  her  own  free  will,  I  shall  not 
say  no. 

M.  Daburon,  transported  with  happiness,  could  almost  have 
embraced  the  old  lady.  He  thought  her  the  best,  the  most  ex- 
cellent of  women,  not  noticing  the  facility  with  which  this 
proud  spirit  had  been  brought  to  yield.  He  was  delirious, 
almost  mad. 

"Wait!"  said  the  old  lady;  "your  cause  is  not  yet  gained. 
Your  mother,  it  is  true,  was  a  Cottevise,  and  I  must  excuse 
her  for  marrying  so  wretchedly;  but  your  father  is  simple  M. 
Daburon.  This  name,  my  dear  friend,  is  simply  ridiculous.  Do 
you  think  it  will  be  easy  to  make  a  Daburon  of  a  young  girl 
who  for  nearly  eighteen  years  has  been  called  D'Arlange?" 

This  objection  did  not  seem  to  trouble  the  magistrate. 

"After  all,"  continued  the  old  lady,  "your  father  gained  a 
Cottevise,  so  you  may  win  a  D'Arlange.  On  the  strength  of 
marrying  into  noble  families,  the  Daburons  may  perhaps  end 
by  ennobling  themselves.  One  last  piece  of  advice ;  you  believe 
Claire  to  be  just  as  she  looks — timid,  sweet,  obedient.  Unde- 
ceive yourself,  my  friend.  Despite  her  innocent  air,  she  is 
hardy,  fierce,  and  obstinate  as  the  marquis,  her  father,  who 
was  worse  than  an  Auvergne  mule.  Now  you  are  warned.  Our 
conditions  are  agreed  to,  are  they  not?  Let  us  say  no  more  on 
the  subject.    I  almost  wish  you  to  succeed." 


THE    LEROUGE    AFFAIR  735 

This  scene  was  so  present  to  the  magistrate's  mind  that,  as 
he  sat  at  home  in  his  armchair,  though  many  months  had 
passed  since  these  events,  he  still  seemed  to  hear  the  old  lady's 
voice,  and  the  word  "success"  still  sounded  in  his  ears.  He 
departed  in  triumph  from  the  D'Arlange  abode,  which  he  had 
entered  with'  a  heart  swelling  with  anxiety.  He  walked  with 
his  head  erect,  his  chest  dilated,  and  breathing  the  fresh  air 
with  the  full  strength  of  his  lungs.  He  was  so  happy !  The 
sky  appeared  to  him  more  blue,  the  sun  more  brilliant.  This 
grave  magistrate  felt  a  mad  desire  to  stop  the  passers-by,  to 
press  them  in  his  arms,  to  cry  to  them:  "Have  you  heard? 
The  marquise  consents !"  He  walked,  and  the  earth  seemed  to 
him  to  give  way  beneath  his  footsteps ;  it  was  either  too  small 
to  carry  so  much  happiness,  or  else  he  had  become  so  light 
that  he  was  going  to  fly  away  toward  the  stars.  What  castles 
in  the  air  he  built  upon  what  Madame  d'Arlange  had  said  to 
him !  He  would  tender  his  resignation.  He  would  build  on  the 
banks  of  the  Loire,  not  far  from  Tours,  an  enchanting  little 
villa.  He  already  saw  it,  with  its  facade  to  the  rising  sun, 
nestling  in  the  midst  of  flowers,  and  shaded  with  widespreading 
trees.  He  furnished  this  dwelling  in  the  most  luxuriant  style. 
He  wished  to  provide  a  marvelous  casket,  worthy  the  pearl  he 
was  about  to  possess.  For  he  had  not  a  doubt;  not  a  cloud 
obscured  the  horizon  made  radiant  by  his  hopes,  no  voice  at  the 
bottom  of  his  heart  raised  itself  to  cry :  "Beware !" 

From  that  day,  his  visits  to  the  marquise  became  more  fre- 
quent. He  might  almost  be  said  to  live  at  her  house.  While 
he  preserved  his  respectful  and  reserved  demeanor  toward 
Claire,  he  strove  assiduously  to  be  something  in  her  life.  True 
love  is  ingenuous.  He  learned  to  overcome  his  timidity,  to  speak 
to  the  well-beloved  of  his  soul,  to  encourage  her  to  converse 
with  him,  to  interest  her.  He  went  in  quest  of  all  the  news, 
to  amuse  her.  He  read  all  the  new  books,  and  brought  to  her 
all  that  were  fit  for  her  to  read.  Little  by  little  he  succeeded, 
thanks  to  the  most  delicate  persistence,  in  taming  this  shy  young 
girl.  He  began  to  perceive  that  her  fear  of  him  had  almost 
disappeared,  that  she  no  longer  received  him  with  the  cold  and 
haughty  air  which  had  previously  kept  him  at  a  distance.  He 
felt  that  he  was  insensibly  gaining  her  confidence.  She  still 
blushed  when  she  spoke  to  him ;  but  she  no  longer  hesitated  to 
address  the  first  word.  She  even  ventured  at  times  to  ask  him 
a  question.    If  she  had  heard  a  play  well  spoken  of  and  wished 


736  THE    LEROUGE   AFFAIR 

to  know  the  subject,  M.  Daburon  would  at  once  go  to  see  k, 
and  commit  a  complete  account  of  it  to  writi.ig,  which  he  would 
send  her  through  the  post.  At  times  she  intrusted  him  with 
trifling  commissions,  the  execution  of  which  he  would  not  have 
exchanged  for  the  Russian  embassy.  Once  he  ventured  to  send 
her  a  magnificent  bouquet.  She  accepted  it  wfth  an  air  of 
uneasy  surprise,  but  begged  him  not  to  repeat  the  offering. 
The  tears  came  to  his  eyes ;  he  left  her  presence  broken-hearted, 
and  the  unhappiest  of  men.  "She  does  not  love  me,"  thought 
he;  "she  will  never  love  me."  But,  three  days  later,  as  he 
looked  very  sad,  she  begged  him  to  procure  her  certain  flowers, 
then  very  much  in  fashion,  which  she  wished  to  place  on  her 
flower-stand.  He  sent  enough  to  fill  the  house  from  the  garret 
to  the  cellar.  "She  will  love  me,"  he  whispered  to  himself  in 
his  joy.  These  events,  so  trifling  but  yet  so  great,  had  not  in- 
terrupted the  games  of  piquet ;  only  the  young  girl  now  appeared 
to  interest  herself  in  the  play,  nearly  always  taking  the  magis- 
trate's side  against  the  marquise.  She  did  not  understand  the 
game  very  well;  but,  when  the  old  gambler  cheated  too  openly, 
she  would  notice  it,  and  say,  laughingly:  "She  is  robbing  you, 
M.  Daburon — she  is  robbing  you !"  He  would  willingly  have 
been  robbed  of  his  entire  fortune  to  hear  that  sweet  voice 
raised  on  his  behalf. 

It  was  summer-time.  Often  in  the  evening  she  accepted  his 
arm,  and,  while  the  marquise  remained  at  the  window,  seated 
in  her  armchair,  they  walked  around  the  lawn,  treading  lightly 
upon  the  paths  spread  with  gravel  sifted  so  fine  that  the  trailing 
of  her  light  dress  effaced  the  traces  of  their  footsteps.  She 
chatted  gaily  with  him,  as  with  a  beloved  brother,  while  he  was 
obliged  to  do  violence  to  his  feelings,  to  refrain  from  imprint- 
ing a  kiss  upon  the  little  blond  head,  from  which  the  light 
breeze  lifted  the  curls  and  scattered  them  like  fleecy  clouds.  At 
such  moments,  he  seemed  to  tread  an  enchanted  path  strewn 
with  flowers,  at  the  end  of  which  appeared  happiness.  When 
he  attempted  to  speak  of  his  hopes  to  the  marquise,  she  would 
say:  '"You  know  what  we  agreed  upon.  Not  a  word.  Already 
does  the  voice  of  conscience  reproach  me  for  lending  my  coun- 
tenance to  such  an  abomination.  To  think  that  I  may  one  day 
have  a  granddaughter  calling  herself  Madame  Daburon !  You 
must  petition  the  king,  my  friend,  to  change  your  name."  If 
instead  of  intoxicating  himself  with  dreams  of  happiness,  this 
acute  observer  had  studied  the  character  of  his  idol,  the  effect 


THE    LEROUGE   AFFAIR  737 

might  have  been  to  put  him  upon  his  guard.  In  the  mean  while, 
he  noticed  singular  alterations  in  her  humor.  On  certain  days, 
she  was  gay  and  careless  as  a  child.  Then,  for  a  week,  she 
would  remain  melancholy  and  dejected.  Seeing  her  in  this  state 
the  day  following  a  ball,  to  which  her  grandmother  had  made  a 
point  of  taking  her,  he  dared  to  ask  h»_r  the  reason  of  her 
sadness. 

"Oh  !  that,"  answered  she,  heaving  a  deep  sigh,  "is  my  secret 
— a  secret  of  which  even  my  grandmother  knows  nothing." 

M.  Daburon  looked  at  her.  He  thought  he  saw  a  tear  be- 
tween her  long  eyelashes. 

"One  day,"  continued  she,  "I  may  confide  in  you:  it  will  per- 
haps be  necessary." 

The  magistrate  was  blind  and  deaf.  "I  also,"  answered  he, 
"have  a  secret,  which  I  wish  to  confide  to  you  in  return." 

When  he  retired  toward  midnight,  he  said  to  himself:  "To- 
morrow I  will  confess  everything  to  her."  Then  passed  a 
little  more  than  fifty  days,  during  which  he  kept  repeating  to 
himself:  "To-morrow!" 

It  happened  at  last  one  evening  in  the  month  of  August;  the 
heat  all  day  had  been  overpowering;  toward  dusk  a  breeze  had 
risen,  the  leaves  rustled ;  there  were  signs  of  a  storm  in  the 
atmosphere.  They  were  seated  together  at  the  bottom  of  the 
garden,  under  the  arbor,  adorned  with  exotic  plants,  and, 
through  the  branches,  they  perceived  the  fluttering  gown  of 
the  marquise,  who  was  taking  a  turn  after  her  dinner.  They 
had  remained  a  long  time  without  speaking,  enjoying  the  per- 
fume of  the  flowers,  the  calm  beauty  of  the  evening.  M.  Dabu- 
ron ventured  to  take  the  young  girl's  hand.  It  was  the  first 
time,  and  the  touch  of  her  fine  skin  thrilled  through  every  fibre 
of  his  frame,  and  drove  the  blood  surging  to  his  brain.  "Made- 
moiselle," stammered  he,  "Claire — " 

She  turned  toward  him  her  beautiful  eyes,  filled  with  aston- 
ishment. 

"Forgive  me,"  continued  he — "forgive  me.  I  have  spoken  to 
your  grandmother,  before  daring  to  raise  my  eyes  to  you.  Do 
you  not  understand  me?  A  word  from  your  lips  will  decide  my 
future  happiness  or  misery.  Claire,  mademoiselle,  do  not  spurn 
me :  I  love  you  !" 

While  the  magistrate  was  speaking,  Mademoiselle  d'Arlange 
looked  at  him  as  though  doubtful  of  the  evidence  of  her  senses ; 
but  at  the  words,  "I  love  you !"  pronounced  with  the  trembling 

5 — Vol.  Ill — Gab. 


738  THE   LEROUGE   AFFAIR 

accents  of  the  most  devoted  passion,  she  d-'sengaged  her  hand 
sharply,  and  uttered  a  stifled  cry.  "You,"  murmured  she,  "is 
this  really  you?" 

M.  Daburon,  at  this  the  most  critical  moment  of  his  life,  was 
powerless  to  utter  a  word.  The  presentiment  of  an  immense 
misfortune  oppressed  his  heart.  What  were  then  his  feelings 
when  he  saw  Claire  burst  into  tears?  She  hid  her  face  in  her 
hands,  and  kept  repeating:  "I  am  very  unhappy,  very  unhappy  !" 

"You  unhappy?"  exclaimed  the  magistrate  at  length.  "And 
through  me.  Claire,  you  are  cruel !  In  heaven's  name,  what 
have  I  done?  What  is  the  matter?  Speak!  Anything  rather 
than  this  anxiety  which  is  killing  me." 

He  knelt  before  her  on  the  graveled  walk,  and  again  made  an 
attempt  to  take  her  hand.  She  repulsed  him  with  an  imploring 
gesture.  "Let  me  weep,"  said  she;  "I  suffer  so  much,  you  are 
going  to  hate  me,  I  feel  it.  Who  knows !  you  will,  perhaps, 
despise  me,  and  yet  I  swear  before  heaven  that  I  never  expected 
what  you  have  just  said  to  me,  that  I  had  not  even  a  suspicion 
of  it !" 

M.  Daburon  remained  upon  his  knees,  awaiting  his  doom. 

"Yes,"  continued  Claire,  "you  will  think  you  have  been  the 
victim  of  a  detestable  coquetry.  I  see  it  now !  I  comprehend 
everything!  It  is  not  possible  that,  without  a  profound  love, 
a  man  can  be  all  that  you  have  been  to  me.  Alas !  I  was  but  a 
child.  I  gave  myself  up  to  the  great  happiness  of  having  a 
friend  !  Am  I  not  alone  in  the  world,  and  as  if  lost  in  a  desert? 
Silly  and  imprudent,  I  thoughtlessly  confided  in  you,  as  in  the 
best,  the  most  indulgent  of  fathers." 

These  words  revealed  to  the  unfortunate  magistrate  the  ex- 
tent of  his  error.  The  same  as  a  heavy  hammer,  they  smashed 
into  a  thousand  fragments  the  fragile  edifice  of  his  hopes.  He 
raised  himself  slowly,  and,  in  a  tone  of  involuntary  reproach, 
he  repeated  :  "Your  father !" 

Mademoiselle  d'Arlange  felt  how  deeply  she  had  wounded 
this  man  whose  intense  love  she  dare  not  even  fathom.  "Yes," 
she  resumed,  "I  love  you  as  a  father !  Seeing  you,  usually  so 
grave  and  austere,  become  for  me  so  good,  so  indulgent,  I 
thanked  heaven  for  sending  me  a  protector  to  replace  those 
who  are  dead." 

M.  Daburon  could  not  restrain  a  sob;  his  heart  was  breaking. 

"One  word,"  continued  Claire  —"one  single  word  would  have 
enlightened  me.    Why  did  you  not  pronounce  it?    It  was  with 


THE    LEROUGE   AFFAIR  739 

such  happiness  that  I  leaned  on  you  as  a  child  on  its  mother; 
and  with  what  inward  joy  I  said  to  myself:  'I  am  sure  of  one 
friend,  of  one  heart  into  which  runs  the  overflow  of  mine !' 
Ah !  why  was  not  my  confidence  greater  ?  Why  did  I  withhold 
my  secret  from  you?  I  might  have  avoided  this  fearful  calam- 
ity. I  ought  to  have  told  you  long  since.  I  no  longer  belong 
to  myself  freely  and  with  happiness,  I  have  given  my  life  to 
another." 

To  hover  in  the  clouds,  and  suddenly  to  fall  rudely  to  the 
earth,  such  was  M.  Daburon's  fate ;  his  sufferings  are  not  to  be 
described.  "Far  better  to  have  spoken."  answered  he ;  "yet,  no. 
I  owe  to  your  silence,  Claire,  six  months  of  delicious  illusions, 
six  months  of  enchanting  dreams.  This  shall  be  my  share  of 
life's  happiness." 

The  last  beams  of  closing  day  still  enabled  the  magistrate 
to  see  Mademoiselle  dArlange.  Her  beautiful  face  had  the 
whiteness  and  the  immobility  of  marble.  Heavy  tears  rolled 
silently  down  her  cheeks.  It  seemed  to  M.  Daburon  that  he 
was  beholding  the  frightful  spectacle  of  a  weeping  statue.  "You 
love  another,"  said  he  at  length,  "another !  And  your  grand- 
mother does  not  know  it.  Claire,  you  can  only  have  chosen  a 
man  worthy  of  your  love.  How  is  it  the  marquise  does  not 
receive  him?" 

"There  are  certain  obstacles,"  murmured  Claire,  "obstacles 
which  perhaps  we  may  never  be  able  to  remove;  but  a  girl  like 
me  can  love  but  once.  She  marries  him  she  loves,  or  she 
belongs  to  heaven!" 

"Certain  obstacles !"  said  M.  Daburon  in  a  hollow  voice. 
"You  love  a  man,  he  knows  it,  and  he  is  stopped  by  obstacles?" 

"I  am  poor,"  answered  Mademoiselle  d'Arlange.  "and  his 
family  is  immensely  rich.     His  father  is  cruel,  inexorable." 

"His  father,"  cried  the  magistrate,  with  a  bitterness  he  did 
not  dream  of  hiding,  "his  father,  his  family,  and  that  withholds 
him  !  You  are  poor,  he  is  rich,  and  that  stops  him !  And  yet 
he  knows  you  love  him !  Ah !  why  am  I  not  in  his  place  ?  and 
why  have  I  not  the  entire  universe  against  me  ?  What  sacrifice 
can  compare  with  love?  such  as  I  understand  it.  Nay,  would 
it  be  a  sacrifice?  That  which  appears  most  so,  is  it  not  really 
an  immense  joy?  To  suffer,  to  struggle,  to  wait,  to  hope  al- 
ways, to  devote  one's  self  entirely  to  another;  that  is  my  idea 
of  love." 

"It  is  thus  I  love,"  said  Claire  with  simplicity. 


740  THE   LEROUGE   AFFAIR 

This  answer  crushed  the  magistrate.  He  could  understand 
it.  He  knew  that  for  him  there  was  no  hope;  but  he  felt 
a  terrible  enjoyment  in  torturing  himself,  and  proving  his 
misfortune  by  intense  suffering.  "But,"  insisted  he,  "how  have 
you  know  him,  spoken  to  him?  Where?  When?  Madame 
d'Arlange  receives  no  one." 

"I  ought  now  to  tell  you  everything,  sir,"  answered  Claire 
proudly.  "I  have  known  him  for  a  long  time.  It  was  at  the 
house  of  one  of  my  grandmother's  friends,  who  is  a  cousin 
of  his — old  Mademoiselle  Goello,  that  I  saw  him  for  the  first 
time.  There  we  spoke  to  each  other;  there  we  meet  each 
other  now." 

"Ah !"  exclaimed  M.  Daburon,  whose  eyes  were  suddenly 
opened,  "I  remember  now.  A  few  days  before  your  visit  to 
Mademoiselle  Goello,  you  are  gayer  than  usual;  and,  when  you 
return,  you  are  often  sad." 

"That  is  because  I  see  how  much  he  is  pained  by  the  obsta- 
cles he  can  not  overcome." 

"Is  his  family,  then,  so  illustrious,"  asked  the  magistrate 
harshly,   "that  it  disdains  alliance   with  yours?" 

"I  should  have  told  you  everything,  without  waiting  to  be 
questioned,  sir,"  answered  Mademoiselle  d'Arlange,  "even  his 
name.     He  is  called  Albert  de  Commarin." 

The  marquise  at  this  moment,  thinking  she  had  walked 
enough,  was  preparing  to  return  to  her  rose-colored  boudoir. 
She  therefore  approached  the  arbor,  and  exclaimed  in  her 
loud  voice :  "Worthy  magistrate,  piquet  awaits  you." 

Mechanically  the  magistrate  arose,  stammering,  "I  am 
coming." 

Claire  held  him  back.  "I  have  not  asked  you  to  keep  my 
secret,  sir/'  she  said. 

"Oh,  mademoiselle !"  said  M.  Daburon,  wounded  by  this  ap- 
pearance of  doubt. 

"I  know,"  resumed  Claire,  "that  I  can  count  upon  you ;  but, 
come  what  will,  my  tranquillity  is  gone."  M.  Daburon  looked 
at  her  with  an  air  of  surprise;  his  eyes  questioned  her.  "It  is 
certain,"  continued  she,  "that  when  I,  a  young  and  inex- 
perienced girl,  have  failed  to  see,  has  not  passed  unnoticed 
by  my  grandmother.  That  she  has  continued  to  receive  you 
is  a  tacit  encouragement  of  your  addresses;  which  I  consider, 
permit  me  to  say,  are  very  honorable  to  myself." 

"I  have  already  mentioned,  mademoiselle,"  replied  the  magis- 


THE    LEROUGE   AFFAIR  741 

trate,  "that  the  marquise  has  deigned  to  authorize  my  hopes/' 
And  briefly  he  related  his  interview  with  Madame  d'Arlange, 
having  the  delicacy,  however,  to  omit  absolutely  the  question 
of  money,  which  had  so  strongly  influenced  the  old  lady. 

"I  see  very  plainly  what  effect  this  will  have  on  my  peace," 
said  Claire  sadly.  "When  my  grandmother  learns  that  I  have 
not  received  your  homage,  she  will  be  very  angry." 

"You  misjudge  me,  mademoiselle,"  interrupted  M.  Daburon. 
"I  have  nothing  to  say  to  the  marquise.  I  will  retire,  and  all 
will  be  said.  No  doubt  she  will  think  that  I  have  altered  my 
mind !" 

"Oh !  you  are  good  and  generous,  I  know !" 

"I  will  go  away,"  pursued  M.  Daburon ;  "and  soon  you  will 
have  forgotten  even  the  name  of  the  unfortunate  whose  life's 
hopes  have  just  been  shattered." 

"You  do  not  mean  what  you  say,"  said  the  young  girl 
quickly. 

"Well,  no.  I  cherish  this  last  illusion,  that  later  on  you 
will  remember  me  with  pleasure.  Sometimes  you  wi'l  say, 
'He  loved  me,'  I  wish  all  the  same  to  remain  your  friend,  yes, 
your  most  devoted  friend." 

Claire,  in  her  turn,  clasped  M.  Daburon's  hands,  and  said 
with  great  emotion:  "Yes,  you  are  right,  you  must  remain  my 
friend.  Let  us  forget  what  has  happened,  what  you  have  said 
to-night,  and  remain  to  me,  as  in  the  past,  the  best,  the  most 
indulgent  of  brothers." 

Darkness  had  come,  and  she  could  not  see  him ;  but  she  knew 
he  was  weeping,  for  he  was  slow  to  answer.  "Is  it  possible," 
murmured  he  at  length,  "what  you  ask  of  me?  What!  is  it 
you  who  talk  to  me  of  forgetting?  Do  you  feel  the  power  to 
forget?  Do  you  not  see  that  I  love  you  a  thousand  times  more 
than  you  love — "  He  stopped,  unable  to  pronounce  the  name 
of  Commarin;  and  then,  with  an  effort  he  added:  "And  I 
shall  love  you  always." 

They  had  left  the  arbor,  and  were  now  standing  not  far  from 
the  steps  leading  to  the  house.  "And  now,  mademoiselle." 
resumed  M.  Daburon,  "permit  me  to  say  adieu !  You  will 
see  me  again  but  seldom.  I  shall  only  return  often  enough 
to  avoid  the  appearance  of  a  rupture."  His  voice  trembled, 
so  that  it  was  with  difficulty  he  made  it  distinct. 

"Whatever  may  happen,"  he  added,  "remember  that  there 
is  one   unfortunate   being   in  the  world   who   belongs   to  you 


742  THE    LEROUGE   AFFAIR 

absolutely.  If  ever  you  have  need  of  a  friend's  devotion, 
come  to  me,  come  to  your  friend.  Now  it  is  over  ...  I 
have  courage.     Claire,  mademoiselle,  for  the  last  time,  adieu!" 

She  was  but  little  less  moved  than  he  was.  Instinctively 
she  approached  him,  and  for  the  first  and  last  time  he  touched 
lightly  with  his  cold  lips  the  forehead  of  her  he  loved  so  well. 
They  mounted  the  steps,  she  leaning  on  his  arm,  and  entered 
the  rose-colored  boudoir  where  the  marquise  was  seated,  im- 
patiently shuffling  the  cards,  while  awaiting  her  victim.  "Now, 
then,  incorruptible  magistrate,"  cried  she. 

But  M.  Daburon  felt  sick  at  heart.  He  could  not  have  held 
the  cards.  He  stammered  some  absurd  excuses,  spoke  of 
pressing  affairs,  of  duties  to  be  attended  to,  of  feeling  suddenly 
unwell,  and  went  out,  clinging  to  the  walls.  His  departure 
made  the  old  card-player  highly  indignant.  She  turned  to 
her  granddaughter,  who  had  gone  to  hide  her  confusion  away 
from  the  candles  of  the  card  table,  and  asked,  "What  is  the 
matter  with  Daburon  this  evening?" 

"I  do  not  know,  madame,"  stammered  Claire. 

"It  appears  to  me,"  continued  the  marquise,  "that  the  little 
magistrate  permits  himself  to  take  singular  liberties.  He 
must  be  reminded  of  his  proper  place,  or  he  will  end  by  be- 
lieving himself  our  equal." 

Claire  tried  to  explain  the  magistrate's  conduct:  "He  has 
been  complaining  all  the  evening,  grandmama;  perhaps  he 
is  unwell." 

"And  what  if  he  is?"  exclaimed  the  old  lady.  "Is  it  not 
his  duty  to  exercise  some  self-denial,  in  return  for  the  honor 
of  our  company?  I  think  I  have  already  related  to  you  the 
story  of  your  granduncle,  the  Due  de  St.  Huruge,  who,  having 
been  chosen  to  join  the  king's  card  party  on  their  return  from 
the  chase,  played  all  through  the  evening  and  lost  with  the  best 
grace  in  the  world  two  hundred  and  twenty  pistoles.  All  the 
assembly  remarked  his  gaiety  and  his  good  humor.  On  the 
following  day  only  it  was  learned,  that,  during  the  hunt,  he 
had  fallen  from  his  horse,  and  had  sat  at  his  majesty's  card 
table  with  a  broken  rib.  Nobody  made  any  remark,  so  per- 
fectly natural  did  this  act  of  ordinary  politeness  appear  in 
those  days.  This  little  Daburon,  if  he  is  unwell,  would  have 
given  proof  of  his  breeding  by  saying  nothing  about  it,  and 
remaining  for  my  piquet.  But  he  is  as  well  as  I  am.  Who 
can  tell  what  games  he  has  gone  to  play  elsewhere  1" 


THE    LEROUGE   AFFAIR 


743 


\/f  DABURON  did  not  return  home  on  leaving  Mademoi^ 
*>**•  selle  d'Arlange.  All  through  the  night  he  wandered 
about  at  random,  seeking  to  cool  his  heated  brow,  and  to  allay 
his  excessive  weariness.  "Fool  that  I  was !"  said  he  to  him- 
self, "thousand  times  fool  to  have  hoped,  to  have  believed, 
that  she  would  ever  love  me.  Madman !  how  could  I  have 
dared  to  dream  of  possessing  so  much  grace,  nobleness,  and 
beauty !  How  charming  she  was  this  evening,  when  her  face 
was  bathed  in  tears !  Could  anything  be  more  angelic  ?  What 
a  sublime  expression  her  eyes  had  in  speaking  of  him !  How 
she  must  love  him !  And  I  ?  She  loves  me  as  a  father,  she 
told  me  so — as  a  father !  And  could  it  be  otherwise  ?  Is  it 
not  justice?  Could  she  see  a  lover  in  a  sombre  and  severe- 
looking  magistrate,  always  as  sad  as  his  black  coat?  Was  it 
not  a  crime  to  dream  of  uniting  that  virginial  simplicity  to  my 
detestable  knowledge  of  the  world?  For  her,  the  future  is 
yet  the  land  of  smiling  chimeras ;  and  long  since  experience 
has  dissipated  all  my  illusions.  She  is  young  as  innocence, 
and  I  am  as  old  as  vice." 

The  unfortunate  magistrate  felt  thoroughly  ashamed  of  him- 
self. He  understood  Claire,  and  excused  her.  He  reproached 
himself  for  having  shown  her  how  he  suffered;  for  having 
cast  a  shadow  upon  her  life.  He  could  not  forgive  himself 
for  having  spoken  of  his  love.  Ought  he  not  to  have  foreseen 
what  had  happened? — that  she  would  refuse  him,  that  he 
would  thus  deprive  himself  of  the  happiness  of  seeing  her,  of 
hearing  her,  and  of  silently  adoring  her?  "A  young  and  ro- 
mantic girl,"  pursued  he,  "must  have  a  lover  she  can  dream  of 
— whom  she  can  caress  in  imagination,  as  an  ideal,  gratifying 
herself  by  seeing  in  him  every  great  and  brilliant  quality,  im- 
agining him  full  of  nobleness,  of  bravery,  of  heroism.  What 
would  she  see,  if,  in  my  absence,  she  dreamed  of  me?  Her 
imagination  would  present  me  dressed  in  a  funeral  robe,  in  the 
depth  of  a  gloomy  dungeon,  engaged  with  some  vile  criminal. 


744  THE    LEROUGE    AFFAIR 

Is  it  not  my  trade  to  descend  into  all  moral  sinks,  to  stir  up 
the  foulness  of  crime?  Am  I  not  compelled  to  wash  in  secrecy 
and  darkness  the  dirty  linen  of  the  most  corrupt  members  of 
society?  Ah !  some  professions  are  fatal.  Ought  not  the  magis- 
trate, like  the  priest,  to  condemn  himself  to  solitude  and  celi- 
bacy? Both  know  all,  they  hear  all,  their  costumes  are  nearly 
the  same ;  but,  while  the  priest  carries  consolation  in  the  folds 
of  his  black  robe,  the  magistrate  conveys  terror.  One  is 
mercy,  the  other  chastisement.  Such  are  the  images  a  thought 
of  me  would  awaken ;  while  the  other — the  other — " 

The  wretched  man  continued  his  headlong  course  along  the 
deserted  quays.  He  went  with  his  head  bare,  his  eyes  haggard. 
To  breathe  more  freely,  he  had  torn  off  his  cravat  and  thrown 
it  to  the  winds.  Sometimes,  unconsciously,  he  crossed  the 
path  of  a  solitary  wayfarer,  who  would  pause,  touched  with 
pity,  and  turn  to  watch  the  retreating  figure  of  the  unfortunate 
wretch  he  thought  deprived  of  reason.  In  a  by-road,  near 
Crenelle,  some  police  officers  stopped  him,  and  tried  to  question 
him.  He  mechanically  tendered  them  his  card.  They  read  it, 
and  permitted  him  to  pass,  convinced  that  he  was  drunk.  Anger 
— a  furious  anger — began  to  replace  his  first  feeling  of  resig- 
nation. In  his  heart  arose  a  hate,  stronger  and  more  violent 
than  even  his  love  for  Claire.  That  other,  that  preferred  one, 
that  haughty  vicomte,  who  could  not  overcome  those  paltry 
obstacles,  oh,  that  he  had  him  there,  under  his  knee !  At  that 
moment,  this  noble  and  proud  man,  this  severe  and  grave  magis- 
trate, experienced  an  irresistible  longing  for  vengeance.  He 
began  to  understand  the  hate  that  arms  itself  with  a  knife,  and 
lies  in  ambush  in  out-of-the-way  places;  which  strikes  in  the 
dark,  whether  in  front  or  from  behind  matters  little,  but  which 
strikes,  which  kills,  whose  vengeance  blood  alone  can  satisfy. 
At  that  very  hour  he  was  supposed  to  be  occupied  with  an 
inquiry  into  the  case  of  an  unfortunate,  accused  of  having 
stabbed  one  of  her  wretched  companions.  She  was  jealous  of 
the  woman,  who  had  tried  to  take  her  lover  from  her.  He 
was  a  soldier,  coarse  in  manners,  and  always  drunk.  M.  Dabu- 
ron  felt  himself  seized  with  pity  for  this  miserable  creature, 
whom  he  had  commenced  to  examine  the  day  before.  She  was 
very  ugly,  in  fact  truly  repulsive ;  but  the  expression  of  the 
eyes,  when  speaking  of  her  soldier,  returned  to  the  magistrate's 
memory.  "She  loves  him  sincerely,"  thought  he.  "If  each  one 
of  the  jurors  had  suffered  what  I  am  suffering  now,  she  would 


THE   LEROUGE   AFFAIR  745 

be  acquitted.  But  how  many  men  in  this  world  have  loved 
passionately?  Perhaps  not  one  in  twenty."  He  resolved  to 
recommend  this  girl  to  the  indulgence  of  the  tribunal,  and  to 
extenuate  as  much  as  possible  her  guilt.  For  he  himself  had 
just  determined  upon  the  commission  of  a  crime.  He  was  re- 
solved to  kill  Albert  de  Commarin. 

During  the  rest  of  the  night  he  became  all  the  more  de- 
termined in  this  resolution,  demonstrating  to  himself  by  a 
thousand  mad  reasons,  which  he  found  solid  and  inscrutable, 
the  necessity  for  and  the  justifiableness  of  this  vengeance.  At 
seven  o'clock  in  the  morning,  he  found  himself  in  an  avenue  of 
the  Bois  de  Boulogne,  not  far  from  the  lake.  He  made  at 
once  for  the  Porte  Maillot,  procured  a  cab,  and  was  driven 
to  his  house.  The  delirium  of  the  night  continued,  but  without 
suffering.  He  was  conscious  of  no  fatigue.  Calm  and  cool, 
he  acted  under  the  power  of  a  hallucination,  almost  like  a  som- 
nambulist. He  reflected  and  reasoned,  but  without  his  reason. 
As  soon  as  he  arrived  home  he  dressed  himself  with  care,  as 
was  his  custom  formerly  when  visiting  the  Marquise  d'Arlange, 
and  went  out.  He  first  called  at  an  armorer's  and  bought 
a  small  revolver,  which  he  caused  to  be  carefully  loaded  under 
his  own  eyes,  and  put  it  into  his  pocket.  He  then  called  on  the 
different  persons  he  supposed  capable  of  informing  him  to  what 
club  the  vicomte  belonged.  No  one  noticed  the  strange  state 
of  his  mind,  so  natural  were  his  manners  and  conversation. 
It  was  not  until  the  afternoon  that  a  young  friend  of  his  gave 
him  the  name  of  Albert  de  Commarin's  club,  and  offered  to 
conduct  him  thither,  as  he  too  was  a  member.  M.  Daburon 
accepted  warmly,  and  accompanied  his  friend.  While  passing 
along,  he  grasped  with  frenzy  the  handle  of  the  revolver  which 
he  kept  concealed,  thinking  only  of  the  murder  he  was  deter- 
mined to  commit,  and  the  means  of  insuring  the  accuracy  of 
his  aim.  "This  will  make  a  terrible  scandal,"  thought  he, 
"above  all  if  I  do  not  succeed  in  blowing  my  own  brains  out. 
I  shall  be  arrested,  thrown  into  prison,  and  placed  upon  my 
trial  at  the  assizes.  My  name  will  be  dishonored  !  Bah  !  what 
does  that  signify?  Claire  does  not  love  me,  so  what  care  I 
for  all  the  rest?  My  father  no  doubt  will  die  of  grief,  but  I 
must    have    my    revenge!" 

On  arriving  at  the  club,  his  friend  pointed  out  a  very  dark 
young  man,  with  a  haughty  air,  or  what  appeared  so  to  him, 
who.  seated  at  a  table,  was  reading  a  review.     It  was  the  vi- 


746  THE   LEROUGE   AFFAIR 

comte.  M.  Daburon  walked  up  to  him  without  drawing  hit 
revolver.  But  within  two  paces,  his  heart  tailed  him ;  he  turned 
suddenly  and  fled,  leaving  his  friend  astonished  at  a  scene,  to 
him,  utterly  inexplicable.  Only  once  again  will  Albert  de  Com- 
marin  be  as  near  death.  On  reaching  the  street,  it  seemed  to 
M.  Daburon  that  the  ground  was  receding  from  beneath  him, 
that  everything  was  turning  around  him.  He  tried  to  cry  out, 
but  could  not  utter  a  sound ;  he  struck  at  the  air  with  his  hands, 
reeled  for  an  instant,  and  then  fell  all  of  a  heap  on  the  pave- 
ment. The  passers-by  ran  and  assisted  the  police  to  raise  him. 
In  one  of  his  pockets  they  found  his  address,  and  carried  him 
home. 

When  he  recovered  his  senses,  he  was  in  his  bed,  at  the  foot 
of  which  he  perceived  his  father.  "What  has  happened?"  he 
asked.  With  much  caution  they  told  him  that  for  six  weeks 
he  had  wavered  between  life  and  death.  The  doctors  had  de- 
clared his  life  saved;  and,  now  that  reason  was  restored,  all 
would  go  well.  Five  minutes'  conversation  exhausted  him. 
He  shut  his  eyes,  and  tried  to  collect  his  ideas ;  but  they  whirled 
hither  and  thither  wildly,  as  autumn  leaves  in  the  wind.  The 
past  seemed  shrouded  in  a  dark  mist ;  yet,  in  the  midst  of  the 
darkness  and  confusion,  all  that  concerned  Mademoiselle  d'Ar- 
lange  stood  out  clear  and  luminous.  All  his  actions  from  the 
moment  when  he  embraced  Claire  appeared  before  him.  He 
shuddered,  and  his  hair  was  in  a  moment  soaking  with  per- 
spiration. He  had  almost  become  an  assassin.  The  proof  that 
he  was  restored  to  full  possession  of  his  faculties  was  that  a 
question  of  criminal  law  crossed  his  brain.  "The  crime  com- 
mitted," said  he  to  himself,  "should  I  have  been  condemned  ? 
Yes.  Was  I  responsible?  No.  Is  crime  merely  the  result  of 
mental  alienation?  Was  I  mad?  Or  was  I  in  that  peculiar 
state  of  mind  which  usually  precedes  an  illegal  attempt?  Who 
can  say?  Why  have  not  all  judges  passed  through  an  incom- 
prehensible crisis  such  as  mine?  But  who  would  believe  me, 
were  I  to  recount  my  experience?" 

Some  days  later,  he  was  sufficiently  recovered  to  tell  his 
father  all.  The  old  gentleman  shrugged  his  shoulders,  and  as- 
sured him  it  was  but  a  reminiscence  of  his  delirium.  The  good 
old  man  was  moved  at  the  story  of  his  son's  luckless  wooing, 
without  seeing  therein,  however,  an  irreparable  misfortune.  He 
advised  him  to  think  of  something  else,  placed  at  his  disposal 
his   entire    fortune,   and    recommended    him    to    marry    a    stout 


THE    LEROUGE   AFFAIR  747 

Poitevine  heiress,  very  gay  and  healthy,  who  would  bear  him 
some  fine  children.  Then,  as  his  estate  was  suffering  by  his 
absence,  he  returned  home.  Two  months  later,  the  investigat- 
ing magistrate  had  resumed  his  ordinary  avocations.  But  try 
as  he  would,  he  only  went  through  his  duties  like  a  body  with- 
out a  soul.  He  felt  that  something  was  broken.  Once  he  ven- 
tured to  pay  a  visit  to  his  old  friend,  the  marquise.  On  seeing 
him,  she  uttered  a  cry  of  terror.  She  took  him  for  a  spectre,  so 
much  was  he  changed  in  appearance.  As  she  dreaded  dismal 
faces,  she  ever  after  shut  her  door  to  him.  Claire  was  ill  for  a 
week  after  seeing  him.  "How  he  loved  me,"  thought  she ;  "it 
has  almost  killed  him!  Can  Albert  love  me  as  much?"  She 
did  not  dare  to  answer  herself.  She  felt  a  desire  to  console 
him,  to  speak  to  him,  attempt  something;  but  he  came  no  more. 

M.  Daburon  was  not,  however,  a  man  to  give  way  without 
a  struggle.  He  tried,  as  his  father  advised  him,  to  distract  his 
thoughts.  He  sought  for  pleasure,  and  found  disgust,  but  not 
forgetfulness.  Often  he  went  as  far  as  the  threshold  of  de- 
bauchery ;  but  the  pure  figure  of  Claire,  dressed  in  white  gar- 
ments, always  barred  the  doors  against  him.  Then  he  took 
refuge  in  work,  as  in  a  sanctuary;  condemned  himself  to  the 
most  incessant  labor,  and  forbade  himself  to  think  of  Claire, 
as  the  consumptive  forbids  himself  to  meditate  upon  his  malady. 
His  eagerness,  his  feverish  activity,  earned  him  the  reputation 
of  an  ambitious  man,  who  would  go  far ;  but  he  cared  for  noth- 
ing in  the  world.  At  length,  he  found,  not  rest,  but  that  painless 
benumbing  which  commonly  follows  a  great  catastrophe.  The 
convalescence  of  oblivion  was  commencing. 

These  were  the  events,  recalled  to  M.  Daburon's  mind  when 
old  Tabaret  pronounced  the  name  of  Commarin.  He  believed 
them  buried  under  the  ashes  of  time ;  and  behold  they  reap- 
peared, just  the  same  as  those  characters  traced  in  sympathetic 
ink  when  held  before  a  fire.  In  an  instant  they  unrolled  them- 
selves before  his  memory,  with  the  instantaneousness  of  a 
dream  annihilating  time  and  space.  During  some  minutes,  he 
assisted  at  the  representation  of  his  own  life.  At  once  actor 
and  spectator,  he  was  there  seated  in  his  armchair,  and  at  the 
same  time  he  appeared  on  the  stage.  He  acted,  and  he  judged 
himself.  His  first  thought,  it  must  be  confessed,  was  one  of 
hate,  followed  by  a  detestable  feeling  of  satisfaction.  Chance 
had,  so  to  say,  delivered  into  his  hands  this  man  preferred  by 
Claire,  this   man,   now   no  longer  a   haughty   nobleman,   illus- 


7-48  THE    LEROUGE   AFFAIR 

trious  by  his  fortune  and  his  ancestors,  but  the  illegitimate  off- 
spring of  a  courtezan.  To  retain  a  stolen  name,  he  had  com- 
mitted a  most  cowardly  assassination.  And  he,  the  magistrate, 
was  about  to  experience  the  infinite  gratification  of  striking  his 
enemy  with  the  sword  of  justice.  But  this  was  only  a  passing 
thought.  The  man's  upright  conscience  revolted  against  it,  and 
made  its  powerful  voice  heard.  "Is  anything,"  it  cried,  "more 
monstrous  than  the  association  of  these  two  ideas — hatred  and 
justice?  Can  a  magistrate,  without  despising  himself  more  than 
he  despises  the  vile  beings  he  condemns,  recollect  that  a  crimi- 
nal, whose  fate  is  in  his  hands,  has  been  his  enemy?  Has  an 
investigating  magistrate  the  right  to  make  use  of  his  exceptional 
powers  in  dealing  with  a  prisoner,  so  long  as  he  harbors  the 
least  resentment  against  him?"  M.  Daburon  repeated  to  him- 
self what  he  had  so  frequently  thought  during  the  year,  when 
commencing  a  fresh  investigation :  "And  I  also,  I  almost  stained 
myself  with  a  vile  murder !"  And  now  it  was  his  duty  to  cause 
to  be  arrested,  to  interrogate,  and  hand  over  to  the  assizes  the 
man  he  had  once  resolved  to  kill.  All  the  world,  it  is  true, 
ignored  this  crime  of  thought  and  intention ;  but  could  he  him- 
self forget  it?  Was  not  this,  of  all  others,  a  case  in  which  he 
should  decline  to  be  mixed  up?  Ought  he  not  to  withdraw,  and 
wash  his  hands  of  the  blood  that  had  been  shed,  leaving  to 
another  the  task  of  avenging  him  in  the  name  of  society  ?  "No," 
said  he,  "it  would  be  a  cowardice  unworthy  of  me."  A  project 
of  mad  generosity  occurred  to  the  bewildered  man.  "If  I  save 
him,"  murmured  he,  "if  for  Claire's  sake  I  leave  him  his  honor 
and  his  life.  But  how  can  I  save  him?  To  do  so  I  shall  be 
obliged  to  suppress  old  Tabaret's  discoveries,  and  make  an  ac- 
complice of  him  by  ensuring  his  silence.  We  shall  have  to  fol- 
low a  wrong  track,  join  Gevrol  in  running  after  some  imaginary 
murderer.  Is  this  practicable  ?  Besides,  to  spare  Albert  is  to 
defame  Noel ;  it  is  to  assure  impunity  to  the  most  odious  of 
crimes.  In  short,  it  is  still  sacrificing  justice  to  my  feelings." 
The  magistrate  suffered  greatly.  How  choose  a  path  in  the 
midst  of  so  many  perplexities !  Impelled  by  different  interests, 
he  wavered,  undecided  between  the  most  opposite  decisions,  his 
mind  oscillating  from  one  extreme  to  the  other.  What  could 
he  do?  His  reason  after  this  new  and  unforeseen  shock  vainly 
sought  to  regain  its  equilibrium.  "Resign  ?"  said  he  to  himself. 
"Where,  then,  would  be  my  courage?  Ought  I  not  rather  to 
remain  the  representative  of  the  law,  incapable  of  emotion,  in- 


THE    LEROUGE   AFFAIR  749 

sensible  to  prejudice?  Am  I  so  weak  that,  in  assuming  my 
office,  I  am  unable  to  divest  myself  of  my  personality?  Can  I 
not,  for  the  present,  make  abstraction  of  the  past?  My  duty  is 
to  pursue  this  investigation.  Claire  herself  would  desire  me  to 
act  thus.  Would  she  wed  a  man  suspected  of  a  crime?  Never. 
If  he  is  innocent,  he  will  be  saved;  if  guilty,  let  him  perish!" 
This  was  very  sound  reasoning;  but,  at  the  bottom  of  his  heart, 
a  thousand  disquietudes  darted  their  thorns.  He  wanted  to 
reassure  himself.  "Do  I  still  hate  this  young  man?"  he  con- 
tinued. "No,  certainly.  If  Claire  has  preferred  him  to  me, 
it  is  to  Claire  and  not  to  him  I  owe  my  suffering.  My  rage 
was  no  more  than  a  passing  fit  of  delirium.  I  will  prove  it 
by  letting  him  find  me  as  much  a  counselor  as  a  magistrate. 
If  he  is  not  guilty,  he  shall  make  use  of  all  the  means  in  my 
power  to  establish  his  innocence.  Yes,  I  am  worthy  to  be  his 
judge.  Heaven,  who  reads  all  my  thoughts,  sees  that  I  love 
Claire  enough  to  desire  with  all  my  heart  the  innocence  of  her 
lover."  Only  then  did  M.  Daburon  seem  to  be  vaguely  aware 
of  the  lapse  of  time.  It  was  nearly  three  o'clock  in  the  morn- 
ing. "Goodness !''  cried  he ;  "why,  old  Tabaret  is  waiting  for 
me.    I  shall  probably  find  him  asleep." 

But  M.  Tabaret  was  not  asleep.  He  had  noticed  the  passage 
of  time  no  more  than  the  magistrate.  Ten  minutes  had  sufficed 
him  to  take  an  inventory  of  the  contents  of  M.  Daburon's  study, 
which  was  large,  and  handsomely  furnished  in  accordance  with 
his  position  and  fortune.  Taking  up  a  lamp,  he  first  admired 
six  very  valuable  pictures,  which  ornamented  the  walls ;  he  then 
examined  with  considerable  curiosity  some  rare  bronzes  placed 
about  the  room,  and  bestowed  on  the  bookcase  the  glance  of 
a  connoisseur.  After  which,  taking  an  evening  paper  from  the 
table,  he  approached  the  hearth,  and  seated  himself  in  a  vast 
armchair.  He  had  not  read  a  third  of  the  leading  article,  which, 
like  all  leading  articles  of  the  time,  was  exclusively  occupied 
with  the  Roman  question,  when,  letting  the  paper  drop  from 
his  hands,  he  became  absorbed  in  meditation.  The  fixed  idea, 
stronger  than  one's  will,  and  more  interesting  to  him  than 
politics,  brought  him  forcibly  back  to  La  Jonchere,  where  lay 
the  body  of  Widow  Lerouge.  Like  the  child  who  again  and 
again  builds  up  and  demolishes  his  house  of  cards,  he  arranged 
and  entangled  alternately  his  chain  of  inductions  and  argu- 
ments. In  his  own  mind  there  was  certainly  no  longer  a  doubt 
as  regards  this  sad  affair,  and  it  seemed  to  him  that  M.  Dabu- 


750  THE   LEROUGE   AFFAIR 

ron  shared  his  opinions.  But  yet,  what  difficulties  there  still 
remained  to  encounter  !  There  exists  betwe(  n  the  investigating 
magistrate  and  the  accused  a  supreme  tribunal,  an  admirable 
institution  which  is  a  guarantee  for  all,  a  powerful  moderator, 
the  jury.  And  the  jury,  thank  heaven  !  do  not  content  them- 
selves with  a  moral  conviction.  The  strongest  probabilities  can 
not  induce  them  to  give  an  affirmative  verdict.  The  accusation 
must  then  come  before  the  jury,  armed  at  all  points,  with  abun- 
dant proofs.  A  task  often  tedious  to  the  investigating  magis- 
trate, and  bristling  with  difficulties,  is  the  arrangement  and  con- 
densation of  this  evidence,  particularly  when  the  accused  is  a 
cool  hand,  certain  of  having  left  no  traces  of  his  guilt.  Even 
when  presumptive  evidence  points  clearly  to  the  criminal,  and 
common  sense  recognizes  him,  justice  is  at  times  compelled  to 
acknowledge  her  defeat,  for  lack  of  what  the  jury  consider 
sufficient  proof  of  guilt.  Thus,  unhappily,  many  crimes  escape 
punishment.  An  old  advocate-general  said  one  day  that  he 
knew  as  many  as  three  assassins,  living  rich,  happy,  and  re- 
spected, who  would  probably  end  by  dying  in  their  beds,  sur- 
rounded by  their  families,  and  being  followed  to  the  grave  with 
lamentations,  and  praised  for  their  virtues  in  their  epitaphs. 

At  the  idea  that  a  murderer  might  escape  the  penalty  of  his 
crime,  and  steal  away  from  the  assize  court,  old  Tabaret's 
blood  fairly  boiled  in  his  veins,  as  at  the  recollection  of  some 
deadly  insult.  Such  a  monstrous  event,  in  his  opinion,  could 
only  proceed  from  the  incapacity  of  those  charged  with  the 
preliminary  inquiry,  the  clumsiness  of  the  police,  or  the  stu- 
pidity of  the  investigating  magistrate.  "It  is  not  I,"  he  mut- 
tered, with  the  satisfied  vanity  of  success,  "who  would  ever  let 
my  prey  escape.  No  crime  can  be  committed,  of  which  the 
author  can  not  be  found,  unless,  indeed,  he  happens  to  be  a 
madman,  whose  motive  it  would  be  difficult  to  understand.  I 
would  pass  my  life  in  pursuit  of  a  criminal,  before  avowing 
myself  vanquished,  as  Gevrol  has  done  so  many  times."  As- 
sisted by  chance,  he  had  again  succeeded,  so  he  kept  repeating 
to  himself,  but  what  proofs  could  he  furnish  to  the  accusation, 
to  that  confounded  jury,  so  difficult  to  convince,  so  precise  and 
so  cowardly?  What  could  he  imagine  to  force  so  cunning  a 
culprit  to  betray  himself?  What  trap  could  he  prepare?  To 
what  new  and  infallible  stratagem  could  he  have  recourse? 
The  amateur  detective  exhausted  himself  in  subtle  but  imprac- 
ticable combinations,  always  stopped  by  that  exacting  jury,  so 


THE    LEROUGE   AFFAIR  751 

obnoxious  to  the  agents  of  the  Rue  de  Jerusalem.  He  was  so 
deeply  absorbed  in  his  thoughts  that  he  did  not  hear  the  door 
open,  and  was  utterly  unconscious  of  the  magistrate's  presence. 

M.  Daburon's  voice  aroused  him  from  his  reverie.  "You 
will  excuse  me,  M.  Tabaret,  for  having  left  you  so  long  alone." 

The  old  fellow  rose  and  bowed  respectfully.  "By  my  faith, 
sir,"  replied  he,  "I  have  not  had  the  leisure  to  perceive  my 
solitude." 

M.  Daburon  crossed  the  room,  and  seated  himself,  facing  his 
agent  before  a  small  table  encumbered  with  papers  and  docu- 
ments relating  to  the  crime.  He  appeared  very  much  fatigued. 
"I  have  reflected  a  good  deal,"  he  commenced,  "about  this 
affair—" 

"And  I,"  interrupted  old  Tabaret,  "was  just  asking  myself 
what  was  likely  to  be  the  attitude  assumed  by  the  vicomte  at 
the  moment  of  his  arrest.  Nothing  is  more  important,  accord- 
ing to  my  idea,  than  his  manner  of  conducting  himself  then. 
Will  he  fly  into  a  passion?  Will  he  attempt  to  intimidate  the 
agents?  Will  he  threaten  to  turn  them  out  of  the  house? 
These  are  generally  the  tactics  of  titled  criminals.  My  opinion, 
however,  is  that  he  will  remain  perfectly  cool.  He  will  declare 
himself  the  victim  of  a  misunderstanding,  and  insist  upon 
an  immediate  interview  with  the  investigating  magistrate. 
Once  that  is  accorded  him,  he  will  explain  everything  very 
quickly." 

The  old  fellow  spoke  of  matters  of  speculation  in  such  a  tone 
of  assurance  that  M.  Daburon  was  unable  to  repress  a  smile. 
"We  have  not  got  as  far  as  that  yet,"  said  he. 

"But  we  shall,  in  a  few  hours,"  replied  M.  Tabaret  quickly. 
"I  presume  you  will  order  young  M.  de  Commarin's  arrest  at 
daybreak." 

The  magistrate  trembled,  like  the  patient  who  sees  the  sur- 
geon deposit  his  case  of  instruments  upon  the  table  on  entering 
the  room.  The  moment  for  action  had  come.  He  felt  what  a 
distance  lies  between  a  mental  decision  and  the  physical  action 
required  to  execute  it.  "You  are  prompt,  M.  Tabaret."  said  he ; 
"you  recognize  no  obstacles." 

"None,  having  ascertained  the  criminal.  Who  else  can  have 
committed  this  assassination?  Who  but  he  had  an  interest  in 
silencing  Widow  Lerouge,  in  suppressing  her  testimony,  in  de- 
stroying her  papers  ?  He,  and  only  he.  Poor  Noel !  who  is 
as  dull  as  honesty,  warned  him,  and  he  acted.     Should  we  fail 


752  THE    LEROUGE   AFFAIR 

to  establish  his  guilt,  he  will  remain  De  Commarin  more  than 
ever;  and  my  young  barrister  will  be  Noel  Gerdy  to  the  grave." 

"Yes.  but—" 

The  old  man  fixed  his  eyes  upon  the  magistrate  with  a  look 
of  astonishment.  "You  see,  then,  some  difficulties,  sir?"  he 
asked. 

"Most  decidedly!"  replied  M.  Daburon.  "This  is  a  matter 
demanding  the  utmost  circumspection.  In  cases  like  the  pres- 
ent, one  must  not  strike  until  the  blow  is  sure,  and  we  have  but 
presumptions.  Suppose  we  are  mistaken.  Justice,  unhappily, 
can  not  repair  errors.  Her  hand  once  unjustly  placed  upon  a 
man,  leaves  an  imprint  of  dishonor  that  can  never  be  effaced. 
She  may  perceive  her  error,  and  proclaim  it  aloud,  but  in  vain  I 
Public  opinion,  absurd  and  idiotic,  will  not  pardon  the  man 
guilty  of  being  suspected." 

It  was  with  a  sinking  heart  that  the  old  fellow  listened  to 
these  remarks.  He  would  not  be  withheld  by  such  paltry  con- 
siderations. 

"Our  suspicions  are  well  grounded,"  continued  the  magis- 
trate. ''But,  should  they  lead  us  into  error,  our  precipitation 
would  be  a  terrible  misfortune  for  this  young  man,  to  say  noth- 
ing of  the  effect  it  would  have  in  abridging  the  authority  and 
dignity  of  justice,  of  weakening  the  respect  which  constitutes 
her  power.  Such  a  mistake  would  call  for  discussion,  provoke 
examination,  and  awaken  distrust,  at  an  epoch  in  our  history 
when  all  minds  are  but  too  much  disposed  to  defy  the  consti- 
tuted authorities." 

He  leaned  upon  the  table,  and  appeared  to  reflect  profoundly. 
"I  have  no  luck,"  thought  old  Tabaret.  "I  have  to  do  with  a 
trembler.  When  he  should  act,  he  makes  speeches ;  instead  of 
signing  warrants,  he  propounds  theories.  He  is  astounded  at 
my  discovery,  and  is  not  equal  to  the  situation.  Instead  of 
being  delighted  by  my  appearance  with  the  news  of  our  success, 
he  would  have  given  a  twenty-franc  piece,  I  dare  say,  to  have 
been  left  undisturbed.  Ah  !  he  would  very  willingly  have  the 
little  fishes  in  his  net,  but  the  big  ones  frighten  him.  The  big 
fishes  are  dangerous,  and  he  prefers  to  let  them  swim  away." 

"Perhaps,"  said  M.  Daburon,  aloud,  "it  will  suffice  to  issue 
a  search-warrant,  and  a  summons  for  the  appearance  of  the 
accused." 

"Then  all  is  lost !"  cried  old  Tabaret. 

"And  why,  pray  ?" 


THE    LEROUGE   AFFAIR  768 

"Because  we  are  opposed  by  a  criminal  of  marked  ability.  A 
most  providential  accident  has  placed  us  upon  his  track.  If  we 
give  him  time  to  breathe,  he  will  escape.*' 

The  only  answer  was  an  inclination  of  the  head,  which  M. 
Daburon  may  have  intended  for  a  sign  of  assent. 

"It  is  evident,"  continued  the  old  fellow,  "that  our  adversarv 
has  foreseen  everything,  absolutely  everything,  even  the  possi- 
bility of  suspicion  attaching  to  one  in  his  high  position.  Oh  ! 
his  precautions  are  all  taken.  If  you  are  satisfied  with  de- 
manding his  appearance,  he  is  saved.  He  will  appear  before 
you  as  tranquilly  as  your  clerk,  as  unconcerned  as  if  he  came 
to  arrange  the  preliminaries  of  a  duel.  He  will  present  you 
with  a  magnificent  alibi,  an  alibi  that  can  not  be  gainsaid. 
He  will  show  you  that  he  passed  the  evening  and  the  night  of 
Tuesday  with  personages  of  the  highest  rank.  In  short,  his 
little  machine  will  be  so  cleverly  constructed,  so  nicely  ar- 
ranged, all  its  little  wheels  will  play  so  well,  that  there  will  be 
nothing  left  for  you  but  to  open  the  door  and  usher  him  nut 
with  the  most  humble  apologies.  The  only  means  of  securing 
conviction  is  to  surprise  the  miscreant  by  a  rapidity  against 
which  it  is  impossible  he  can  be  on  his  guard.  Fall  upon  him 
like  a  thunderclap,  arrest  him  as  he  wakes,  drag  him  hither 
while  yet  pale  with  astonishment,  and  interrogate  him  at  once. 
Ah  !  I  wish  I  were  an  investigating  magistrate." 

Old  Tabaret  stopped  short,  frightened  at  the  idea  that  he  had 
been  wanting  in  respect;  but  M.  Daburon  showed  no  sign  of 
being  offended.  "Proceed,"  said  he,  in  a  tone  of  encourage- 
ment, "proceed." 

"Suppose,  then,"  continued  the  detective,  "I  am  the  investi- 
gating magistrate.  I  cause  my  man  to  be  arrested,  and,  twenty 
minutes  later,  he  is  standing  before  me.  I  do  not  amuse  myself 
by  putting  questions  to  him,  more  or  less  subtle.  No,  I  go 
straight  to  the  mark.  I  overwhelm  him  at  once  by  the  weight 
of  my  certainty,  prove  to  him  so  clearly  that  I  know  everything, 
that  he  must  surrender,  seeing  no  chance  of  escape.  I  should 
say  to  him:  'My  good  man,  you  bring  me  an  alibi;  it  is  very 
well ;  but  I  am  acquainted  with  that  system  of  defense.  It 
will  not  do  with  me.  I  know  all  about  the  clocks  that  don't 
keep  proper  time,  and  all  the  people  who  never  lost  si^ht  of  you. 
In  the  mean  time,  this  is  what  you  did.  At  twenty  minutes 
past  eight,  you  slipped  away  adroitly;  at  thirty-five  minutes  past 
eight,  you  took  the  train  at   the   St.   Lazare   station ;   at   nine 


754  THE    LEROUGE   AFFAIR 

o'clock,  you  alighted  at  the  station  at  Rueil,  and  took  the  road 
to  La  Jonchere ;  at  a  quarter  past  nine,  you  knocked  at  the 
window-shutter  of  Widow  Lerouge's  cottage.  You  were  ad- 
mitted. You  asked  for  something  to  eat,  and,  above  all,  some- 
thing to  drink.  At  twenty  minutes  past  nine,  you  planted  the 
well-sharpened  end  of  a  foil  between  her  shoulders.  You 
killed  her !  You  then  overturned  everything  in  the  house,  and 
burned  certain  documents  of  importance ;  after  which,  you  tied 
up  in  a  napkin  all  the  valuables  you  could  find,  and  carried 
them  off,  to  lead  the  police  to  believe  the  murder  was  the  work 
of  a  robber.  You  locked  the  door,  and  threw  away  the  key. 
Arrived  at  the  Seine,  you  threw  the  bundle  into  the  water,  then 
hurried  off  to  the  railway  station  on  foot,  and  at  eleven  o'clock 
you  reappeared  among  your  friends.  Your  game  was  well 
played;  but  you  omitted  to  provide  against  two  adversaries,  a 
detective,  not  easily  deceived,  named  Tirauclair,  and  another 
still  more  clever,  named  chance.  Between  them,  they  have  got 
the  better  of  you.  Moreover,  you  were  foolish  to  wear  such 
small  boots,  and  to  keep  on  your  lavender  kid  gloves,  besides 
embarrassing  yourself  with  a  silk  hat  and  an  umbrella.  Now 
confess  your  guilt,  for  it  is  the  only  thing  left  you  to  do,  and 
I  will  give  you  permission  to  smoke  in  your  dungeon  some  of 
those  excellent  trabucos  you  are  so  fond  of,  and  which  you 
always  smoke  with  an  amber  mouthpiece.'  "  During  this  speech, 
M.  Tabaret  had  gained  at  least  a  couple  of  inches  in  height,  so 
great  was  his  enthusiasm.  He  looked  at  the  magistrate,  as  if 
expecting  a  smile  of  approbation.  "Yes,"  continued  he,  after 
taking  breath,  "I  would  say  that,  and  nothing  else ;  and,  unless 
this  man  is  a  hundred  times  stronger  than  I  suppose  him  to  be, 
unless  he  is  made  of  bronze,  of  marble,  or  of  steel,  he  would 
fall  at  my  feet  and  avow  his  guilt." 

"But  supposing  he  were  of  bronze,"  said  M.  Daburon,  "and 
did  not  fall  at  your  feet,  what  would  you  do  next?" 

The  question  evidently  embarrassed  the  old  fellow.  "Pshaw!" 
stammered  he;  "I  don't  know;  I  would  see;  I  would  search: 
but  he  would  confess." 

After  a  prolonged  silence,  M.  Daburon  took  a  pen,  and  hur- 
riedly wrote  a  few  lines.  "I  surrender,"  said  he.  "M.  Albert  de 
Commarin  shall  be  arrested ;  that  is  settled.  The  different  for- 
malities to  be  gone  through  and  the  perquisitions  will  occupy 
some  time,  which  I  wish  to  employ  in  interrogating  the  Cointe 
de    Commarin,   the   young   man's   father,    and    your   friend,    M. 


THE   LEROUGE   AFFAIR  755 

Noel  Gerdy,  the  young  barrister.  The  letters  he  possesses  are 
indispensable  to  me." 

At  the  name  of  Gerdy,  M.  Tabaret's  face  assumed  a  most 
comical  expression  of  uneasiness.  "Confound  it,"  cried  he,  "the 
very  thing  I  most  dreaded." 

"What?"  asked  M.  Daburon. 

"The  necessity  for  the  examination  of  those  letters.  Noel 
will  discover  my  interference.  He  will  despise  me :  he  will  fly 
from  me,  when  he  knows  that  Tabaret  and  Tirauclair  sleep  in 
the  same  nightcap.  Before  eight  days  are  past,  my  oldest 
friends  will  refuse  to  shake  hands  with  me,  as  if  it  were  not 
an  honor  to  serve  justice.  I  shall  be  obliged  to  change  my 
residence,  and  assume  a  false  name." 

He  almost  wept,  so  great  was  his  annoyance.  M.  Daburon 
was  touched.  "Reassure  yourself,  my  dear  M.  Tabaret,"  said 
he.  "I  will  manage  that  your  adopted  son,  your  Benjamin,  shall 
know  nothing.  I  will  lead  him  to  believe  I  have  reached  him 
by  means  of  the  widow's  papers." 

The  old  fellow  seized  the  magistrate's  hand  in  a  transport 
of  gratitude,  and  carried  it  to  his  lips.  Oh !  thanks,  sir,  a 
thousand  thanks !  I  should  like  to  be  permitted  to  witness  the 
arrest;  and  I  shall  be  glad  to  assist  at  the  perquisitions." 

"I  intended  to  ask  you  to  do  so,  M.  Tabaret,"  answered  the 
magistrate.  The  lamps  paled  in  the  gray  dawn  of  the  morning ; 
already  the  rumbling  of  vehicles  was  heard;  Paris  was  awak- 
ing. "I  have  no  time  to  lose,"  continued  M.  Daburon,  "if  I 
would  have  all  my  measures  well  taken.  I  must  at  once  see  the 
public  prosecutor,  whether  he  is  up  or  not.  I  shall  go  direct 
from  his  house  to  the  Palais  de  Justice,  and  be  there  before 
eight  o'clock;  and  I  desire,  M.  Tabaret,  that  you  will  there 
await  my  orders." 

The  old  fellow  bowed  his  thanks  and  was  about  to  leave, 
when  the  magistrate's  servant  appeared.  "Here  is  a  note,  sir," 
said  he,  "which  a  gendarme  has  just  brought  from  Bougival. 
He  waits  an  answer." 

"Very  well,"  replied  M.  Daburon.  "Ask  the  man  to  have 
some  refreshment ;  at  least  offer  him  a  glass  of  wine." 

He  opened  the  envelope.  "Ah !"  he  cried,  "a  letter  from 
Gevrol ;"  and  he  read :  "  'To  the  investigating  magistrate.  Sir, 
I  have  the  honor  to  inform  you  that  I  am  on  the  track  of  the 
man  with  the  earrings.  I  heard  of  him  at  a  wine-shop,  which 
he  entered  on  Sunday  morning,  before  going  to  Widow  Le- 


756 


THE   LEROUGE   AFFAIR 


rouge's  cottage.  He  bought  and  paid  for  two  litres  of  wine; 
then,  suddenly  striking  his  forehead,  he  cried :  "Old  fool !  to 
forget  that  to-morrow  is  the  boat's  fete  day !"  and  immediately 
called  for  three  more  litres.  According  to  the  almanac  the 
boat  must  be  called  the  "Saint-Marin."  I  have  also  learned  that 
she  was  laden  with  grain.  I  write  to  the  Prefecture  at  the  same 
time  as  I  write  to  you,  that  inquiries  may  be  made  at  Paris 
and  Rouen.  He  will  be  found  at  one  of  those  places.  I  am  in 
waiting,  sir,'  etc." 

"Poor  Gevrol!"  cried  old  Tabaret,  bursting  with  laughter. 
"He  sharpens  his  sabre,  and  the  battle  is  over.  Are  you  not 
going  to  put  a  stop  to  his  inquiries,  sir?" 

"No;  certainly  not,"  answered  M.  Daburon;  "to  neglect  the 
slightest  clue  often  leads  one  into  error.  Who  can  tell  what 
light  we  may  receive  from  this  mariner?" 


ON  the  same  day  that  the  crime  of  La  Jonchere  was  discov- 
ered, and  precisely  at  the  hour  that  M.  Tabaret  made  his 
memorable  examination  in  the  victim's  chamber,  the  Vicomte 
Albert  de  Commarin  entered  his  carriage,  and  proceeded  to  the 
Northern  Railway  station,  to  meet  his  father.  The  young  man 
was  very  pale:  his  pinched  features,  his  dull  eyes,  his  blanched 
lips,  in  fact,  his  whole  appearance,  denoted  either  overwhelm- 
ing fatigue  or  unusual  sorrow.  All  the  servants  had  observed 
that,  during  the  past  five  days,  their  young  master  had  not  been 
in  his  ordinary  condition:  he  spoke  but  little,  ate  almost  noth- 
ing, and  refused  to  see  any  visitors.  His  valet  noticed  that  this 
singular  change  dated  from  the  visit,  on  Sunday  morning,  of  a 
certain  M.  Noel  Gerdy,  who  had  been  closeted  with  him  for 
three  hours  in  the  library.  The  vicomte,  gay  as  a  lark  until  the 
arrival  of  this  person,  had,  from  the  moment  of  his  departure, 
the  appearance  of  a  man  at  the  point  of  death.  When  setting 
forth  to  meet  his  father,  the  vicomte  appeared  to  suffer  so 
acutely  that  M.  Lubin,  his  valet,  entreated  him  not  to  go  out; 
suggesting  that  it  would  be  more  prudent  to  retire  to  his  room, 


THE    LEROUGE   AFFAIR  757 

and  call  in  the  doctor.  But  the  Comte  de  Commarin  was  ex- 
acting on  the  score  of  filial  duty,  and  would  overlook  the  worst 
of  youthful  indiscretions  sooner  than  what  he  termed  a  want 
of  reverence.  He  had  announced  his  intended  arrival  by  tele- 
graph, twenty-four  hours  in  advance ;  therefore  the  house  was 
expected  to  be  in  perfect  readiness  to  receive  him,  and  the 
absence  of  Albert  at  the  railway  station  would  have  been  re- 
sented as  a  flagrant  omission  of  duty.  The  vicomte  had  been 
but  five  minutes  in  the  waiting-room,  when  the  bell  announced 
the  arrival  of  the  train.  Soon  the  doors  leading  on  to  the 
platform  were  opened,  and  the  travelers  crowded  in.  The 
throng  beginning  to  thin  a  little,  the  comte  appeared,  followed 
by  a  servant,  who  carried  a  traveling  pelisse  lined  with  rare 
and  valuable  fur. 

The  Comte  de  Commarin  looked  a  good  ten  years  less  than 
his  age.  His  beard  and  hair,  yet  abundant,  were  scarcely  gray. 
He  was  tall  and  muscular,  held  himself  upright,  and  carried  his 
head  high.  His  appearance  was  noble,  his  movements  easy. 
His  regular  features  presented  a  study  to  the  physiognomist,  all 
expressing  easy,  careless  good  nature,  even  to  the  handsome, 
smiling  mouth;  but  in  his  eyes  flashed  the  fiercest  and  the  most 
arrogant  pride.  This  contrast  revealed  the  secret  of  his  char- 
acter. Imbued  quite  as  deeply  with  aristocratic  prejudice  as 
the  Marquise  d'Arlange,  he  had  progressed  with  his  century 
or  at  least  appeared  to  have  done  so.  As  fully  as  the  marquise, 
he  held  in  contempt  all  who  were  not  noble ;  but  his  disdain  ex- 
pressed itself  in  a  different  fashion.  The  marquise  proclaimed 
her  contempt  loudly  and  coarsely;  the  comte  had  kept  eyes  and 
ears  open  and  had  seen  and  heard  a  good  deal.  She  was  stupid, 
and  without  a  shade  of  common  sense.  He  was  witty  and  sen- 
sible, and  possessed  enlarged  views  of  life  and  politics.  She 
dreamed  of  the  return  of  the  absurd  traditions  of  a  former  age ; 
he  hoped  for  things  within  the  power  of  events  to  bring  forth. 
He  was  sincerely  persuaded  that  the  nobles  of  France  would 
yet  recover  slowly  and  silently,  but  surely,  all  their  lost  power, 
with  its  prestige  and  influence.  In  a  word,  the  comte  was  the 
flattered  portrait  of  his  class;  the  marquise  its  caricature.  It 
should  be  added  that  M.  de  Commarin  knew  how  to  divest  him- 
self of  his  crushing  urbanity  in  the  company  of  his  equals.  There 
he  recovered  his  true  character,  haughty,  self-sufficient,  and  in- 
tractable, enduring  contradiction  pretty  much  as  a  wild  horse  the 
application  of  the  spur.    In  his  own  house,  he  was  a  despot. 


758  THE    LEROUGE   AFFAIR 

Perceiving  his  father,  Albert  advanced  toward  him.  They 
shook  hands  and  embraced  with  an  air  as  ncble  as  ceremonious, 
and,  in  less  than  a  minute,  had  exchanged  all  the  news  that  had 
transpired  during  the  comte's  absence.  Then  only  did  M.  de 
Commarin  perceive  the  alteration  in  his  son's  face.  "You  are 
unwell,  vicomte,"  said  he. 

"Oh,  no,  sir,"  answered  Albert,  laconically. 

The  comte  uttered  "Ah  !"  accompanied  by  a  certain  move- 
ment of  the  head,  which,  with  him,  expressed  perfect  incre- 
dulity; then,  turning  to  his  servant,  he  gave  him  some  orders 
briefly.  "Now,"  resumed  he,  "let  us  go  quickly  to  the  house.  I 
am  in  haste  to  feel  at  home;  and  I  am  hungry,  having  had 
nothing  to-day  but  some  detestable  broth,  at  I  know  not  what 
way  station." 

M.  de  Commarin  had  returned  to  Paris  in  a  very  bad  temper, 
his  journey  to  Austria  had  not  brought  the  results  he  had  hoped 
for.  To  crown  his  dissatisfaction,  he  had  rested,  on  his  home- 
ward way,  at  the  chateau  of  an  old  friend,  with  whom  he  had 
had  so  violent  a  discussion  that  they  had  parted  without  shaking 
hands.  The  comte  was  hardly  seated  in  his  carriage  before  he 
entered  upon  the  subject  of  this  disagreement.  "I  have  quar- 
reled with  the  Due  de  Sairmeuse,"  said  he  to  his  son. 

"That  seems  to  me  to  happen  whenever  you  meet,"  answered 
Albert,  without  intending  any  raillery. 

"True,"  said  the  comte :  "but  this  is  serious.  I  passed  four 
days  at  his  country-seat,  in  a  state  of  inconceivable  exaspera- 
tion. He  has  entirely  forfeited  my  esteem.  Sairmeuse  has  sold 
his  estate  of  Gondresy,  one  of  the  finest  in  the  north  of  France. 
He  has  cut  down  the  timber,  and  put  up  to  auction  the  old 
chateau,  a  princely  dwelling,  which  is  to  be  converted  into  a 
sugar  refinery ;  all  this  for  the  purpose,  as  he  says,  of  raising 
money  to  increase  his  income  \" 

"And  was  that  the  cause  of  your  rupture?"  inquired  Albert, 
without  much  surprise. 

"Certainly  it  was!     Do  you  not  think  it  is  a  sufficient  one?" 

"But,  sir,  you  know  the  duke  has  a  large  family,  and  is  far 
from  rich." 

"What  of  that?  A  French  noble  who  sells  his  land  commits 
an  unworthy  act.    He  is  guilty  of  treason  against  his  order !" — 

"Oh,  sir,"  said  Albert,  deprecatingly. 

"I  said  treason !"  continued  the  comte.  "I  maintain  the  word. 
Remember  well,  vicomte,  power  has  been,  and  always  will  be, 


THE    LEROUGE   AFFAIR  759 

on  the  side  of  wealth,  especially  on  the  side  of  those  who  hold 
the  soil.  The  men  of  '93  well  understood  this  principle,  and 
acted  upon  it.  By  impoverishing  the  nobles,  they  destroyed 
their  prestige  more  effectually  than  by  abolishing  their  titles. 
A  prince  dismounted,  and  without  footmen,  is  no  more  than 
any  one  else." 

The  carriage  at  this  moment  stopped  in  the  courtyard  of  the 
De  Commarin  mansion,  after  having  described  that  perfect  half- 
circle,  the  glory  of  coachmen  who  preserve  the  old  tradition. 
The  comte  alighted  first,  and,  leaning  upon  his  son's  arm, 
ascended  the  steps  of  the  grand  entrance.  In  the  immense 
vestibule  nearly  all  the  servants,  dressed  in  rich  liveries,  stood 
in  a  line.  The  comte  gave  them  a  glance  in  passing,  as  an 
officer  might  his  soldiers  on  parade,  and  proceeded  to  his  apart- 
ment on  the  first  floor,  above  the  reception  rooms.  Never  was 
there  a  better  regulated  household  than  that  of  the  Comte  de 
Commarin.  He  possessed  in  a  high  degree  the  art,  more  rare 
than  is  generally  supposed,  of  commanding  an  army  of  servants. 
The  number  of  his  domestics  caused  him  neither  inconvenience 
nor  embarrassment.  They  were  necessary  to  him.  So  perfect  was 
the  organization  of  this  household  that  its  functions  were  per- 
formed like  those  of  a  machine :  without  noise,  variation,  or  effort. 

M.  de  Commarin  had  hardly  removed  the  traces  of  his  jour- 
ney, and  changed  his  dress,  when  his  butler  announced  that  the 
dinner  was  served.  He  went  down  at  once ;  and  father  and 
son  met  upon  the  threshold  of  the  dining-room.  This  was  a 
large  apartment,  with  a  very  high  ceiling,  as  were  all  the  rooms 
of  the  ground  floor,  and  was  most  magnificently  furnished.  The 
comte  was  not  only  a  great  eater,  but  was  vain  of  his  enormous 
appetite.  He  was  fond  of  recalling  the  names  of  great  men 
noted  for  their  capacity  of  stomach.  Charles  V  devoured  moun- 
tains of  viands.  Louis  XIV  swallowed  at  each  repast  as  much 
as  six  ordinary  men  would  eat  at  a  meal.  He  pretended  that 
one  can  almost  judge  of  men's  qualities  by  their  digestive  ca- 
pacities ;  he  compared  them  to  lamps,  whose  power  of  giving 
light  is  in  proportion  to  the  oil  they  consume.  During  the  first 
half-hour  the  comte  and  his  son  both  remained  silent.  M.  de 
Commarin  ate  conscientiously,  not  perceiving  or  not  caring  to 
notice  that  Albert  ate  nothing,  but  merely  sat  at  the  table  as  if 
to  countenance  him.  The  old  nobleman's  ill-humor  and  volu- 
bility returned  with  the  dessert,  apparently  increased  by  a 
Burgundy  of  which  he  was  particularly  fond,  and  of  which  he 


760  THE    LEROUGE   AFFAIR 

drank  freely.  He  was  partial,  moreover,  to  an  after-dinner 
argument,  professing  a  theory  that  moderate  discussion  is  a 
perfect  digestive.  A  letter  which  had  been  delivered  to  him 
on  his  arrival,  and  which  he  had  found  time  to  glance  over, 
gave  him  at  once  a  subject  and  a  point  of  departure.  "I  arrived 
home  but  an  hour  ago,"  said  he,  "and  I  have  already  received 
a  homily  from  Broisfresnay." 

"He  writes  a  great  deal,"  observed  Albert. 

"Too  much ;  he  consumes  himself  in  ink.  He  mentions  a  lot 
more  of  his  ridiculous  projects  and  vain  hopes;  and  he  men- 
tions a  dozen  names  of  men  of  his  own  stamp  who  are  his 
associates.  On  my  word  of  honor,  they  seem  to  have  lost  their 
senses !  They  talk  of  lifting  the  world,  only  they  want  a  lever 
and  something  to  rest  it  on.  It  makes  me  die  with  laughter !" 
For  ten  minutes  the  comte  continued  to  discharge  a  volley  of 
abuse  and  sarcasm  against  his  best  friends  without  seeming  to 
see  that  a  great  many  of  their  foibles  which  he  ridiculed  were 
also  a  little  his  own.  "If,"  continued  he  more  seriously — "if 
they  only  possessed  a  little  confidence  in  themselves,  if  they 
showed  the  least  audacity  !  But  no !  they  count  upon  others  to 
do  for  them  what  they  ought  to  do  for  themselves.  In  short, 
their  proceedings  are  a  series  of  confessions  of  helplessness,  of 
premature  declarations  of  failure." 

The  coffee  having  been  served,  the  comte  made  a  sign,  and 
the  servants  left  the  room. 

"No,"  continued  he ;  "I  see  but  one  hope  for  the  French  aris- 
tocracy, but  one  plank  of  salvation,  one  good  little  law,  estab- 
lishing the  right  of  primogeniture." 

"You  will  never  obtain  it." 

"You  think  not?  Would  you  then  oppose  such  a  measure, 
vicomte?"  Albert  knew  by  experience  what  dangerous  ground 
his  father  was  approaching,  and  remained  silent.  "Let  us  put 
it,  then,  that  I  dream  of  the  impossible !"  resumed  the  comte. 
"Then  let  the  nobles  do  their  duty.  Let  all  the  younger  sons 
and  the  daughters  of  our  great  families  forego  their  rights,  by 
giving  up  their  entire  patrimony  to  the  first-born  for  five  genera- 
tions, contenting  themselves  each  with  a  couple  of  thousand 
francs  a  year.  By  that  means  great  fortunes  can  be  recon- 
structed, and  families,  instead  of  being  divided  by  a  variety  of 
interests,  become  united  by  one  common  desire." 

"Unfortunately,"  objected  the  vicomte,  "the  time  is  not  favor- 
able to  such  devotedness." 


THE    LEROUGE   AFFAIR  761 

"I  know  it,  sir,"  replied  the  comte  quickly ;  "and  in  my  own 
house  I  have  the  proof  of  it.  I,  your  father,  have  conjured  you 
to  give  up  all  idea  of  marrying  the  granddaughter  of  that  old 
fool,  the  Marquise  d'Arlange.  And  all  to  no  purpose ;  for  I  have 
at  last  been  obliged  to  yield  to  your  wishes." 

"Father — "  Albert  commenced.  "It  is  well,"  interrupted  the 
comte.  "You  have  my  word ;  but  remember  my  prediction :  you 
will  strike  a  fatal  blow  at  our  house.  You  will  be  one  of  the 
largest  proprietors  in  France;  but  have  half  a  dozen  children, 
and  they  will  be  hardly  rich.  If  they  also  have  as  many,  vou 
will  probably  see  your  grandchildren  in  poverty !" 

"You  put  all  at  the  worst,  father." 

"Without  doubt :  it  is  the  only  means  of  pointing  out  the  dan- 
ger and  averting  the  evil.  You  talk  of  your  life's  happiness. 
What  is  that?  A  true  noble  thinks  of  his  name  above  all. 
Mademoiselle  d'Arlange  is  very  pretty  and  very  attractive,  but 
she  is  penniless.     I  had  found  an  heiress  for  you." 

"Whom  I  should  never  love !" 

"And  what  of  that?  She  would  have  brought  you  four  mil- 
lions in  her  apron — more  than  the  kings  of  to-day  give  their 
daughters.     Besides  which  she  had  great  expectations." 

The  discussion  upon  this  subject  would  have  been  intermin- 
able had  Albert  taken  an  active  share  in  it ;  but  his  thoughts 
were  far  away.  He  answered  from  time  to  time,  so  as  not  to 
appear  absolutely  dumb,  and  then  only  a  few  syllables.  This 
absence  of  opposition  was  more  irritating  to  the  comte  than  the 
most  obstinate  contradiction.  He,  therefore,  directed  his  ut- 
most efforts  to  excite  his  son  to  argue.  However  he  was  vainly 
prodigal  of  words  and  unsparing  in  unpleasant  allusions,  so 
that  at  last  he  fairly  lost  his  temper,  and,  on  receiving  a  laconic 
reply,  he  burst  forth :  "Upon  my  word,  the  butler's  son  would 
say  the  same  as  you  !  What  blood  have  you  in  your  veins  ? 
You  are  more  like  one  of  the  people  than  a  Vicomte  de 
Commarin !" 

There  are  certain  conditions  of  mind  in  which  the  least  con- 
versation jars  upon  the  nerves.  During  the  last  hour  Albert 
had  suffered  an  intolerable  punishment.  The  patience  with 
which  he  had  armed  himself  at  last  escaped  him.  "Well,  sir," 
he  answered,  "if  I  resemble  one  of  the  people,  there  are  perhaps 
good  reasons  for  it."  The  glance  with  which  the  vicomte  ac- 
companied his  speech  was  so  expressive  that  the  comte  experi- 
enced a  sudden  shock.     All  his  animation  forsook  him,  and  in 

6 — Vol.  Ill — Gab 


762  THE    LEROUGE   AFFAIR 

a  hesitating  voice  he  asked:  "What  is  that  you  say,  vicomte?" 
Albert  had  no  sooner  uttered  the  sentena  than  he  regretted 
his  precipitation,  but  he  had  gone  too  far  to  stop. 

"Sir,"  he  replied  with  some  embarrassment,  "I  have  to  ac- 
quaint you  with  some  important  matters.  My  honor,  yours,  the 
honor  of  our  house,  are  involved.  I  intended  postponing  this 
conversation  till  to-morrow,  not  desiring  to  trouble  you  on  the 
evening  of  your  return.  However,  as  you  wish  me  to  explain, 
I  will  do  so." 

The  comte  listened  with  ill-concealed  anxiety.  He  seemed 
to  have  divined  what  his  son  was  about  to  say,  and  was  terri- 
fied at  himself  for  having  divined  it.  "Believe  me,  sir,"  con- 
tinued Albert  slowly,  "whatever  may  have  been  your  acts,  my 
voice  will  never  be  raised  to  reproach  you.  Your  constant  kind- 
ness to  me — "  M.  de  Commarin  held  up  his  hand.  "A  truce 
to  preambles;  let  me  have  the  facts  without  phrases,"  said  he 
sternly. 

Albert  was  some  time  without  answering;  he  hesitated  how 
to  commence.  "Sir,"  said  he  at  length,  "during  your  absence 
I  have  read  all  your  correspondence  with  Madame  Gerdy. 
All!"  added  he,  emphasizing  the  word,  already  so  significant. 
The  comte,  as  though  stung  by  a  serpent,  started  up  with  such 
violence  that  he  overturned  his  chair.  "Not  another  word !" 
cried  he  in  a  terrible  voice.  "I  forbid  you  to  speak !"  But  he 
no  doubt  soon  felt  ashamed  of  his  violence,  for  he  quietly  raised 
his  chair,  and  resumed  in  a  tone  which  he  strove  to  render  light 
and  rallying:  "Who  will  hereafter  refuse  to  believe  in  presenti- 
ments? A  couple  of  hours  ago,  on  seeing  your  pale  face  at  the 
railway  station,  I  felt  that  you  had  learned  more  or  less  of  this 
affair.  I  was  sure  of  it."  There  was  a  long  silence.  With 
one  accord,  father  and  son  avoided  letting  their  eyes  meet,  lest 
they  might  encounter  glances  too  eloquent  to  bear  at  so  pain- 
ful a  moment.  "You  were  right,  sir,"  continued  the  comte, 
"our  honor  is  involved.  It  is  important  that  we  should  decide 
on  our  future  conduct  without  delay.  Will  you  follow  me  to 
my  room?"  He  rang  the  bell,  and  a  footman  appeared  almost 
immediately.  "Neither  the  vicomte  nor  I  am  at  home  to  any 
one,"  said  M.  de  Commarin,  "no  matter  whom." 


THE    LEROUGE   AFFAIR 


763 


'T'HE  revelation  which  had  just  taken  place  irritated  much 
■*•  more  than  it  surprised  the  Comte  de  Commarin.  For 
twenty  years  he  had  been  constantly  expecting  to  see  the  truth 
brought  to  light.  He  knew  that  there  can  be  no  secret  so  care- 
fully guarded  that  it  may  not  by  some  chance  escape ;  and  his 
had  been  known  to  four  people,  three  of  whom  were  still  liv- 
ing. He  had  not  forgotten  that  he  had  been  imprudent  enough 
to  trust  it  to  paper,  knowing  all  the  while  that  it  ought  never 
to  have  been  written.  How  was  it  that  he,  a  prudent  diplomat, 
a  statesman,  full  of  precaution,  had  been  so  foolish?  How  was 
it  that  he  had  allowed  this  fatal  correspondence  to  remain  in 
existence !  Why  had  he  not  destroyed,  at  no  matter  what  cost, 
these  overwhelming  proofs,  which  sooner  or  later  might  be 
used  against  him  ?  Such  imprudence  could  only  have  arisen 
from  an  absurd  passion,  blind  and  insensible,  even  to  madness. 
So  long  as  he  was  Valerie's  lover,  the  comte  never  thought  of 
asking  the  return  of  his  letters  from  his  beloved  accomplice. 
If  the  idea  had  occurred  to  him,  he  would  have  repelled  it  as 
an  insult  to  the  character  of  his  angel.  What  reason  could 
he  have  had  to  suspect  her  discretion?  None.  He  would 
have  been  much  more  likely  to  suppose  her  desirous  of  re- 
moving every  trace,  even  the  slightest,  of  what  had  taken 
place.  Was  it  not  her  son  who  had  received  the  benefits  of 
the  deed,  who  had  usurped  another's  name  and  fortune?  When 
eight  years  after,  believing  her  to  be  unfaithful,  the  comte  had 
put  an  end  to  the  connection  which  had  given  him  so  much 
happiness  he  thought  of  obtaining  possession  of  this  unhappy 
correspondence.  But  he  knew  not  how  to  do  so.  A  thousand 
reasons  prevented  him  moving  in  the  matter.  The  principal 
one  was  that  he  did  not  wish  to  see  this  woman  once  so  dearly 
loved.  He  did  not  feel  sufficiently  sure  either  of  his  anger  or 
of  his  firmness.  Could  he,  without  yielding,  resist  the  tearful 
pleading  of  those  eyes  which  had  so  long  held  complete  sway 
over  him  ?    To  look  again  upon  this  mistress  of  his  youth  would, 


764  THE   LEROUGE   AFFAIR 

he  feared,  result  in  his  forgiving  her ;  and  he  had  been  too 
cruelly  wounded  in  his  pride  and  in  his  aftection  to  admit  the 
idea  of  a  reconciliation.  On  the  other  hand,  to  obtain  the 
letters  through  a  third  party  was  entirely  out  of  the  question. 
He  abstained,  then,  from  all  action,  postponing  it  indefinitely. 
"I  will  go  to  her,"  said  he  to  himself;  "but  not  until  I  have 
so  torn  her  from  my  heart  that  she  will  have  become  indifferent 
to  me.  I  will  not  gratify  her  with  the  sight  of  my  grief."  So 
months  and  years  passed  on ;  and  finally  he  began  to  say  and 
believe  that  it  was  too  late.  And  for  now  more  than  twenty 
years  he  had  never  passed  a  day  without  cursing  his  inexcusable 
folly.  Never  had  he  been  able  to  forget  that  above  his  head  a 
danger  more  terrible  than  the  sword  of  Damocles  hung,  sus- 
pended by  a  thread,  which  the  slightest  accident  might  break. 
And  now  that  thread  had  broken.  Often,  when  considering 
the  possibility  of  such  a  catastrophe,  he  had  asked  himself  how 
he  should  avert  it?  He  had  formed  and  rejected  many  plans: 
he  had  deluded  himself,  like  all  men  of  imagination,  with  in- 
numerable chimerical  projects,  and  now  he  found  himself  quite 
unprepared. 

Albert  stood  respectfully,  while  his  father  sat  in  his  great 
armorial  chair,  just  beneath  the  large  frame  in  which  the 
genealogical  tree  of  the  illustrious  family  of  Rheteau  de  Com- 
marin  spread  its  luxuriant  branches.  The  old  gentleman  com- 
pletely concealed  the  cruel  apprehensions  which  oppressed  him. 
He  seemed  neither  irritated  nor  dejected ;  but  his  eyes  expressed 
a  haughtiness  more  than  usually  disdainful,  and  a  self-reliance 
full  of  contempt.  "Now,  vicomte,"  he  began  in  a  firm  voice, 
"explain  yourself.  I  need  say  nothing  to  you  of  the  position 
of  a  father,  obliged  to  blush  before  his  son;  you  understand 
it  and  will  feel  for  me.  Let  us  spare  each  other  and  try  to  be 
calm.  Tell  me  how  did  you  obtain  your  knowledge  of  this 
correspondence  ?" 

Albert  had  had  time  to  recover  himself  and  prepare  for  the 
present  struggle,  as  he  had  impatiently  waited  four  days  for 
this  interview.  The  difficulty  he  experienced  in  uttering  the 
first  words  had  now  given  place  to  a  dignified  and  proud  de- 
meanor. He  expressed  himself  clearly  and  forcibly,  without 
losing  himself  in  those  details  which  in  serious  matters  need- 
lessly defer  the  real  point  at  issue.  "Sir,"  he  replied,  "on 
Sunday  morning  a  young  man  called  here,  stating  that  he  had 
business  with  me  of  the   utmost  importance.     I   received  him. 


THE    LEROUGE   AFFAIR  765 

He  then  revealed  to  me  that  I,  alas!  am  only  your  natural  son, 
substituted,  through  your  affection,  for  the  legitimate  child 
borne  you  by  Madame  de  Commarin." 

"And  did  you  not  have  this  man  kicked  out  of  doors?"  ex- 
claimed the  comte. 

"No,  sir.  I  was  about  to  answer  him  very  sharply,  of  course; 
but,  presenting  me  with  a  packet  of  letters,  he  begged  me  to 
read  them  before  replying.'' 

"Ah !"  cried  M.  de  Commarin,  "you  should  have  thrown  them 
into  the  fire,  for  there  was  a  fire,  I  suppose?  You  held  them 
in  your  hands,  and  they  still  exist?    Why  was  I  not  there?" 

"Sir !"  said  Albert  reproachfully.  And,  recalling  the  position 
Noel  had  occupied  against  the  mantelpiece,  and  the  manner  in 
which  he  stood,  he  added :  "Even  if  the  thought  had  occurred 
to  me,  it  was  impracticable.  Besides,  at  the  first  glance.  I 
recognized  your  handwriting.  I,  therefore,  took  the  letters 
and  read  them." — "And  then?" — "And  then,  sir,  I  returned  the 
correspondence  to  the  young  man,  and  asked  for  a  delay  of 
eight  days ;  not  to  think  over  it  myself — there  was  no  need  of 
that — but  because  I  judged  an  interview  with  you  indispensable. 
Now,  therefore,  I  beseech  you,  tell  me  whether  this  substitution 
really  did  take  place." 

"Certainly  it  did,"  replied  the  comte  violently;  "yes,  certainly. 
You  know  that  it  did,  for  you  have  read  what  I  wrote  to  Ma- 
dame Gerdy,  your  mother."  Albert  had  foreseen,  had  expected 
this  reply ;  but  it  crushed  him  nevertheless.  There  are  misfor- 
tunes so  great  that  one  must  constantly  think  of  them  to  be- 
lieve in  their  existence.  This  flinching,  however,  lasted  but 
an  instant.  "Pardon  me,  sir,"  he  replied ;  "I  was  almost  con- 
vinced, but  I  had  not  received  a  formal  assurance  of  it.  All 
the  letters  that  I  read  spoke  distinctly  of  your  purpose,  detailed 
your  plan  minutely ;  but  not  one  pointed  to.  or  in  any  way  con- 
firmed, the  execution  of  your  project." 

The  comte  gazed  at  his  son  with  a  look  of  intense  surprise. 
He  recollected  distinctly  all  the  letters ;  and  he  could  remember 
that,  in  writing  to  Valerie,  he  had  over  and  over  again  rejoiced 
at  their  success,  thanking  her  for  having  acted  in  accordance 
with  his  wishes.  "You  did  not  go  to  the  end  of  them,  then, 
vicomte,"  he  said ;  "you  did  not  read  them  all  ?" 

"Every  line,  sir,  and  with  an  attention  that  you  may  well 
understand.  The  last  letter  shown  me  simply  announced  to 
Madame  Gerdy  the  arrival  of  Claudine  Lerouge,  the  nurse  who 


766  THE   LEROUGE   AFFAIR 

was  charged  with  accomplishing  the  substitution.    I  know  noth- 
ing beyond  that." 

"These  proofs  amount  to  nothing,"  muttered  the  comte.     "A 
man  may  form  a  plan,  cherish  it  for  a  long  time,  and  at  the 
last  moment  abandon  it;  it  often  happens  so."     He  reproached 
himself  for  having  answered  so  hastily.     Albert  had  had  only 
serious  suspicions,  and  he  had  changed  them  to  certainty.   What 
stupidity !     "There  can  be  no  possible  doubt,"  he  said  to  him- 
self; "Valerie  has  destroyed  the  most  conclusive  letters,  those 
which  appeared  to  her  the  most  dangerous,  those  I  wrote  after 
the  substitution.    But  why  has  she  preserved  these  others,  com- 
promising enough  in  themselves?  and  why,  after  having  pre- 
served them,  has  she  let  them  go  out  of  her  possession  ?"   With- 
out moving,   Albert  awaited  a  word  from  the  comte.     What 
would  it  be?    No  doubt  the  old  nobleman  was  at  that  moment 
deciding  what  he  should  do.    "Perhaps  she  is  dead !"  said  M.  de 
Commarin  aloud.     And  at  the  thought  that  Valerie  was  dead, 
without  his  having  again  seen  her,  he  started  painfully.     His 
heart,  after  more  than  twenty  years  of  voluntary  separation, 
still  suffered,  so  deeply  rooted  was  this  first  love  of  his  youth. 
He  had  cursed  her;  at  this  moment  he  pardoned  her.     True, 
she  had  deceived  him;  but  did  he   not  owe  to  her  the   only 
years  of  happiness  he  had  ever  known?     Had  she  not  formed 
all  the  poetry  of  his  youth?    Had  he  experienced,  since  leaving 
her,  one  single  hour  of  joy  or  forgetfulness  ?     In  his  present 
frame  of  mind,  his  heart  retained  only  happy  memories,  like 
a  vase  which,  once  filled  with  precious  perfumes,  retains  the 
odor  until  it  is  destroyed.    "Poor  woman!"  he  murmured.     He 
sighed  deeply.     Three  or  four  times  his  eyelids  trembled,  as  if 
a  tear  were  about  to  fall.     Albert  watched  him  with  anxious 
curiosity.    This  was  the  first  time  since  the  vicomte  had  grown 
to  man's  estate  that  he  had  surprised  in  his  father's  counte- 
nance  other   emotion   than   ambition   or   pride,   triumphant   or 
defeated. 

But  M.  de  Commarin  was  not  the  man  to  yield  long  to 
sentiment.  "You  have  not  told  me,  vicomte,"  he  said,  "who 
sent  you  that  messenger  of  misfortune." 

"He  came  in  person,  sir,  not  wishing,  he  told  me,  to  mix 
any  others  up  in  this  sad  affair.  The  young  man  was  no  other 
than  he  whose  place  I  have  occupied — your  legitimate  son,  M. 
Xoel  Gerdy  himself." 

"Yes,"  said  the  comte  in  a  low  tone,  "Noel,  that  is  his  name, 


THE    LEROUGE   AFFAIR  767 

I  remember."  And  then,  with  evident  hesitation,  he  added : 
"Did  he  speak  to  you  of  his — of  your  mother?" 

"Scarcely,  sir.  He  only  told  me  that  he  came  unknown  to 
her ;  that  he  had  accidentally  discovered  the  secret  which  he 
revealed  to  me." 

M.  de  Commarin  asked  nothing  further.  There  was  more 
for  him  to  learn.  He  remained  for  some  time  deep  in  thought. 
The  decisive  moment  had  come,  and  he  saw  but  one  way  to 
escape.  "Come,  vicomte,"  he  said  in  a  tone  so  affectionate  that 
Albert  was  astonished,  "do  not  stand ;  sit  down  here  by  me, 
and  let  us  discuss  this  matter.  Let  us  unite  our  efforts  to  shun, 
if  possible,  this  great  misfortune.  Confide  in  me,  as  a  son  should 
in  his  father.  Have  you  thought  of  what  is  to  be  done  ?  have 
you  formed  any  determination?" 

"It  seems  to  me,  sir,  that  hesitation  is  impossible." 

"In  what  way  ?" 

"My  duty,  father,  is  very  plain.  Before  your  legitimate  son, 
I  ought  to  give  way  without  a  murmur,  if  not  without  regret. 
Let  him  come.  I  am  ready  to  yield  to  him  everything  that  I 
have  so  long  kept  from  him  without  a  suspicion  of  the  truth — 
his  father's  love,  his  fortune,  and  his  name." 

At  this  most  praiseworthy  reply  the  old  nobleman  could 
scarcely  preserve  the  calmness  he  had  recommended  to  his 
son  in  the  earlier  part  of  the  interview.  His  face  grew  pur- 
ple, and  he  struck  the  table  with  his  fist  more  furiously  than 
he  had  ever  done  in  his  life.  He,  usually  so  guarded,  so 
decorous  on  all  occasions,  uttered  a  volley  of  oaths  that  would 
not  have  done  discredit  to  an  old  cavalry  officer.  "And  I  tell 
you,  sir,  that  this  dream  of  yours  shall  never  take  place.  No; 
that  it  shan't.  I  swear  it.  I  promise  you,  whatever  happens, 
understand,  that  things  shall  remain  as  they  are ;  because  it  is 
my  will.  You  are  Vicomte  de  Commarin,  and  Vicomte  de  Com- 
marin you  shall  remain,  in  spite  of  yourself,  if  necessary.  You 
shall  retain  the  title  to  your  death,  or  at  least  to  mine ;  for 
never,  while  I  live,  shall  your  absurd  idea  be  carried  out." 

"But,  sir,"  began  Albert  timidly. 

"You  are  very  daring  to  interrupt  me  while  I  am  speaking, 
sir,"  exclaimed  the  comte.  "Do  I  not  know  all  your  objections 
beforehand?  You  are  going  to  tell  me  that  it  is  a  revolting 
injustice,  a  wicked  robbery.  I  confess  it,  and  grieve  over  it 
more  than  you  possibly  can.  Do  you  think  that  I  now  for  the 
first  time  repent  of  my  youthful  folly?     For  twenty  years,  sir, 


768  THE    LEROUGE   AFFAIR 

I  have  lamented  my  true  son;  for  twenty  years  I  have  cursed 
the  wickedness  of  which  he  is  the  victim.     And  yet  I  learned 
how  to  keep  silence,  and  to  hide  the  sorrow  and  remorse  which 
have  covered  my  pillow  with  thorns.     In  a  single  instant  your 
senseless  yielding  would  render  my  long  sufferings  of  no  avail. 
No,  I  will  never  permit  it!"     The  comte  read  a  reply  on  his 
son's  lips:  he  stopped  him  with  a  withering  glance.     "Do  you 
think,"  he  continued,  "that  I  have  never  wept  over  the  thought 
of  my  legitimate  son   passing  his   life   struggling  for  a  com- 
petence?   Do  you  think  that  I  have  never  felt  a  burning  desire 
to  repair  the  wrong  done  him?     There  have  been  times,  sir, 
when  I  would  have  given  half  of  my  fortune  simply  to  embrace 
that  child  of  a  wife  too  tardily  appreciated.    The  fear  of  cast- 
ing a   shadow  of  suspicion  upon  your  birth  prevented  me.     I 
have  sacrificed  myself  to  the  great  name  I  bear.     I  received  it 
from  my  ancestors  without  a  stain.     May  you  hand  it  down  to 
your  children  equally  spotless  !    Your  first  impulse  was  a  worthy 
one,  generous  and  noble;   but  you  must  forget  it.     Think  of 
the  scandal  if  our  secret  should  be  disclosed  to  the  public  gaze. 
Can  you  not  foresee  the  joy  of  our  enemies,  of  that  herd  of 
upstarts  which  surround  us?    I  shudder  at  the  thought  of  the 
odium  and  the  ridicule  which  would  cling  to  our  name.     Too 
many   families  already  have  stains  upon  their  escutcheons;  I 
will  have  none  on  mine."    M.  de  Commarin  remained  silent  for 
several  minutes,  during  which  Albert  did  not  dare  say  a  word, 
so  much  had  he  been  accustomed  since  infancy  to  respect  the 
least  wish  of  the  terrible  old  gentleman.     "There  is  no  possible 
way  out  of  it,"  continued  the  comte.     "Can  I  discard  you  to- 
morrow and  present  this  Noel  as  my  son,  saying,  'Excuse  me, 
but  there  has  been  a  slight  mistake ;  this  one  is  the  vicomte  ?' 
And  then  the  tribunals  will  get  hold  of  it.    What  does  it  mat- 
ter who  is  named  Benoit,  Durand,  or  Bernard?     But  when  one 
is  called  Commarin,  even  but  for  a  single  day,  one  must  retain 
that   name   through    life.     The   same   moral   does   not   do    for 
ever)'  one ;  because  we  have  not  the  same  duties  to  perform. 
In  our  position  errors  are  irreparable.    Take  courage,  then,  and 
show  yourself  worthy  of  the  name  you  bear.    The  storm  is  upon 
you ;  raise  your  head  to  meet  it."  Albert's  impassibility  contributed 
not  a  little  to  increase  M.  de  Commarin's  irritation.    Firm  in  an 
unchangeable  resolution,  the  vicomte  listened  like  one  fulfilling 
a  duty:  and  his  face  reflected  no  emotion.    The  comte  saw  that 
he  was  not  shaken.     "What  have  you  to  reply?"  he  asked. 


THE    LEROUGE   AFFAIR  769 

"It  seems  to  me,  sir,  that  you  have  no  idea  of  all  the  dangers 
which  I  foresee.  It  is  difficult  to  master  the  revolts  of  con- 
science." 

"Indeed !"  interrupted  the  comte  contemptuously ;  "your  con- 
science revolts,  does  it?  It  has  chosen  its  time  badly.  Your 
scruples  come  too  late.  So  long  as  you  saw  that  your  inheritance 
consisted  of  an  illustrious  title  and  a  dozen  or  so  of  millions, 
it  pleased  you.  To-day  the  name  appears  to  you  laden  with  a 
heavy  fault,  a  crime,  if  you  will ;  and  your  conscience  revolts. 
Renounce  this  folly.  Children,  sir,  are  accountable  to  their 
fathers ;  and  they  should  obey  them.  Willing  or  unwilling, 
you  must  be  my  accomplice ;  willing  or  unwilling,  you  must 
bear  the  burden  as  I  have  borne  it.  And,  however  much  you 
may  suffer,  be  assured  your  sufferings  can  never  approach  what 
I  have  endured  for  so  many  years." 

"Ah,  sir!"  cried  Albert,  "it  is  then  I,  the  dispossessor,  who 
has  made  this  trouble?  is  it  not,  on  the  contrary,  the  dis- 
possessed !  It  is  not  I  whom  you  have  to  convince,  it  is  M. 
Neol  Gerdy." 

"Noel !"  repeated  the  comte. 

"Your  legitimate  son,  yes,  sir.  You  act  as  if  the  issue  of 
this  unhappy  affair  depended  solely  upon  my  will.  Do  you 
then,  imagine  that  M.  Gerdy  will  be  so  easily  disposed  of,  so 
easily  silenced?  And.  if  he  should  raise  his  voice,  do  you  hope 
to  move  him  by  the  considerations  you  have  just  mentioned?" 

"I  do  not  fear  him." 

"Then  you  are  wrong,  sir,  permit  me  to  tell  you.  Suppose 
for  a  moment  that  this  young  man  has  a  soul  sufficiently  noble 
to  relinquish  his  claim  upon  your  rank  and  your  fortune.  Is 
there  not  the  accumulated  rancor  of  years  to  urge  him  to 
oppose  you?  He  can  not  help  feeling  a  fierce  resentment  for 
the  horrible  injustice  of  which  he  has  been  the  victim.  He 
must  passionately  long  for  vengeance,  or  rather  reparation." 

"He  has  no  proofs." 

"He  has  your  letters,  sir." 

"They  are  not  decisive,  you  yourself  have  told  me  so." 

"That  is  true,  sir;  and  yet  they  convinced  me,  who  have  an 
interest  in  not  being  convinced.  Besides,  if  he  needs  witnesses, 
he  will  find  them." 

"Who?     Yourself,  vicomte?" 

"Yourself,  sir.  The  day  when  he  wishes  it,  you  will  betray 
us.     Suppose  you  were  summoned  before  a  tribunal,  and  that 


770  THE    LEROUGE   AFFAIR 

there,  under  oath,  you  should  be  required  to  speak  the  truth, 
what  answer  would  you  make?"  M.  de  Commarin's  face  dark- 
ened at  this  very  natural  supposition.  He  hesitated,  he  whose 
honor  was  usually  so  great.  "I  would  save  the  name  of  my 
ancestors,"  he  said  at  last.  Albert  shook  his  head  doubtfully. 
"At  the  price  of  a  lie,  my  father,"  he  said.  "I  never  will 
believe  it.  But  let  us  suppose  even  that.  He  will  then  call 
Madame   Gerdy." 

"Oh,  I  will  answer  for  her !"  cried  the  comte,  "her  interests 
are  the  same  as  ours.  If  necessary,  I  will  see  her.  Yes,"  he 
added  with  an  effort,  "I  will  call  on  her,  I  will  speak  to  her; 
and  I  will  guarantee  that  she  will  not  betray  us." 

"And  Claudine,"  continued  the  young  man;  "will  she  be 
silent,  too?" 

"For  money,  yes;  and  I  will  give  her  whatever  she  asks." 

"And  you  would  trust,  father,  to  a  paid  silence,  as  if  one 
could  ever  be  sure  of  a  purchased  conscience?  What  is  sold 
to  you  may  be  sold  to  another.  A  certain  sum  may  close 
her  mouth ;  a  larger  will  open  it." 

"I  will  frighten  her." 

"You  forget,  father,  that  Claudine  Lerouge  was  Noel  Gerdy's 
nurse,  that  she  takes  an  interest  in  his  happiness,  that  she  loves 
him.  How  do  you  know  that  he  has  not  already  secured  her 
aid?  She  lives  at  Bougival.  I  went  there,  I  remember,  with 
you.  No  doubt,  he  sees  her  often;  perhaps  it  is  she  who  put 
him  on  the  track  of  this  correspondence.  He  spoke  to  me 
of  her,  as  though  he  were  sure  of  her  testimony.  He  almost 
proposed  my  going  to  her  for  information." 

"Alas!"  cried  the  comte,  "why  is  not  Claudine  dead  instead 
of  my  faithful   Germain?" 

"You  see,  sir,"  concluded  Albert,  "Claudine  Lerouge  would 
alone  render  all  your  efforts  useless." 

"Ah,  no!"  cried  the  comte,  "I  shall  find  some  expedient." 
The  obstinate  old  gentleman  was  not  willing  to  give  in  to  this 
argument,  the  very  clearness  of  which  blinded  him.  The  pride 
of  his  blood  paralyzed  his  usual  practical  good  sense.  To 
acknowledge  that  he  was  conquered  humiliated  him,  and  seemed 
to  him  unworthy  of  himself.  He  did  not  remember  to  have 
met  during  his  long  career  an  invincible  resistance  or  an 
absolute  impediment.  He  was  like  all  men  of  imagination, 
who  fall  in  love  with  their  projects,  and  who  expect  them  to 
succeed  on  all  occasions,  as  if  wishing  hard  was  all  that  was 


THE    LEROUGE   AFFAIR  771 

necessary  to  change  their  dreams  into  realities.  Albert  this 
time  broke  the  silence,  which  threatened  to  be  prolonged.  "I 
see,  sir,"  he  said,  "that  you  fear,  above  all  things,  the  pub- 
licity of  this  sad  history;  the  possible  scandal  renders  you 
desperate.  But,  unless  we  yield,  the  scandal  will  be  terrible. 
There  will  be  a  trial  which  will  be  the  talk  of  all  Europe.  The 
newspapers  will  print  the  facts,  accompanied  by  heavens  knows 
what  comments  of  their  own.  Our  name,  however  the  trial 
results,  will  appear  in  all  the  papers  of  the  world.  This  might 
be  borne,  if  we  were  sure  of  succeeding ;  but  we  are  bound  to 
lose,  my  father,  we  shall  lose.  Then  think  of  the  exposure ! 
think  of  the  dishonor  branded  upon  us  by  public  opinion." 

"I  think,"  said  the  comte,  "that  you  can  have  neither  respect 
nor  affection  for  me,  when  you  speak  in  that  way." 

"It  is  my  duty,  sir,  to  point  out  to  you  the  evils  I  see  threat- 
ening, and  which  there  is  yet  time  to  shun.  M.  Noel  Gerdy  is 
your  legitimate  son,  recognize  him,  acknowledge  his  just  pre- 
tensions, and  receive  him.  We  can  make  the  change  very 
quietly.  It  is  easy  to  account  for  it,  through  a  mistake  of  the 
nurse,  Claudine  Lerouge,  for  instance.  All  parties  being 
agreeable,  there  can  be  no  trouble  about  it.  What  is  to  pre- 
vent the  new  Vicomte  de  Commarin  from  quitting  Paris,  and 
disappearing  for  a  time?  He  might  travel  about  Europe  for 
four  or  five  years ;  by  the  end  of  that  time,  all  will  be  forgotten, 
and  no  one  will  remember  me." 

M.  de  Commarin  was  not  listening;  he  was  deep  in  thought. 
"But  instead  of  contesting,  vicomte,"  he  cried,  "we  might 
compromise.  We  may  be  able  to  purchase  these  letters.  What 
does  this  young  fellow  want?  A  position  and  a  fortune?  I 
will  give  him  both.  I  will  make  him  as  rich  as  he  can  wish.  I 
will  give  him  a  million ;  if  need  be,  two,  three — half  of  all 
I  possess.    With  money,  you  see,  much  money — " 

"Spare  him,  sir;  he  is  your  son." 

"Unfortunately !  and  I  wish  him  to  the  devil !  I  will  see 
him,  and  he  will  agree  to  what  I  wish..  I  will  prove  to  him 
the  bad  policy  of  the  earthen  pot  struggling  with  the  iron 
kettle;  and,  if  he  is  not  a  fool,  he  will  understand.  The 
comte  rubbed  his  hands  while  speaking.  He  was  delighted 
with  this  brilliant  plan  of  negotiation.  It  could  not  fail  to 
result  favorably  A  crowd  of  arguments  occurred  to  his  mind 
in  support  of  it.  He  would  buy  back  again  his  lost  rest. 
But  Albert  did  not  seem  to  share  his  father's  hopes.     "You 


772  THE   LEROUGE   AFFAIR 

will  perhaps  think  it  unkind  in  me,  sir,"  said  he,  sadly,  "to 
dispel  this  last  illusion  of  yours;  but  I  mast.  Do  not  delude 
yourself  with  the  idea  of  an  amicable  arrangement ;  the  awaken- 
ing will  only  be  the  more  painful.  I  have  seen  M.  Gerdy, 
my  father,  and  he  is  not  one,  I  assure  you,  to  be  intimidated. 
If  there  is  an  energetic  will  in  the  world,  it  is  his.  He  is  truly 
your  son;  and  his  expression,  like  yours,  shows  an  iron  reso- 
lution, that  may  be  broken  but  never  bent.  I  can  still  hear 
his  voice  trembling  with  resentment,  while  he  spoke  to  me. 
I  can  still  see  the  dark  fire  of  his  eyes.  No,  he  will  never 
accept  a  compromise.  He  will  have  all  or  nothing;  and  I  can 
not  say  that  he  is  wrong.  If  you  resist,  he  will  attack  you 
without  the  slightest  consideration.  Strong  in  his  rights,  he 
will  cling  to  you  with  stubborn  animosity.  He  will  drag 
you  from  court  to  court ;  he  will  not  stop  short  of  utter  defeat 
or  complete  triumph."  Accustomed  to  absolute  obedience  from 
his  son,  the  old  nobleman  was  astounded  at  this  unexpected 
obstinacy.     "What  is  your  object  in  saying  all  this?"  he  asked. 

"It  is  this,  sir.  I  should  utterly  despise  myself,  if  I  did 
not  spare  your  old  age  this  greatest  of  calamities.  Your  name 
does  not  belong  to  me;  I  will  take  my  own.  I  am  your  natural 
son ;  I  will  give  up  my  place  to  your  legitimate  son.  Permit 
me  to  withdraw  with  at  least  the  honor  of  having  freely  done 
my  duty.  Do  not  force  me  to  wait  till  I  am  driven  out  in  dis- 
grace." 

"What !"  cried  the  comte,  stunned,  "you  will  abandon  me  ? 
You  refuse  to  help  me,  you  turn  against  me,  you  recognize  the 
rights  of  this  man  in  spite  of  my  wishes?" 

Albert  bowed  his  head.  He  was  much  moved,  but  still  re- 
mained firm.  "My  resolution  is  irrevocably  taken,"  he  replied. 
"I  can  never  consent  to  dispoil  your  son." 

"Cruel,  ungrateful  boy!"  cried  M.  de  Commarin.  His  wrath 
was  such,  that,  when  he  found  he  could  do  nothing  by  abuse, 
he  passed  at  once  to  jeering.  "But  no,"  he  continued,  "you 
are  great,  you  are  noble,  you  are  generous ;  you  are  acting  after 
the  most  approved  pattern  of  chivalry,  vicomte,  I  should  say, 
my  dear  M.  Gerdy ;  after  the  fashion  of  Plutarch's  time !  So 
vou  give  up  my  name  and  my  fortune,  and  you  leave  me.  You 
will  shake  the  dust  from  your  shoes  upon  the  threshold  of  my 
house,  and  you  will  go  out  into  the  world.  I  see  only  one 
difficulty  in  your  way.  How  do  you  expect  to  live,  my  stoic 
philosopher  ?    Have  you  a  trade  at  your  fingers'  ends,  like  Jean 


THE    LEROUGE   AFFAIR  773 

Jacques  Rousseau's  Emile?  Or,  worthy  M.  Gerdy,  have  you 
learned  economy  from  the  four  thousand  francs  a  month  I 
allow  you  for  waxing  your  mustache  ?  Perhaps  you  have  made 
money  on  the  Bourse !  Then  my  name  must  have  seemed 
very  burdensome  to  you  to  bear,  since  you  so  eagerly  introduced 
it  into  such  a  place !  Has  dirt,  then,  so  great  an  attraction  for 
you  that  you  must  jump  from  your  carriage  so  quickly?  Say, 
rather,  that  the  company  of  my  friends  embarrasses  you,  and 
that  you  are  anxious  to  go  where  you  will  be  among  your  own 
equals." 

"I  am  very  wretched,  sir,"  replied  Albert  to  this  avalanche 
of  insults,  "and  you  would  crush  me  !" 

"You  wretched?  Well,  whose  fault  is  it?  But  let  us  get 
back  to  my  question.    How  and  on  what  will  you  live?" 

"I  am  not  so  romantic  as  you  are  pleased  to  say.  sir.  I 
must  confess  that,  as  regards  the  future.  I  have  counted 
upon  your  kindness.  You  are  so  rich,  that  five  hundred  thou- 
sand francs  would  not  materially  affect  your  fortune;  and, 
on  the  interest  of  that  sum,  I  could  live  quietly,  if  not  happily." 

"And   suppose    I    refuse  you   this   money?" 

"I  know  you  well  enough,  sir,  to  feel  sure  that  you  will 
not  do  so.  You  are  too  just  to  wish  that  I  alone  should  expiate 
wrongs  that  are  not  of  my  making.  Left  to  myself,  I  should 
at  my  present  age  have  achieved  a  position.  It  is  late  for  me 
to  try  and  make  one  now ;  but  I  will  do  my  best." 

"Superb!"  interrupted  the  comte;  "you  are  really  superb! 
One  never  heard  of  such  a  hero  of  romance.  What  a  character ! 
But  tell  me,  what  do  you  expect  from  all  this  astonishing  dis- 
interestedness ?" — "Nothing,   sir." 

The  comte  shrugged  his  shoulders,  looked  sarcastically  at  his 
son,  and  observed:  "The  compensation  is  very  slight.  And 
you  expect  me  to  believe  all  this !  No,  sir,  mankind  is  not 
in  the  habit  of  indulging  in  such  fine  actions  for  its  pleasure 
alone.  You  must  have  some  reason  for  acting  so  grandly: 
some  reason  which  I  fail  to  see." — "None  but  what  I  have 
already  told  you." 

"Therefore  it  is  understood  you  intend  to  relinquish  every- 
thing: you  will  even  abandon  your  proposed  union  with  Ma- 
demoiselle Claire  d'Arlange?  You  forget  that  for  two  years 
I  have  in  vain  constantly  expressed  my  disappointment  of 
this  marriage." 

"No,  sir.    I  have  seen  Mademoiselle  Claire;  I  have  explained 


774  THE    LEROUGE   AFFAIR 

my  unhappy  position  to  her.    Whatever  happens,  she  has  sworn 
to  be  my  wife." 

"And  do  you  think  that  Madame  d'Arlange  will  give  her 
granddaughter  to  M.  Gerdy?" 

"We  hope  so,  sir.  The  marquise  is  sufficiently  infected  with 
aristocratic  ideas  to  prefer  a  nobleman's  bastard  to  the  son  of 
some  honest  tradesman;  but  should  she  refuse,  we  would  await 
her  death,  though  without  desiring  it."  The  calm  manner  in 
which  Albert  said  this  enraged  the  comte.  "Can  this  be  my 
son?"  he  cried.  "Never!  What  blood  have  you  then  in  your 
veins,  sir?  Your  worthy  mother  alone  might  tell  us,  provided, 
however,  she  herself  knows." 

"Sir,"  cried  Albert  menacingly,  "think  well  before  you  speak! 
She  is  my  mother,  and  that  is  sufficient.  I  am  her  son,  not  her 
judge.  No  one  shall  insult  her  in  my  presence,  I  will  not  per- 
mit it,  sir;  and  I  will  suffer  it  least  of  all  from  you." 

The  comte  made  great  efforts  to  keep  his  anger  within  bounds ; 
but  Albert's  behavior  thoroughly  enraged  him.  What,  his  son 
rebelled,  he  dared  to  brave  him  to  his  face,  he  threatened  him ! 
The  old  fellow  jumped  from  his  chair,  and  moved  toward  the 
young  man  as  if  he  would  strike  him.  "Leave  the  room,"  he 
cried,  in  a  voice  choking  with  rage,  "leave  the  room  instantly ! 
Retire  to  your  apartments,  and  take  care  not  to  leave  them 
without  my  orders.  To-morrow  I  will  let  you  know  my  de- 
cision." Albert  bowed  respectfully,  but  without  lowering  his 
eyes,  and  walked  slowly  to  the  door.  He  had  already  opened 
it,  when  M.  de  Commarin  experienced  one  of  those  revulsions 
of  feeling  so  frequent  in  violent  natures.  "Albert,"  said  he, 
"come  here  and  listen  to  me."  The  young  man  turned  back, 
much  affected  by  this  change.  "Do  not  go,"  continued  the 
comte,  "until  I  have  told  you  what  I  think.  You  are  worthy 
of  being  the  heir  of  a  great  house,  sir.  I  may  be  angry  with 
you ;  but  I  can  never  lose  my  esteem  for  you.  You  are  a  noble 
man,  Albert.    Give  me  your  hand." 

It  was  a  happy  moment  for  these  two  men,  and  such  a  one 
as  they  had  scarcely  ever  experienced  in  their  lives,  restrained 
as  they  had  been  by  cold  etiquette.  The  comte  felt  proud  of  his 
son,  and  recognized  in  him  himself  at  that  age.  For  a  long 
time  their  hands  remained  clasped,  without  either  being  able 
to  utter  a  word.  At  last,  M.  de  Commarin  resumed  his  seat. 
"I  must  ask  you  to  leave  me,  Albert,"  he  said  kindly.  "I  must 
be  alone  to  reflect,  to  try  and  accustom  myself  to  this  terrible 


THE    LEROUGE   AFFAIR  775 

blow."  And,  as  the  young  man  closed  the  door,  he  added,  as 
if  giving  vent  to  his  inmost  thoughts:  "If  he,  in  whom  I  have 
placed  all  my  hope,  deserts  me,  what  will  become  of  me?  And 
what  will  the  other  one  be  like?" 

On  leaving  M.  de  Commarin,  and  while  slowly  mounting  the 
stairs  which  led  to  his  apartments,  Albert's  thoughts  reverted 
to  Claire.  What  was  she  doing  at  that  moment?  Thinking  of 
him  no  doubt.  She  knew  that  the  crisis  would  come  that  very 
evening,  or  the  next  day  at  the  latest.  She  was  probably 
praying.  Albert  was  thoroughly  exhausted ;  his  head  felt  dizzy, 
and  seemed  ready  to  burst.  He  rang  for  his  servant,  and 
ordered  some  tea.  "You  do  wrong  in  not  sending  for  the  doc- 
tor, sir,"  said  Lubin,  his  valet.  "I  ought  to  disobey  you,  and 
send  for  him  myself." — "It  would  be  useless,"  replied  Albert 
sadly ;  "he  could  do  nothing  for  me."  As  the  valet  was  leaving 
the  room,  he  added :  "Say  nothing  about  my  being  unwell  to 
any  one,  Lubin ;  it  is  nothing  at  all.  If  I  should  feel  worse,  I 
will  ring." 

At  that  moment,  to  see  any  one,  to  hear  a  voice,  to  have  to 
reply,  was  more  than  he  could  bear.  He  longed  to  be  left 
entirely  to  himself.  After  the  painful  emotions  arising  from 
his  explanations  with  the  comte,  he  could  not  sleep.  He  opened 
one  of  the  library  windows,  and  looked  out.  It  was  a  beautiful 
night :  and  there  was  a  lovely  moon.  Seen  at  this  hour,  by  the 
mild,  tremulous  evening  light,  the  gardens  attached  to  the  man- 
sion seemed  twice  their  usual  size.  The  moving  tops  of  the 
great  trees  stretched  away  like  an  immense  plain,  hiding  the 
neighboring  houses ;  the  flower-beds,  set  off  by  the  green  shrubs, 
looked  like  great  black  patches,  while  particles  of  shell,  tiny 
pieces  of  glass,  and  shining  pebbles  sparkled  in  the  carefully 
kept  walks.  The  horses  stamped  in  the  stable :  and  the  rattling 
of  their  halter  chains  against  the  bars  of  the  manger  could  be 
distinctly  heard.  In  the  coach-house  the  men  were  putting 
away  for  the  night  the  carriage,  always  kept  ready  throughout 
the  evening,  in  case  the  comte  should  wish  to  go  out.  Albert 
was  reminded  by  these  surroundings  of  the  magnificence  of  his 
past  life.  He  sighed  deeply.  "Must  I,  then,  lose  all  this?" 
he  murmured.  "I  can  scarcely,  even  for  myself,  abandon  so 
much  splendor  without  regret;  and  thinking  of  Claire  makes 
it  hard  indeed.  Have  I  not  dreamed  of  a  life  of  exceptional 
happiness  for  her,  a  result  almost  impossible  to  realize  without 
wealth?"     Midnight  sounded  from  the  neighboring  church  of 


776  THE    LEROUGE   AFFAIR 

St.  Clotilde,  and  as  the  night  was  chilly,  he  closed  the  window, 
and  sat  down  near  the  fire,  which  he  stir.ed.  In  the  hope  of 
obtaining  a  respite  from  his  thoughts,  he  took  up  the  evening 
paper,  in  which  was  an  account  of  the  assassination  at  La 
Jonchere ;  but  he  found  it  impossible  to  read :  the  lines  danced 
before  his  eyes.  Then  he  thought  of  writing  to  Claire.  He 
sat  down  at  his  desk,  and  wrote:  "My  dearly  loved  Claire,"  but 
he  could  go  no  further;  his  distracted  brain  could  not  furnish 
him  with  a  single  sentence.  At  last,  at  break  of  day,  he  threw 
himself  on  to  a  sofa,  and  fell  into  a  heavy  sleep. 

At  half-past  nine  in  the  morning,  he  was  suddenly  awakened 
by  the  noise  of  the  door  being  hastily  opened.  A  servant  en- 
tered, with  a  scared  look  on  his  face,  and  so  out  of  breath  from 
having  come  up  the  stairs  four  at  a  time  that  he  could  scarcely 
speak.  "Sir,"  said  he,  "vicomte,  be  quick,  fly  and  hide,  save 
yourself,  they  are  here,  it  is  the — " 

A  commissary  of  police,  wearing  his  sash,  appeared  at  the 
door.  He  was  followed  by  a  number  of  men,  among  whom  M. 
Tabaret  could  be  seen,  keeping  as  much  out  of  sight  as  possible. 
The  commissary  approached  Albert.  "You  are,"  he  asked,  "Guy 
Louis  Marie  Albert  de  Rheteau  de  Commarin?" — "Yes,  sir." — 
The  commissary  placed  his  hand  upon  him  while  pronouncing 
the  usual  formula :  "M.  de  Commarin,  in  the  name  of  the  law, 
I  arrest  you." 

"Me,  sir?  me?"  Albert,  aroused  suddenly  from  his  painful 
dreams,  seemed  hardly  to  comprehend  what  was  taking  place. 
He  seemed  to  ask  himself:  "Am  I  really  awake?  Is  not  this 
some  hideous  nightmare?"  He  threw  a  stupid,  astonished  look 
upon  the  commissary  of  police,  his  men,  and  M.  Tabaret,  who 
had  not  taken  his  eyes  off  him. 

"Here  is  the  warrant,"  added  the  commissary,  unfolding  the 
paper.  Mechanically  Albert  glanced  over  it.  "Claudine  assassi- 
nated !"  he  cried.  Then  very  low,  but  distinct  enough  to  be 
heard  by  the  commissary,  by  one  of  his  officers,  and  by  old 
Tabaret,  he  added:  "I  am  lost!" 

While  the  commissary  was  making  inquiries,  which  imme- 
diately follow  all  arrests,  the  police  officers  spread  through  the 
apartments,  and  proceeded  to  a  searching  examination  of  them. 
They  had  received  orders  to  obey  M.  Tabaret,  and  the  old  fel- 
low guided  them  in  their  search,  made  them  ransack  drawers 
and  closets,  and  move  the  furniture  to  look  underneath  or  be- 
hind.   They  seized  a  number  of  articles  belonging  to  the  vicomte 


THE    LEROUGE   AFFAIR  777 

—documents,  manuscripts,  and  a  very  voluminous  correspond- 
ence; but  it  was  with  especial  delight  that  M.  Tabaret  put  his 
hands  on  certain  articles,  which  were  carefully  described  in 
their  proper  order  in  the  official  report:  I.  In  the  anteroom, 
hung  with  all  sorts  of  weapons,  a  broken  foil  was  found  behind 
a  sofa.  This  foil  has  a  peculiar  handle,  and  is  unlike  those 
commonly  sold.  It  is  ornamented  with  the  comte's  coronet,  and 
the  initials  A.  C.  It  has  been  broken  at  about  the  middle ;  and 
the  end  can  not  be  found.  When  questioned,  the  vicomte  de- 
clared that  he  did  not  know  what  had  become  of  the  missing 
end.  2.  In  the  dressing-room,  a  pair  of  black  cloth  trousers 
was  discovered,  still  damp,  and  bearing  stains  of  mud  or  rather 
of  mold.  All  one  side  is  smeared  with  greenish  moss,  like 
that  which  grows  on  walls.  On  the  front  are  numerous  rents ; 
and  one  near  the  knee  is  about  four  inches  long.  These  trousers 
had  not  been  hung  up  with  the  other  clothes ;  but  appear  to  have 
been  hidden  between  two  large  trunks  full  of  clothing.  3.  In 
the  pocket  of  the  above-mentioned  trousers  was  found  a  pair 
of  lavender  kid  gloves.  The  palm  of  the  right-hand  glove  bears 
a  large  greenish  stain,  produced  by  grass  or  moss.  The  tips 
of  the  fingers  have  been  worn  as  if  by  rubbing.  Upon  the 
hacks  of  both  gloves  are  some  scratches,  apparently  made  by 
finger-nails.  4.  There  were  also  found  in  the  dressing-room 
two  pairs  of  boots,  one  of  which,  though  clean  and  polished, 
was  still  very  damp ;  and  an  umbrella  recently  wetted,  the  end 
of  which  was  still  covered  with  a  light  colored  mud.  5.  In  a 
large  room,  called  the  libra.y,  were  found  a  box  of  cigars  of 
the  trabucos  brand,  and  on  the  mantelshelf  a  number  of  cigar- 
holders  in  amber  and  meerschaum. 

The  last  article  noted  down,  M.  Tabaret  approached  the  com- 
missary of  police.  "I  have  everything  I  could  desire,"  he 
whispered. — "And  I  have  finished,"  replied  the  commissary. 
"Our  prisoner  does  not  appear  to  know  exactly  how  to  act. 
You  heard  what  he  said.  He  gave  in  at  once.  I  suppose  you 
will  call  it  lack  of  experience." 

"In  the  middle  of  the  day."  replied  the  amateur  detective  in 
a  whisper,  "he  would  not  have  been  quite  so  crestfallen.  But 
early  in  the  morning,  suddenly  awakened,  you  know —  Always 
arrest  a  person  early  in  the  morning,  when  he's  hungry  and 
only  half  awake." 

"I  have  questioned  some  of  the  servants.  Their  evidence  is 
rather  peculiar." 


778 


THE   LEROUGE   AFFAIR 


"Very  well ;  we  shall  see.  But  I  must  hurry  off  and  find  the 
investigating  magistrate,  who  is  impatiently  expecting  me." 

Albert  was  beginning  to  recover  a  little  from  the  stupor  into 
which  he  had  been  plunged  by  the  entrance  of  the  commissary 
of  police.  "Sir,"  he  asked,  "will  you  permit  me  to  say  a  few 
words  in  your  presence  to  the  Comte  de  Commarin?  I  am  the 
victim  of  some  mistake,  which  will  be  very  soon  discovered — " 

"It's  always  a  mistake,"  muttered  old  Tabaret. 

"What  you  ask  is  impossible,"  replied  the  commissary.  "I 
have  special  orders  of  the  strictest  sort.  You  must  not  hence- 
forth communicate  with  a  living  soul.  A  cab  is  in  waiting 
below.     Have  the  goodness  to  accompany  me  to  it." 

In  crossing  the  vestibule,  Albert  noticed  a  great  stir  among 
the  servants ;  they  all  seemed  to  have  lost  their  senses.  M. 
Denis  gave  some  orders  in  a  sharp,  imperative  tone.  Then  he 
thought  he  heard  that  the  Comte  de  Commarin  had  been  struck 
down  with  apoplexy.  After  that,  he  remembered  nothing.  They 
almost  carried  him  to  the  cab,  which  drove  off  as  fast  as  the 
two  little  horses  could  go.  M.  Tabaret  had  just  hastened  away 
in  a  more  rapid  vehicle. 


X/r  DABURON  had  arrived  at  his  office  in  the  Palais  de 
Wl*  Justice  at  nine  o'clock  in  the  morning,  and  was  waiting. 
His  course  resolved  upon,  he  had  not  lost  an  instant,  under- 
standing as  well  as  old  Tabaret  the  necessity  for  rapid  action. 
He  had  already  had  an  interview  with  the  public  prosecutor, 
and  had  arranged  everything  with  the  police.  Besides  issuing 
the  warrant  against  Albert,  he  had  summoned  the  Comte  de 
Commarin,  Madame  Gerdy,  Noel,  and  some  of  Albert's  servants 
to  appear  before  him  with  as  little  delay  as  possible.  He 
thought  it  essential  to  question  all  these  persons  before  exam- 
ining the  prisoner.  Several  detectives  had  started  off  to  execute 
his  orders,  and  he  himself  sat  in  his  office,  like  a  general  com- 
manding an  army,  who  sends  off  his  aide-de-camp  to  begin 
the  battle,  and  who  hopes  that  victory   will   crown   his   com- 


THE    LEROUGE   AFFAIR  779 

binations.  Often,  at  this  same  hour,  he  had  sat  in  this  office, 
under  circumstances  almost  identical.  A  crime  had  been  com- 
mitted, and,  believing  he  had  discovered  the  criminal,  he  had 
given  orders  for  his  arrest.  Was  not  that  his  duty?  But  he 
had  never  before  experienced  the  anxiety  of  mind  which  dis- 
turbed him  now.  Many  a  time  had  he  issued  warrants  of  arrest, 
without  possessing  even  half  the  proofs  which  guided  him  in 
the  present  case.  He  kept  repeating  this  to  himself ;  and  yet 
he  could  not  quiet  his  dreadful  anxiety,  which  would  not  allow 
him  a  moment's  rest. 

He  wondered  why  his  people  were  so  long  in  making  their 
appearance.  He  walked  up  and  down  the  room,  counting  the 
minutes,  drawing  out  his  watch  three  times  within  a  quarter 
of  an  hour,  to  compare  it  with  the  clock.  Every  time  he  heard 
a  step  in  the  passage,  almost  deserted  at  that  hour,  he  moved 
near  the  door,  stopped  and  listened.  At  length  some  one 
knocked.  It  was  his  clerk,  whom  he  had  sent  for.  There  was 
nothing  particular  in  this  man ;  he  was  tall  rather  than  big, 
and  very  slim.  His  gait  was  precise,  his  gestures  were  method- 
ical, and  his  face  was  as  impassive  as  if  it  had  been  cut  out  of 
a  piece  of  yellow  wood.  He  was  thirty-four  years  of  age,  and 
during  thirteen  years  had  acted  as  clerk  to  four  investigating 
magistrates  in  succession.  He  could  hear  the  most  astonishing 
things  without  moving  a  muscle.  His  name  was  Constant. 
He  bowed  to  the  magistrate,  and  excused  himself  for  his  tardi- 
ness. He  had  been  busy  with  some  bookkeeping,  which  he  did 
every  morning;  and  his  wife  had  had  to  send  after  him.  "You 
are  still  in  good  time,"  said  M.  Daburon:  "but  we  shall  soon 
have  plenty  of  work:  so  you  had  better  get  your  paper  ready." 
Five  minutes  later,  the  usher  introduced  M.  Noel  Gerdy.  He 
entered  with  an  easy  manner,  like  a  barrister  who  was  well 
acquainted  with  the  Palais,  and  who  knew  its  winding  ways. 
He  in  no  wise  resembled,  this  morning,  old  Tabaret's  friend; 
still  less  could  he  have  been  recognized  as  Madame  Juliette's 
lover.  He  was  entirely  another  being,  or  rather  he  had  re- 
sumed his  every-day  bearing.  From  his  firm  step,  his  placid 
face,  one  would  never  imagine  that,  after  an  evening  of  emo- 
tion and  excitement,  after  a  secret  visit  to  his  mistress,  he  had 
passed  the  night  by  the  pillow  of  a  dying  woman,  and  that 
woman  his  mother,  or  at  least  one  who  had  filled  his  mother's 
place.  What  a  contrast  between  him  and  the  magistrate !  M. 
Daburon  had  not  slept  either:  but  one  could  easily  see  that  in 


780  THE    LEROUGE   AFFAIR 

his  feebleness,  in  his  anxious  look,  in  the  dark  circles  about  his 
eyes.  His  shirt-front  was  all  rumpled,  anc'  his  cuffs  were  far 
from  clean.  Carried  away  by  the  course  of  events,  the  mind 
had  forgotten  the  body.  Noel's  well-shaved  chin,  on  the  con- 
trary, rested  upon  an  irreproachably  white  cravat;  his  collar 
did  not  show  a  crease ;  his  hair  and  his  whiskers  had  been  most 
carefully  brushed.  He  bowed  to  M.  Daburon,  and  held  out  the 
summons  he  had  received.  "You  summoned  me,  sir,"  he  said; 
"and  I  am  here  awaiting  your  orders." 

The  investigating  magistrate  had  met  the  young  barrister 
several  times  in  the  lobbies  of  the  Palais ;  and  he  knew  him  well 
by  sight.  He  remembered  having  heard  M.  Gerdy  spoken  of  as 
a  man  of  talent  and  promise,  whose  reputation  was  fast  rising. 
He  therefore  welcomed  him  as  a  fellow  workman,  and  invited 
him  to  be  seated.  The  preliminaries  common  in  the  examina- 
tions of  all  witnesses  ended ;  the  name,  surname,  age,  place  of 
business,  and  so  on,  having  been  written  down,  the  magistrate, 
who  had  followed  his  clerk  with  his  eyes  while  he  was  writing, 
turned  toward  Noel.  "I  presume  you  know,  M.  Gerdy,"  he  be- 
gan, ''the  matters  in  connection  with  which  you  are  troubled 
with  appearing  before  me?" 

"Yes,  sir,  the  murder  of  that  poor  old  woman  at  La  Jon- 
chere." 

"Precisely,"  replied  M.  Daburon.  Then,  calling  to  mind  his 
promise  to  old  Tabaret,  he  added:  "If  justice  has  summoned 
you  so  promptly,  it  is  because  we  have  found  your  name  often 
mentioned  in  Widow  Lerouge's  papers." 

"I  am  not  surprised  at  that,"  replied  the  barrister :  "we  were 
greatly  interested  in  that  poor  woman,  who  was  my  nurse;  and 
I  know  that  Madame  Gerdy  wrote  to  her  frequently." 

"Very  well ;  then  you  will  give  me  some  information  about 
her." 

"I  fear,  sir,  that  it  will  be  very  incomplete.  I  knew  very 
little  about  this  poor  old  Madame  Lerouge.  I  was  taken  from 
her  at  a  very  early  age ;  and,  since  I  have  been  a  man,  I  have 
thought  but  little  about  her,  except  to  send  her  occasionally 
a  little  aid." 

"You  never  went  to  visit  her?" 

"Excuse  me.  I  have  gone  there  to  see  her  many  times ;  but 
I  remained  only  a  few  minutes.  Madame  Gerdy,  who  has  often 
seen  her,  and  to  whom  she  talked  of  all  her  affairs,  could  have 
enlightened  you  much  better  than  I." 


THE    LEROUGE   AFFAIR  781 

"But,"  said  the  magistrate,  "I  expect  shortly  to  see  Madame 
Gerdy  here;  she,  too,  must  have  received  a  summons." 

"I  know  it,  sir,  but  it  is  impossible  for  her  to  appear:  she  is 
ill  in  bed." — "Seriously?" — "So  seriously  that  you  will  be 
obliged,  I  think,  to  give  up  all  hope  of  her  testimony.  She 
is  attacked  with  a  disease  which,  in  the  words  of  my  friend, 
Dr.  Herve,  never  forgives.  It  is  something  like  inflammation 
of  the  brain,  if  I  am  not  mistaken.  It  may  be  that  her  life 
will  be  saved,  but  she  will  never  recover  her  reason.  If  she 
does  not  die,  she  will  be  insane."  M.  Daburon  appeared  greatly 
vexed.  "This  is  very  annoying,"  he  muttered.  "And  you 
think,  my  dear  sir,  that  it  will  be  impossible  to  obtain  any 
information  from  her?" 

"It  is  useless  even  to  hope  for  it.  She  has  completely  lost  her 
reason.  She  was,  when  I  left  her,  in  such  a  state  of  utter  pros- 
tration that  I  fear  she  can  not  live  through  the  day." — "And 
when  was  she  attacked  by  this  illness?" — "Yesterday  evening." 
— "Suddenly?" — "Yes,  sir;  at  least,  apparently  so,  though  I 
myself  think  she  has  been  unwell  for  the  last  three  weeks  at 
least.  Yesterday,  however,  on  rising  from  dinner,  after  having 
eaten  but  little,  she  took  up  a  newspaper ;  and,  by  a  most  un- 
fortunate hazard,  her  eyes  fell  exactly  upon  the  lines  which 
gave  an  account  of  this  crime.  She  at  once  uttered  a  loud  cry, 
fell  back  in  her  chair,  and  thence  slipped  to  the  floor,  murmur- 
ing :  'Oh,  the  unhappy  man,  the  unhappy  man !'  " 

"The  unhappy  woman,  you  mean." 

"No,  sir.  She  uttered  the  words  I  have  just  repeated.  Evi- 
dently the  exclamation  did  not  refer  to  my  poor  nurse." 

Upon  this  reply,  so  important  and  yet  made  in  the  most  un- 
conscious tone,  M.  Daburon  raised  his  eyes  to  the  witness.  The 
barrister  lowered  his  head.  "And  then?"  asked  the  magistrate, 
after  a  moment's  silence,  during  which  he  had  taken  a  few 
notes. 

"Those  words,  sir,  were  the  last  spoken  by  Madame  Gerdy. 
Assisted  by  our  servant,  I  carried  her  to  her  bed.  The  doctor 
was  sent  for ;  and  since  then  she  has  not  recovered  conscious- 
ness.    The  doctor — " 

"It  is  well,"  interrupted  M.  Daburon.  "Let  us  leave  that  for 
the  present.  Do  you  know,  sir,  whether  Widow  Lerouge  had 
any  enemies?" — "None  that  I  know  of,  sir." — "She  had  no  ene- 
mies? Well,  now  tell  me,  does  there  exist  to  your  knowledge 
any  one  having  the  least   interest   in  the  death  of   this   poor 


782  THE    LEROUGE   AFFAIR 

woman?"  As  he  asked  this  question  the  investigating  magis- 
trate kept  his  eyes  fixed  on  Noel's,  not  wishing  him  to  turn  or 
lower  his  head.  The  barrister  started,  and  seemed  deeply 
moved.  He  was  disconcerted ;  he  hesitated,  as  if  a  struggle 
was  going  on  within  him.  Finally,  in  a  voice  which  was  by 
no  means  firm,  he  replied:  "No,  no  one." 

"Is  that  really  true?"  asked  the  magistrate,  looking  at  him 
more  searchingly.  "You  know  no  one  whom  this  crime  bene- 
fits, or  whom  it  might  benefit — absolutely  no  one?" 

"I  know  only  one  thing,  sir,"  replied  Noel ;  "and  that  is,  that, 
as  far  as  I  am  concerned,  it  has  caused  me  an  irreparable 
injury." 

"At  last,"  thought  M.  Daburon,  "we  have  got  at  the  letters; 
and  I  have  not  betrayed  poor  old  Tabaret.  It  would  be  too 
bad  to  cause  the  least  trouble  to  that  zealous  and  invaluable 
man."  He  then  added  aloud:  "An  injury  to  you,  my  dear  sir? 
You  will,  I  hope,  explain  yourself." 

Noel's  embarrassment,  of  which  he  had  already  given  some 
signs,  reappeared  much  more  marked.  "I  am  aware,  sir,"  he 
replied,  "that  I  owe  justice  not  merely  the  truth,  but  the  whole 
truth ;  but  there  are  circumstances  involved  so  delicate  that  the 
conscience  of  a  man  of  honor  sees  danger  in  them.  Besides,  it 
is  very  hard  to  be  obliged  to  unveil  such  sad  secrets,  the  reve- 
lation of  which  may  sometimes — "  M.  Daburon  interrupted 
with  a  gesture.  Noel's  sad  tone  impressed  him.  Knowing, 
beforehand,  what  he  was  about  to  hear,  he  felt  for  the  young 
barrister.  He  turned  to  his  clerk.  "Constant !"  said  he  in  a 
peculiar  tone.  This  was  evidently  a  signal;  for  the  tall  clerk 
rose  methodically,  put  his  pen  behind  his  ear,  and  went  out  in 
his  measured  tread. 

Noel  appeared  sensible  of  this  kindness.  His  face  expressed 
the  strongest  gratitude;  his  look  returned  thanks.  "I  am  very 
much  obliged  to  you,  sir,"  he  said  with  suppressed  warmth,  "for 
your  considerateness.  What  I  have  to  say  is  very  painful ;  but 
it  will  be  scarcely  an  effort  to  speak  before  you  now." 

"Fear  nothing,"  replied  the  magistrate;  "I  will  only  retain 
of  your  deposition,  my  dear  sir,  what  seems  to  me  absolutely 
indispensable." 

"I  feel  scarcely  master  of  myself,  sir,"  began  Noel;  "so  pray 
pardon  my  emotion.  If  any  words  escape  me  that  seem  charged 
with  bitterness,  excuse  them;  they  will  be  involuntary.  Up  to 
the  past  few  days,  I  always  believed  that  I  was  the  offspring  of 


THE    LEROUGE   AFFAIR  783 

illicit  love.  My  history  is  short.  I  have  been  honorably  ambi- 
tious; I  have  worked  hard.  He  who  has  no  name  must  make 
one,  you  know.  I  have  passed  a  quiet  life,  retired  and  austere, 
as  people  must,  who,  starting  at  the  foot  of  the  ladder,  wish  to 
reach  the  top.  I  worshiped  her  whom  I  believed  to  be  my 
mother;  and  I  felt  convinced  that  she  loved  me  in  return. 
The  stain  of  my  birth  had  some  humiliations  attached  to  it;  but 
I  despised  them.  Comparing  my  lot  with  that  of  so  many 
others,  I  felt  that  I  had  more  than  common  advantages.  One 
day,  Providence  placed  in  my  hands  all  the  letters  which  my 
father,  the  Comte  de  Commarin,  had  written  to  Madame  Gerdy 
during  the  time  she  was  his  mistress.  On  reading  these  letters, 
I  was  convinced  that  I  was  not  what  I  had  hitherto  believed 
myself  to  be — that  Madame  Gerdy  was  not  my  mother !"  And, 
without  giving  M.  Daburon  time  to  reply,  he  laid  before  him 
the  facts  which,  twelve  hours  before,  he  had  related  to  M. 
Tabaret.  It  was  the  same  story,  with  the  same  circumstances, 
the  same  abundance  of  precise  and  conclusive  details ;  but  the 
tone  in  which  it  was  told  was  entirely  changed.  When  speak- 
ing to  the  old  detective,  the  young  barrister  had  been  emphatic 
and  violent ;  but  now,  in  the  presence  of  the  investigating  mag- 
istrate, he  restrained  his  vehement  emotions.  One  might  im- 
agine that  he  adapted  his  style  to  his  auditors,  wishing  to 
produce  the  same  effect  on  both,  and  using  the  method  which 
would  best  accomplish  his  purpose.  To  an  ordinary  mind  like 
M.  Tabaret's  he  used  the  exaggeration  of  anger;  but  to  a  man 
of  superior  intelligence  like  M.  Daburon,  he  employed  the  ex- 
aggeration of  restraint.  With  the  detective  he  had  rebelled 
against  his  unjust  lot;  but  with  the  magistrate  he  seemed  to 
bow,  full  of  resignation,  before  a  blind  fatality.  With  genuine 
eloquence  and  rare  facility  of  expression,  he  related  his  feel- 
ings on  the  day  following  the  discovery — his  grief,  his  perplex- 
ity, his  doubts.  To  support  this  moral  certainty,  some  positive 
testimony  was  needed.  Could  he  hope  for  this  from  the  comte 
or  from  Madame  Gerdy,  both  interested  in  concealing  the  truth  ? 
No.  But  he  had  counted  upon  that  of  his  nurse — the  poor  old 
woman  who  loved  him,  and  who,  near  the  close  of  her  life, 
would  be  glad  to  free  her  conscience  from  this  heavy  load.  She 
was  dead  now;  and  the  letters  became  mere  waste  paper  in  his 
hands.  Then  he  passed  on  to  his  explanation  with  Madame 
Gerdy,  and  he  gave  the  magistrate  even  fuller  details  than  he 
had  given  his  old  neighbor.     She  had,  he  said,  at  first  utterly 


784  THE    LEROUGE   AFFAIR 

denied  the  substitution,  but  he  insinuated  that,  plied  with  ques- 
tions, and  overcome  by  the  evidence,  she  ha  1,  in  a  moment  of 
despair,  confessed  all,  declaring,  soon  after,  that  she  would 
retract  and  deny  this  confession,  being  resolved  at  all  hazards 
that  her  son  should  preserve  his  position.  From  this  scene,  in 
the  barrister's  judgment,  might  be  dated  the  first  attacks  of  the 
illness  to  which  she  was  now  succumbing.  Noel  then  described 
his  interview  with  the  Vicomte  de  Commarin.  A  few  inac- 
curacies occurred  in  his  narrative,  but  so  slight  that  it  would 
have  been  difficult  to  charge  him  with  them.  Besides,  there 
was  nothing  in  them  at  all  unfavorable  to  Albert.  He  insisted, 
on  the  contrary,  upon  the  excellent  impression  which  that 
young  man  had  made  on  him.  Albert  had  received  the  revela- 
tion with  a  certain  distrust,  it  is  true,  but  with  a  noble  firmness 
at  the  same  time,  and,  like  a  brave  heart,  was  ready  to  bow 
before  the  justification  of  right.  In  fact,  he  drew  an  almost 
enthusiastic  portrait  of  this  rival,  who  had  not  been  spoiled  by 
prosperity,  who  had  left  him  without  a  look  of  hatred,  toward 
whom  he  felt  himself  drawn,  and  who  after  all  was  his  brother. 

M.  Daburon  listened  to  Noel  with  a  most  unremitting  atten- 
tion, without  allowing  a  word,  a  movement,  or  a  frown,  to 
betray  his  feelings.  "How,  sir,"  observed  the  magistrate  when 
the  young  man  ceased  speaking,  "could  you  have  told  me  that, 
in  your  opinion,  no  one  was  interested  in  Widow  Lerouge's 
death?"  The  barrister  made  no  reply.  "It  seems  to  me,"  con- 
tinued M.  Daburon,  "that  the  Vicomte  de  Commarin's  position 
has  thereby  become  almost  impregnable.  Madame  Gerdy  is 
insane ;  the  comte  will  deny  all ;  your  letters  prove  nothing.  It 
is  evident  that  the  crime  is  of  the  greatest  service  to  this 
young  man,  and  that  it  was  committed  at  a  singularly  favor- 
able moment." 

"Oh,  sir !"  cried  Noel,  protesting  with  all  his  energy,  "this 
insinuation  is  dreadful."  The  magistrate  watched  the  barris- 
ter's face  narrowly.  Was  he  speaking  frankly,  or  was  he  but 
playing  at  being  generous?  Could  it  really  be  that  he  had 
never  had  any  suspicion  of  this?  Noel  did  not  flinch  under 
the  gaze,  but  almost  immediately  continued:  "What  reason 
could  this  young  man  have  for  trembling,  or  fearing  for  his 
position?  I  did  not  utter  one  threatening  word,  even  indirectly. 
I  did  not  present  myself  like  a  man  who,  furious  at  being 
robbed,  demands  that  everything  which  had  been  taken  from 
him  should  be  restored  on  the  spot.     I  merely  presented  the 


THE    LEROUGE   AFFAIR  785 

facts  to  Albert,  saying:  'Here  is  the  truth;  what  do  you  think 
we  ought  to  do?    Be  judge.'" 

"And  he  asked  you  for  time?" 

"Yes.  I  had  suggested  his  accompanying  me  to  see  Widow 
Lerouge,  whose  testimony  might  dispel  all  doubts;  he  did  not 
seem  to  understand  me.  But  he  was  well  acquainted  with  her, 
having  visited  her  with  the  comte,  who  supplied  her,  I  have 
since  learned,  liberally  with  money." 

"Did  not  this  generosity  appear  to  you  very  singular?" — 
"No." — "Can  you  explain  why  the  vicomte  did  not  appear  dis- 
posed to  accompany  you?" — "Certainly.  He  had  just  said  that 
he  wished,  before  all,  to  have  an  explanation  with  his  father, 
who  was  then  absent,  but  who  would  return  in  a  few  days." 

The  truth,  as  all  the  world  knows,  and  delights  in  proclaim- 
ing, has  an  accent  which  no  one  can  mistake.  M.  Daburon 
had  not  the  slightest  doubt  of  his  witness's  good  faith.  Noel 
continued  with  the  ingenuous  candor  of  an  honest  heart  which 
suspicion  has  never  touched  with  its  bat's  Ming:  "The  idea  of 
treating  at  once  with  my  father  pleased  me  exceedingly.  I 
thought  it  so  much  better  to  wash  all  one's  dirty  linen  at  home, 
I  had  never  desired  anything  but  an  amicable  arrangement. 
With  my  hands  full  of  proofs,  I  should  still  recoil  from  a 
public  trial." 

"Would  you  not  have  brought  an  action?" 

"Never,  sir,  not  at  any  price.  Could  I,"  he  added  proudly, 
"to  regain  my  rightful  name  begin  by  dishonoring  it?"  This 
time  M.  Daburon  could  not  conceal  his  sincere  admiration.  "A 
most  praiseworthy  feeling,  sir,"  he  said. 

"I  think,"  replied  Noel,  "that  it  is  but  natural.  If  things 
came  to  the  worst,  I  had  determined  to  leave  my  title  with 
Albert.  No  doubt  the  name  of  Commarin  is  an  illustrious 
one,  but  I  hope  that,  in  ten  years'  time,  mine  will  be  more 
known.  I  would,  however,  have  demanded  a  large  pecuniary 
compensation.  I  possess  nothing;  and  I  have  often  been  ham- 
pered in  my  career  by  the  want  of  money.  That  which  Ma- 
dame Gerdy  owed  to  the  generosity  of  my  father  was  almost 
entirely  spent.  My  education  had  absorbed  a  great  part  of  it; 
and  it  was  long  before  my  profession  covered  my  expenses. 
Madame  Gerdy  and  I  live  very  quietly;  but,  unfortunately, 
though  simple  in  her  tastes,  she  lacks  economy  and  system ; 
and  no  one  can  imagine  how  great  our  expenses  have  been. 
But  I  have  nothing  to  reproach  myself  with,  whatever  happens. 

7— Vol.  Ill— Gab. 


786  THE    LEROUGE   AFFAIR 

At  the  commencement  I  could  not  keep  my  anger  well  under 
control;  but  now  I  bear  no  ill-will.  On  learning  of  the  death 
of  my  nurse,  though,  I  cast  all  my  hopes  into  the  sea." 

"You  were  wrong,  my  dear  sir,"  said  the  magistrate.  "I 
advise  you  to  still  hope.  Perhaps,  before  the  end  of  the  day, 
you  will  enter  into  possession  of  your  rights.  Justice,  I  will 
not  conceal  from  you,  thinks  she  has  found  Widow  Lerouge's 
assassin.  At  this  moment  Vicomte  Albert  is  doubtless  under 
arrest." 

"What!"  exclaimed  Noel,  with  a  sort  of  stupor:  "I  was  not, 
then,  mistaken,  sir,  in  the  meaning  of  your  words.  I  dreaded 
to  understand  them." 

"You  have  not  mistaken  me,  sir,"  said  M.  Daburon.  "I 
thank  you  for  your  sincere  straightforward  explanations;  they 
have  eased  my  task  materially.  To-morrow — for  to-day  my 
time  is  all  taken  up — we  will  write  down  your  deposition  to- 
gether if  you  like.  I  have  nothing  more  to  say,  I  believe, 
except  to  ask  you  for  the  letters  in  your  possession,  and  which 
are  indispensable  to  me." 

"Within  an  hour,  sir,  you  shall  have  them,"  replied  Noel. 
And  he  retired  after  having  warmly  expressed  his  gratitude  to 
the  investigating  magistrate. 

Had  he  been  less  preoccupied,  the  barrister  might  have  per- 
ceived at  the  end  of  the  gallery  old  Tabaret,  who  had  just 
arrived,  eager  and  happy,  like  a  bearer  of  great  news  as  he 
was.  His  cab  had  scarcely  stopped  at  the  gate  of  the  Palais 
de  Justice  before  he  was  in  the  courtyard  and  rushing  toward 
the  porch.  To  see  him  jumping  more  nimbly  than  a  fifth-rate 
lawyer's  clerk  up  the  steep  flight  of  stairs  leading  to  the  mag- 
istrate's office,  one  would  never  have  believed  that  he  was  many 
years  on  the  shady  side  of  fifty.  Even  he  himself  had  forgotten 
it.  He  did  not  remember  how  he  had  passed  the  night;  he  had 
never  before  felt  so  fresh,  so  agile,  in  such  spirits;  he  seemed 
to  have  springs  of  steel  in  his  limbs.  He  burst  like  a  cannon- 
shot  into  the  magistrate's  office,  knocking  up  against  the  meth- 
odical clerk  in  the  rudest  of  ways,  without  even  asking  his 
pardon.  "Caught !"  he  cried  while  yet  on  the  threshold,  "caught, 
nipped,  squeezed,  strung,  trapped,  locked  !  We  have  got  the  man." 
Old  Tabaret,  more  Tirauclair  than  ever,  gesticulated  with  such 
comical  vehemence  and  such  remarkable  contortions  that  even 
the  tall  clerk  smiled,  for  which,  however,  he  took  himself 
severely  to  task  on  going  to  bed  that  night. 


THE    LEROUGE   AFFAIR  787 

But  M.  Daburon,  still  under  the  influence  of  Noel's  deposi- 
tion, was  shocked  at  this  apparently  unreasonable  joy;  although 
he  felt  the  safer  for  it.  He  looked  severely  at  old  Tabaret, 
saying:  "Hush,  sir;  be  decent,  compose  yourself."  At  any 
other  time  the  old  fellow  would  have  felt  ashamed  at  having 
deserved  such  a  reprimand.  Now  it  made  no  impression  on 
him.  "I  can't  be  quiet,"  he  replied.  "Never  has  anything  like 
this  been  known  before.  All  that  I  mentioned  has  been  found. 
Broken  foil,  lavender  kid  gloves  slightly  frayed,  cigar-holder; 
nothing  is  wanting.  You  shall  have  them,  sir,  and  many  other 
things  besides.  I  have  a  little  system  of  my  own,  which  appears 
by  no  means  a  bad  one.  Just  see  the  triumph  of  my  method 
of  induction,  which  Gevrol  ridiculed  so  much.  I'd  give  a  hun- 
dred francs  if  he  were  only  here  now.  But  no;  my  Gevrol 
wants  to  nab  the  man  with  the  earrings ;  he  is  just  capable  of 
doing  that.  He  is  a  fine  fellow,  this  Gevrol,  a  famous  fellow ! 
How  much  do  you  give  him  a  year  for  his  skill?" 

"Come,  my  dear  M.  Tabaret,"  said  the  magistrate  as  soon  as  he 
could  get  in  a  word,  "be  serious,  if  you  can,  and  let  us  proceed 
in  order." 

"Pooh!"  replied  the  old  fellow,  "what  good  will  that  do? 
It  is  a  clear  case  now.  When  they  bring  the  fellow  before 
you,  merely  show  him  the  particles  of  kid  taken  from  behind 
the  nails  of  the  victim,  side  by  side  with  his  torn  gloves,  and 
you  will  overwhelm  him.  I  wager  that  he  will  confess  all. 
hie  et  nunc — yes,  I  wager  my  head  against  his ;  although  that's 
pretty  risky;  for  he  may  get  off  yet!  Those  milk-sops  on  the 
jury  are  just  capable  of  according  him  extenuating  circum- 
stances. Ah !  all  those  delays  are  fatal  to  justice  !  Why,  if  all 
the  world  were  of  my  mind,  the  punishment  of  rascals  wouldn't 
take  such  a  time !  They  should  be  hanged  as  soon  as  caught. 
That's  my  opinion."  M.  Daburon  resigned  himself  to  this 
shower  of  words.  As  soon  as  the  old  fellow's  excitement  had 
cooled  down  a  little,  he  began  questioning  him.  He  even  then 
had  great  trouble  in  obtaining  the  exact  details  of  the  arrest; 
details  which  later  on  were  confirmed  by  the  commissary's  of- 
ficial report.  The  magistrate  appeared  very  surprised  when  he 
heard  that  Albert  had  exclaimed,  "I  am  lost !"  at  sight  of  the 
warrant.    "That."  muttered  he,  "is  a  terrible  proof  against  him." 

"I  should  think  so,"  replied  old  Tabaret.  "In  his  ordinary 
state  he  would  never  have  allowed  himself  to  utter  such  words, 
for  they  in  fact  destroy  him.     We  arrested  him  when  he  was 


788  THE    LEROUGE   AFFAIR 

scarcely  awake.  He  hadn't  been  in  bed,  but  was  lying  in  a 
troubled  sleep,  upon  a  sofa,  when  we  arrived.  I  took  good  care 
to  let  a  frightened  servant  run  in  in  advance,  and  to  follow 
closely  upon  him  myself,  to  see  the  effect.  All  my  arrange- 
ments were  made.  But,  never  fear,  he  will  find  a  plausible 
excuse  for  this  fatal  exclamation.  By  the  way,  I  should  add 
that  we  found  on  the  floor,  near  by,  a  crumpled  copy  of  last 
evening's  'Gazette  de  France,'  which  contained  an  account  of 
the  assassination.  This  is  the  first  time  that  a  piece  of  news 
in  the  papers  ever  helped  to  nab  a  criminal." 

"Yes,"  murmured  the  magistrate,  deep  in  thought,  "yes,  you 
are  a  valuable  man,  M.  Tabaret."  Then,  louder,  he  added:  "I 
am  thoroughly  convinced,  for  M.  Gerdy  has  just  this  moment 
left  me." 

"You  have  seen  Noel !"  cried  the  old  fellow.  On  the  instant 
all  his  proud  self-satisfaction  disappeared.  A  cloud  of  anxiety 
spread  itself  like  a  veil  over  his  beaming  countenance.  "Noel 
here,"  he  repeated.  Then  he  timidly  added:  "And  does  he 
know?" — "Nothing,"  replied  M.  Daburon.  "I  had  no  need  of 
mentioning  your  name.  Besides,  had  I  not  promised  absolute 
secrecy?" 

"Ah,  that's  all  right,"  cried  old  Tabaret.  "And  what  do  you 
think,  sir,  of  Noel?" 

"He  is,  I  am  sure,  a  noble,  worthy  heart,"  said  the  magis- 
trate :  "a  nature  both  strong  and  tender.  The  sentiments  which 
I  heard  him  express  here,  and  the  genuineness  of  which  it  is 
impossible  to  doubt,  manifested  an  elevation  of  soul,  unhappily, 
very  rare.  Seldom  in  my  life  have  I  met  with  a  man  who  so 
won  my  sympathy  from  the  first.  I  can  well  understand  one's 
pride  in  being  among  his  friends." 

"Just  what  I  said ;  he  has  precisely  the  same  effect  upon 
every  one.  I  love  him  as  though  he  were  my  own  child;  and, 
whatever  happens,  he  will  inherit  almost  the  whole  of  my  for- 
tune :  yes,  I  intend  leaving  him  everything.  My  will  is  made, 
and  is  in  the  hands  of  M.  Baron,  my  notary.  There  is  a  small 
legacy,  too,  for  Madame  Gerdy;  but  I  am  going  to  have  the 
paragraph  that  relates  to  that  taken  out  at  once." 

"Madame  Gerdy,  M.  Tabaret,  will  soon  be  beyond  all  need 
of  worldly  goods." — "How,  what  do  you  mean?  Has  the 
comte — " 

"She  is  dying,  and  is  not  likely  to  live  through  the  day;  M. 
Gerdv  told  me  so  himself." 


THE    LEROUGE   AFFAIR 


'89 


"Ah!  heavens!"  cried  the  old  fellow,  "what  is  that  you  say? 
Dying?  Noel  will  be  distracted;  but  no;  since  she  is  not  his 
mother,  how  can  it  affect  him  ?  Dying !  I  thought  so  much  of 
her  before  this  discovery.  Poor  humanity !  It  seems  as  though 
all  the  accomplices  are  passing  away  at  the  same  time ;  for  I  for- 
got to  tell  you,  that,  just  as  I  was  leaving  the  Commarin  man- 
sion, I  heard  a  servant  tell  another  that  the  comte  had  fallen 
down  in  a  fit  on  learning  the  news  of  his  son's  arrest.'" 

"That  will  be  a  great  misfortune  for  M.  Gerdy." — "For 
Noel?" — "I  had  counted  upon  M.  de  Commarin's  testimony  to 
recover  for  him  all  that  he  so  well  deserves.  The  comte  dead, 
Widow  Lerouge  dead,  Madame  Gerdy  dying,  or  in  any  event 
insane,  who  then  can  tell  us  whether  the  substitution  alluded  to 
in  the  letters  was  ever  carried  into  execution?" 

"True,"  murmured  old  Tabaret ;  "it  is  true !  And  I  did  not 
think  of  it.  What  fatality !  For  I  am  not  deceived ;  I  am  cer- 
tain that — "  He  did  not  finish.  The  door  of  M.  Daburon's 
office  opened,  and  the  Comte  de  Commarin  himself  appeared  on 
the  threshold,  as  rigid  as  one  of  those  old  portraits  which  look 
as  though  they  were  frozen  in  their  gilded  frames.  The  noble- 
man motioned  with  his  hand,  and  the  two  servants  who  had 
helped  him  up  as  far  as  the  door,  retired. 


TT  was  indeed  the  Comte  de  Commarin,  though  more  like  his 
*■  shadow.  His  head,  usually  carried  so  high,  leaned  upon  his 
chest ;  his  figure  was  bent ;  his  eyes  had  no  longer  their  accus- 
tomed fire;  his  hands  trembled.  The  extreme  disorder  of  his 
dress  rendered  more  striking  still  the  change  which  had  come 
over  him.  In  one  night  he  had  grown  twenty  years  older. 
This  man,  yesterday  so  proud  of  never  having  bent  to  a  storm, 
was  now  completely  shattered.  The  pride  of  his  name  Had  con- 
stituted his  entire  strength ;  that  humbled,  he  seemed  utterly 
overwhelmed.  Everything  in  him  gave  way  at  once ;  all  his 
supports  failed  him  at  the  same  time.  His  cold,  lifeless  gaze 
revealed  the  dull  stupor  of  his  thoughts.     He  presented  such 


790  THE    LEROUGE   AFFAIR 

a  picture  of  utter  despair  that  the  investigating  magistrate 
slightly  shuddered  at  the  sight.  M.  Tabaret  looked  frightened, 
and  even  the  clerk  seemed  moved. 

"Constant,"  said  M.  Daburon  quickly,  "go  with  M.  Tabaret, 
and  see  if  there's  any  news  at  the  Prefecture." 

The  clerk  left  the  room,  followed  by  the  detective,  who  went 
away  regretfully.  The  comte  had  not  noticed  their  presence; 
he  paid  no  attention  to  their  departure.  M.  Daburon  offered 
him  a  seat,  which  he  accepted  with  a  sad  smile.  "I  feel  so 
weak,"  said  he ;  "you  must  excuse  my  sitting." 

Apologies  to  an  investigating  magistrate !  What  an  advance 
in  civilization,  when  the  nobles  consider  themselves  subject  to 
the  law,  and  bow  to  its  decrees!  Every  one  respects  justice 
nowadays,  and  fears  it  a  little,  even  when  only  represented  by 
a  simple  and  conscientious  investigating  magistrate. 

"You  are,  perhaps,  too  unwell,  comte,"  said  the  magistrate, 
"to  give  me  the  explanations  I  had  hoped  for." 

"I  am  better,  thank  you,"  replied  M.  de  Commarin ;  "I  am 
as  well  as  could  be  expected  after  the  shock  I  have  received. 
When  I  heard  of  the  crime  of  which  my  son  is  accused,  and 
of  his  arrest,  I  was  thunderstruck.  I  believed  myself  a  strong 
man;  but  I  rolled  in  the  dust.  My  servants  thought  me  dead. 
Why  was  it  not  so?  The  strength  of  my  constitution,  my 
physician  tells  me,  was  all  that  saved  me;  but  I  believe  that 
heaven  wishes  me  to  live,  that  I  may  drink  to  the  bitter  dregs 
my  cup  of  humiliation."  He  stopped  suddenly,  nearly  choked 
by  a  flow  of  blood  that  rose  to  his  mouth.  The  investigating 
magistrate  remained  standing  near  the  table,  almost  afraid  to 
move.  After  a  few  moments'  rest,  the  comte  found  relief,  and 
continued :  "Unhappy  man  that  I  am !  ought  I  not  to  have 
expected  it?  Everything  comes  to  light  sooner  or  later.  I 
am  punished  for  my  great  sin — pride.  I  thought  myself  out  of 
reach  of  the  thunderbolt;  and  I  have  been  the  means  of  draw- 
ing down  the  storm  upon  my  house.  Albert  an  assassin !  A 
Vicomte  de  Commarin  arraigned  before  a  court  of  assize !  Ah, 
sir,  punish  me  also,  for  I  alone  and  long  ago  laid  the  founda- 
tion of  this  crime.  Fifteen  centuries  of  spotless  fame  end  with 
me  in  infamy." 

M.  Daburon  considered  Comte  de  Commarin's  conduct  un- 
pardonable, and  had  determined  not  to  spare  him.  He  had  ex- 
pected to  meet  a  proud,  haughty  noble,  almost  unmanageable; 
and  he  had  resolved  to  humble  his  arrogance.     Perhaps  the 


THE    LEROUGE   AFFAIR  791 

harsh  treatment  he  had  received  of  old  from  the  Marquise 
d'Arlange  had  given  him,  unconsciously,  a  slight  grudge  against 
the  aristocracy.  He  had  vaguely  thought  of  certain  rather 
severe  remarks,  which  were  to  overcome  the  old  nobleman,  and 
bring  him  to  a  sense  of  his  position.  But  when  he  found  him- 
self in  the  presence  of  such  a  sincere  repentance,  his  indignation 
changed  to  profound  pity;  and  he  began  to  wonder  how  he 
could  assuage  the  comte's  grief. 

"Write,  sir,"  continued  M.  de  Commarin  with  an  exaltation 
of  which  he  did  not  seem  capable  ten  minutes  before — "write 
my  avowal  and  suppress  nothing.  I  have  no  longer  need  of 
mercy  nor  of  tenderness.  What  have  I  to  fear  now?  Is  not 
my  disgrace  public?  Must  not  I,  Comte  Rheteau  de  Commarin, 
appear  before  the  tribunal,  to  proclaim  the  infamy  of  our  house? 
Ah !  all  is  lost  now,  even  honor  itself.  Write,  sir ;  for  I  wish 
that  all  the  world  shall  know  that  I  am  the  most  deserving  of 
blame.  But  they  shall  also  know  that  the  punishment  has  been 
already  terrible,  and  that  there  was  no  need  for  this  last  and 
awful  trial."  The  comte  stopped  for  a  moment,  to  concentrate 
and  arrange  his  memory.  He  soon  continued  in  a  firmer  voice, 
and  adapting  his  tone  to  what  he  had  to  say:  "When  I  was  of 
Albert's  age,  sir,  my  parents  made  me  marry,  in  spite  of  my 
protestations,  the  noblest  and  purest  of  young  girls.  I  made 
her  the  most  unhappy  of  women.  I  could  not  love  her.  I 
cherished  a  most  passionate  love  for  a  mistress,  who  had 
trusted  herself  to  me,  and  whom  I  had  loved  for  a  long  time. 
I  found  her  rich  in  beauty,  purity,  and  mind.  Her  name  was 
Valerie.  My  heart  is,  so  to  say,  dead  and  cold  in  me,  sir;  but. 
ah !  when  I  pronounce  that  name  it  still  has  a  great  effect  upon 
me.  In  spite  of  my  marriage,  I  could  not  induce  myself  to 
part  from  her,  though  she  wished  me  to.  The  idea  of  sharing 
my  love  with  another  was  revolting  to  her.  No  doubt  she 
loved  me  then.  Our  relations  continued.  My  wife  and  my 
mistress  became  mothers  at  nearly  the  same  time.  This  coin- 
cidence suggested  to  me  the  fatal  idea  of  sacrificing  my  legiti- 
mate son  to  his  less  fortunate  brother.  I  communicated  this 
project  to  Valerie.  To  my  great  surprise,  she  refused  it  with 
horror.  Already  the  maternal  instinct  was  aroused  within  her; 
she  would  not  be  separated  from  her  child.  I  have  preserved, 
as  a  monument  of  my  folly,  the  letters  which  she  wrote  to  me 
at  that  time.  I  reread  them  only  last  night.  Ah !  why  did  I 
not   listen  to   both  her  arguments  and  her  prayers?     It  was 


792  THE    LEROUGE   AFFAIR 

because  I  was  mad.  She  had  a  sort  of  presentiment  of  the 
evil  which  overwhelms  me  to-day.  But  I  came  to  Paris ;  I  had 
absolute  control  over  her.  I  threatened  to  leave  her,  never  to 
see  her  again.  She  yielded ;  and  my  valet  and  Claudine  Lerouge 
were  charged  with  this  wicked  substitution.  It  is,  therefore, 
the  son  of  my  mistress  who  bears  the  title  of  Vicomte  de  Com- 
marin,  and  who  was  arrested  but  a  short  time  ago." 

M.  Daburon  had  not  hoped  for  a  declaration  so  clear,  and 
above  all  so  prompt.  He  secretly  rejoiced  for  the  young  bar- 
rister, whose  noble  sentiments  had  quite  captivated  him.  "So, 
comte"  said  he,  "you  acknowledge  that  M.  Noel  Gerdy  is  the 
issue  of  your  legitimate  marriage,  and  that  he  alone  is  entitled 
to  bear  your  name?" 

"Yes,  sir.  Alas!  I  was  then  more  delighted  at  the  success 
of  mv  project  than  I  should  have  been  over  the  most  bril- 
liant victory.  I  was  so  intoxicated  with  the  joy  of  having  my 
Valerie's  child  there,  near  me,  that  I  forgot  everything  else.  I 
had  transferred  to  him  a  part  of  my  love  for  his  mother;  or, 
rather,  I  loved  him  still  more,  if  that  be  possible.  The  thought 
that  he  would  bear  my  name,  that  he  would  inherit  all  my 
wealth,  to  the  detriment  of  the  other,  transported  me  with 
delight.  The  other  I  hated ;  I  could  not  even  look  upon  him. 
I  do  not  recollect  having  kissed  him  twice.  On  this  point 
Valerie,  who  was  very  good,  reproached  me  severely.  One 
thing  alone  interfered  with  my  happiness.  The  Comtesse  de 
Commarin  adored  him  whom  she  believed  to  be  her  son,  and 
always  wished  to  have  him  on  her  knees.  I  can  not  express 
what  I  suffered  at  seeing  my  wife  cover  with  kisses  and  caresses 
the  child  of  my  mistress.  But  I  kept  him  from  her  as  much  as 
I  could :  and  she,  poor  woman !  not  understanding  what  was 
passing  within  me,  imagined  that  I  was  doing  everything  to 
prevent  her  son  loving  her.  She  died,  sir,  with  this  idea,  which 
poisoned  her  last  days.  She  died  of  sorrow;  but  saint-like, 
without  a  complaint,  without  a  murmur,  pardon  upon  her  lips 
and  in  her  heart." 

Though  greatly  pressed  for  time,  M.  Daburon  did  not  venture 
to  interrupt  the  comte,  to  ask  him  briefly  for  the  immediate 
facts  of  the  case.  He  knew  that  fever  alone  gave  him  this 
unnatural  energy,  to  which  at  any  moment  might  succeed  the 
most  complete  prostration.  He  feared,  if  he  stopped  him  for  an 
instant,  that  he  would  not  have  strength  enough  to  resume. 
"I  did  not  shed  a  single  tear,"  continued  the  comte.     "What 


THE   LEROUGE   AFFAIR  793 

had  she  been  in  my  life?  A  cause  of  sorrow  and  remorse. 
But  God's  justice,  in  advance  of  man's,  was  about  to  take  a 
terrible  revenge.  One  day  I  was  warned  that  Valerie  was  de- 
ceiving me,  and  had  done  so  for  a  long  time.  I  could  not 
believe  it  at  first;  it  seemed  to  me  impossible,  absurd.  I  would 
have  sooner  doubted  myself  than  her.  I  had  taken  her  from 
a  garret,  where  she  was  working  sixteen  hours  a  day  to  earn 
a  few  sous;  she  owed  all  to  me.  I  had  made  her  so  much 
a  part  of  myself  that  I  could  not  credit  her  being  false.  I 
could  not  induce  myself  to  feel  jealous.  However,  I  inquired 
into  the  matter ;  T  had  her  watched ;  I  even  acted  the  spy  upon 
her  myself.  I  had  been  told  the  truth.  This  unhappy  woman 
had  another  lover,  and  had  had  him  for  more  than  ten  years. 
He  was  a  cavalry  officer.  In  coming  to  her  house  he  took  every 
precaution.  He  usually  left  about  midnight ;  but  sometimes  he 
came  to  pass  the  night,  and  in  that  case  went  away  in  the  early 
morning.  Being  stationed  near  Paris,  he  frequently  obtained 
leave  of  absence  and  came  to  visit  her;  and  he  would  remain 
shut  up  in  her  apartments  until  his  time  expired.  One  evening 
my  spies  brought  me  word  that  he  was  there.  I  hastened  to 
the  house.  My  presence  did  not  embarrass  her.  She  received 
me  as  usual,  throwing  her  arms  about  my  neck.  I  thought  that 
my  spies  had  deceived  me ;  and  I  was  going  to  tell  her  all  when 
I  saw  upon  the  piano  a  buckskin  glove,  such  as  are  worn  by 
soldiers.  Not  wishing  a  scene,  and  not  knowing  to  what  excess 
my  anger  might  carry  me,  I  rushed  out  of  the  place  without 
saying  a  word.  I  have  never  seen  her  since.  She  wrote  to 
me.  I  did  not  open  her  letters.  She  attempted  to  force  her 
way  into  my  presence,  but  in  vain ;  my  servants  had  orders  that 
they  dared  not  ignore." 

Could  this  be  the  Comte  de  Commarin,  celebrated  for  his 
haughty  coldness,  for  his  reserve  so  full  of  disdain,  who  spoke 
thus,  who  opened  his  whole  life  without  restrictions,  without 
reserve?  And  to  whom?  To  a  stranger.  But  he  was  in  one 
of  those  desperate  states,  allied  to  madness,  when  all  reflection 
leaves  us,  when  we  must  find  some  outlet  to  a  too  powerful 
emotion.  What  mattered  to  him  this  secret,  so  courageously 
borne  for  so  many  years?  He  disburdened  himself  of  it,  like 
the  poor  man,  who,  weighed  down  by  a  too  heavy  burden, 
casts  it  to  the  earth  without  caring  where  it  falls,  nor  how 
much  it  may  tempt  the  cupidity  of  the  passers-by. 

"Nothing,"  continued  he,  "no,  nothing,  can  approach  to  what 


794  THE    LEROUGE   AFFAIR 

I  then  endured.  My  very  heartstrings  were  bound  up  in  that 
woman.  She  was  like  a  part  of  myself.  In  separating  from 
her,  it  seemed  to  me  that  I  was  tearing  away  a  part  of  my  own 
flesh.  I  can  not  describe  the  furious  passions  her  memory 
stirred  within  me.  I  scorned  her  and  longed  for  her  with 
equal  vehemence.  I  hated  her  and  I  loved  her.  And  to  this 
day  her  detestable  image  has  been  ever  present  to  my  imagina- 
tion. Nothing  can  make  me  forget  her.  I  have  never  con- 
soled myself  for  her  loss.  And  that  is  not  all;  terrible  doubts 
about  Albert  occurred  to  me.  Was  I  really  his  father?  Can 
you  understand  what  my  punishment  was  when  I  thought  to 
myself,  'I  have  perhaps  sacrificed  my  own  son  to  the  child  of 
an  utter  stranger.  This  thought  made  me  hate  the  bastard  who 
called  himself  Commarin.  To  my  great  affection  for  him  suc- 
ceeded an  unconquerable  aversion.  How  often  in  those  days  I 
struggled  against  an  insane  desire  to  kill  him !  Since  then  I 
have  learned  to  subdue  my  aversion;  but  I  have  never  com- 
pletely mastered  it.  Albert,  sir,  has  been  the  best  of  sons. 
Nevertheless,  there  has  always  been  an  icy  barrier  between  us, 
which  he  was  unable  to  explain.  I  have  often  been  on  the 
point  of  appealing  to  the  tribunals,  of  avowing  all,  of  reclaim- 
ing my  legitimate  heir;  but  regard  for  my  rank  has  prevented 
me.  I  recoiled  before  the  scandal.  I  feared  the  ridicule  or 
disgrace  that  would  attach  to  my  name ;  and  yet  I  have  not 
been  able  to  save  it  from  infamy."  The  old  nobleman  remained 
silent  after  pronouncing  these  words.  In  a  fit  of  despair  he 
buried  his  face  in  his  hands,  and  two  great  tears  rolled  silently 
down  his  wrinkled  cheeks.  In  the  mean  time,  the  door  of  the 
room  opened  slightly,  and  the  tall  clerk's  head  appeared.  M. 
Daburon  signed  to  him  to  enter,  and  then  addressing  M.  de 
Commarin,  he  said  in  a  voice  rendered  more  gentle  by  com- 
passion :  "Sir,  in  the  eyes  of  heaven,  as  in  the  eyes  of  society, 
you  have  committed  a  great  sin;  and  the  results,  as  you  see, 
are  most  disastrous.  It  is  your  duty  to  repair  the  evil  conse- 
quences of  your  sin  as  much  as  lies  in  your  power." — "Such  is 
my  intention,  sir,  and,  may  I  say  so?  my  dearest  wish." — "You 
doubtless  understand  me,"  continued  M.  Daburon. — "Yes,  sir," 
replied  the  old  man ;  "yes,  I  understand  you." 

"It  will  be  a  consolation  to  you,"  added  the  magistrate,  "to 
learn  that  M.  Noel  Gerdy  is  worthy  in  all  respects  of  the  high 
position  that  you  are  about  to  restore  to  him.  He  is  a  man  of 
great  talent,  better  and  worthier  than  any  one  I  know.     You 


THE   LEROUGE   AFFAIR  795 

will  have  a  son  worthy  of  his  ancestors.  And,  finally,  no  one 
of  your  family  has  disgraced  it,  sir,  for  Vicomte  Albert  is  not 
a  Commarin." 

"No,"  rejoined  the  comte  quickly,  "a  Commarin  would  be 
dead  at  this  hour;  and  blood  washes  all  away." 

The  old  nobleman's  remark  set  the  investigating  magistrate 
thinking  profoundly.  "Are  you,  then,  sure,"  said  he,  "of  the 
vicomte's  guilt?"  M.  de  Commarin  gave  the  magistrate  a  look 
of  intense  surprise.  "I  only  arrived  in  Paris  yesterday  even- 
ing," he  replied,  "and  I  am  entirely  ignorant  of  all  that  has 
occurred.  I  only  know  that  justice  would  not  proceed  without 
good  cause  against  a  man  of  Albert's  rank.  If  you  have  arrested 
him,  it  is  quite  evident  that  you  have  something  more  than 
suspicion  against  him — that  you  possess  positive  proofs." 

M.  Daburon  bit  his  lips,  and  for  a  moment  could  not  conceal 
a  feeling  of  displeasure.  He  had  neglected  his  usual  prudence, 
had  moved  too  quickly.  He  had  believed  the  comte's  mind 
entirely  upset;  and  now  he  had  aroused  his  distrust.  All  the 
skill  in  the  world  could  not  repair  such  an  unfortunate  mis- 
take. A  witness  on  his  guard  is  no  longer  a  witness  to  be 
depended  upon ;  he  trembles  for  fear  of  compromising  himself, 
measures  the  weight  of  the  questions,  and  hesitates  as  to  his 
answers.  On  the  other  hand,  justice,  in  the  form  of  a  magis- 
trate, is  disposed  to  doubt  everything,  to  imagine  everything, 
and  to  suspect  everybody.  How  far  was  the  comte  a  stranger 
to  the  crime  at  La  Jonchere?  Although  doubting  Albert's  pa- 
ternity, he  would  certainly  have  made  great  efforts  to  save  him. 
His  story  showed  that  he  thought  his  honor  in  peril  just  as 
much  as  his  son.  Was  he  not  the  man  to  suppress,  by  every 
means,  an  inconvenient  witness?  Thus  reasoned  M.  Daburon. 
And  yet  he  could  not  clearly  see  how  the  Comte  de  Commarin's 
interests  were  concerned  in  the  matter.  This  uncertainty  made 
him  very  uneasy.  "Sir,"  he  asked  more  sternly,  "when  were 
you  informed  of  the  discovery  of  your  secret?" 

"Last  evening,  by  Albert  himself.  He  spoke  to  me  of  this 
sad  story  in  a  way  which  I  now  seek  in  vain  to  explain, 
unless — "  The  comte  stopped  short,  as  if  his  reason  had  been 
struck  by  the  improbability  of  the  supposition  which  he  had 
formed.  "Unless! — "  inquired  the  magistrate  eagerly. — "Sir," 
said  the  comte,  without  replying  directly,  "Albert  is  a  hero  if 
he  is  not  guilty." 

"Ah!"  said  the  magistrate  quickly,  "have  you,  then,  reason 


796  THE   LEROUGE   AFFAIR 

to  think  him  innocent?"  M.  Daburon's  spite  was  so  plainly 
visible  in  the  tone  of  his  words  that  M.  de  Commarin  could 
and  ought  to  have  seen  the  semblance  of  an  insult.  He  started, 
evidently  offended,  and,  rising,  said:  "I  am  now  no  more  a 
witness  for  than  I  was  a  moment  ago  a  witness  against.  I 
desire  only  to  render  what  assistance  I  can  to  justice,  in  accord- 
ance with  my  duty." 

"Confound  it,"  said  M.  Daburon  to  himself,  "here  I  have 
offended  him  now!  Is  this  the  way  to  do  things,  making  mis- 
take after  mistake?" 

"The  facts  are  these,"  resumed  the  comte.  "Yesterday,  after 
having  spoken  to  me  of  these  cursed  letters,  Albert  began  to 
set  a  trap  to  discover  the  truth — for  he  still  had  doubts,  Noel 
Gerdy  not  having  obtained  the  complete  correspondence.  An 
animated  discussion  arose  between  us.  He  declared  his  reso- 
lution to  give  way  to  Noel.  I,  on  the  other  hand,  was  resolved 
to  compromise  the  matter,  cost  what  it  might.  Albert  dared  to 
oppose  me.  All  my  efforts  to  convert  him  to  my  views  were 
useless.  Vainly  I  tried  to  touch  those  chords  in  his  breast 
which  I  supposed  the  most  sensitive.  He  firmly  repeated  his 
intention  to  retire  in  spite  of  me,  declaring  himself  satisfied 
if  I  would  consent  to  allow  him  a  modest  competence.  I  again 
attempted  to  shake  him  by  showing  him  that  his  marriage,  so 
ardently  looked  forward  to  for  two  years,  would  be  broken 
off  by  this  blow.  He  replied  that  he  felt  sure  of  the  con- 
stancy of  his  betrothed,  Mademoiselle  dArlange." 

This  name  fell  like  a  thunderbolt  upon  the  ears  of  the  in- 
vestigating magistrate.  He  jumped  in  his  chair.  Feeling  that 
his  face  was  turning  crimson,  he  took  up  a  large  bundle  of 
papers  from  his  table,  and,  to  hide  his  emotion,  he  raised  them 
to  his  face,  as  though  trying  to  decipher  an  illegible  word. 
He  began  to  understand  the  difficult  duty  with  which  he  was 
charged.  He  knew  that  he  was  troubled  like  a  child,  having 
neither  his  usual  calmness  nor  foresight.  He  felt  that  he  might 
commit  the  most  serious  blunders.  Why  had  he  undertaken  this 
investigation?  Could  he  preserve  himself  quite  free  from  bias? 
Did  he  think  his  will  would  be  perfectly  impartial?  Gladly 
would  be  put  off  to  another  time  the  further  examination  of 
the  comte;  but  could  he?  His  conscience  told  him  that  this 
would  be  another  blunder.  He  renewed,  then,  the  painful  ex- 
amination. "Sir,"  said  he,  "the  sentiments  expressed  by  the 
vicomte  are  very  fine,  without  doubt;  but  did  he  not  mention 


THE    LEROUGE   AFFAIR  797 

Widow  Lerouge?" — "Yes,"  replied  the  comte,  who  appeared 
suddenly  to  brighten,  as  by  the  remembrance  of  some  unnoticed 
circumstances — "yes,  certainly." — "He  must  have  shown  you  that 
this  woman's  testimony  rendered  a  struggle  with  M.  Gerdy 
impossible." 

"Precisely,  sir;  and,  aside  from  the  question  of  duty,  it  was 
upon  that  that  he  based  his  refusal  to  follow  my  wishes." 

"It  will  be  necessary,  comte,  for  you  to  repeat  to  me  very 
exactly  all  that  passed  between  the  vicomte  and  yourself. 
Appeal,  then,  I  beseech  you,  to  your  memory,  and  try  to  re- 
peat his  own  words  as  nearly  as  possible."  M.  de  Commarin 
could  do  so  without  much  difficulty.  For  some  little  time  a 
salutary  reaction  had  taken  place  within  him.  His  blood,  ex- 
cited by  the  persistence  of  the  examination,  moved  in  its  accus- 
tomed course.  His  brain  cleared  itself.  The  scene  of  the 
previous  evening  was  admirably  presented  to  his  memory,  even 
to  the  most  insignificant  details.  The  sound  of  Albert's  voice 
was  still  in  his  ears;  he  saw  again  his  expressive  gestures. 
As  his  story  advanced,  alive  with  clearness  and  precision,  M. 
Daburon's  conviction  became  more  confirmed.  The  magistrate 
turned  against  Albert  precisely  that  which  the  day  before  had 
won  the  comte's  admiration.  "What  wonderful  acting!"  thought 
he.  "Tabaret  is  decidedly  possessed  of  second-sight.  To  his 
inconceivable  boldness  this  young  man  joins  an  infernal  clever- 
ness. The  genius  of  crime  itself  inspires  him.  It  is  a  miracle  that 
we  are  able  to  unmask  him.  How  well  everything  was  foreseen 
and  arranged?  How  marvelously  this  scene  with  his  father 
was  brought  about,  in  order  to  procure  doubt  in  case  of  dis- 
covery ?  There  is  not  a  sentence  which  lacks  a  purpose,  which 
does  not  tend  to  ward  off  suspicion.  What  refinement  of  exe- 
cution ?  What  excessive  care  for  details !  Nothing  is  want- 
ing, not  even  the  great  devotion  of  his  betrothed.  Has  he 
really  informed  Claire  ?  Probably  I  might  find  out ;  but  I  should 
have  to  see  her  again,  to  speak  to  her.  Poor  child !  to  love 
such  a  man  !  But  his  plan  is  now  fully  exposed.  His  discus- 
sion with  the  comte  was  his  plank  of  safety.  It  committed 
him  to  nothing,  and  gained  time.  He  would  of  course  raise 
objections,  since  they  would  only  end  by  binding  him  the  more 
firmly  in  his  father's  heart.  He  could  thus  make  a  merit  of 
his  compliance,  and  would  ask  a  reward  for  his  weakness.  And 
when  Noel  returned  to  the  charge,  he  would  find  himself  in 
presence    of   the    comte,    who   would   boldly   deny   everything, 


798  THE   LEROUGE   AFFAIR 

politely  refuse  to  have  anything  to  do  with  him,  and  would 
possibly  have  him  driven  out  of  the  house  as  an  impostor  and 
forger." 

It  was  a  strange  coincidence,  but  yet  easily  explained,  that  M. 
de  Commarin,  while  telling  his  story,  arrived  at  the  same  ideas 
as  the  magistrate,  and  at  conclusions  almost  identical.  In  fact, 
why  that  persistence  with  respect  to  Claudine?  He  remem- 
bered plainly,  that,  in  his  anger,  he  had  said  to  his  son,  "Man- 
kind is  not  in  the  habit  of  doing  such  fine  actions  for  its  own 
satisfaction."    That  great  disinterestedness  was  now  explained. 

When  the  comte  had  ceased  speaking,  M.  Daburon  said: 
"I  thank  you,  sir.  I  can  say  nothing  positive ;  but  justice  has 
weighty  reasons  to  believe  that,  in  the  scene  which  you  have 
just  related  to  me,  Vicomte  Albert  played  a  part  previously 
arranged." — "And  well  arranged,"  murmured  the  comte;  "for 
he  deceived  me !"  He  was  interrupted  by  the  entrance  of 
Noel,  who  carried  under  his  arm  a  black  shagreen  portfolio, 
ornamented  with  his  monogram.  The  barrister  bowed  to  the 
old  gentleman,  who  in  his  turn  rose  and  retired  politely  to  the 
end  of  the  room.  "Sir,"  said  Noel,  in  an  undertone  to  the 
magistrate,  "you  will  find  all  the  letters  in  this  portfolio.  I 
must  ask  permission  to  leave  you  at  once,  as  Madame  Gerdy's 
condition  grows  hourly  more  alarming." 

Noel  had  raised  his  voice  a  little,  in  pronouncing  these  last 
words;  and  the  comte  heard  them.  He  started,  and  made  a 
great  effort  to  restrain  the  question  which  leaped  from  his 
heart  to  his  lips.  "You  must  however  give  me  a  moment,  my 
dear  sir,"  replied  the  magistrate.  M.  Daburon  then  quitted 
his  chair,  and,  taking  the  barrister  by  the  hand,  led  him  to  the 
comte.  "M.  de  Commarin,"  said  he,  "I  have  the  honor  of  pre- 
senting to  you  M.  Noel  Gerdy."  M.  de  Commarin  was  probably 
expecting  some  scene  of  this  kind,  for  not  a  muscle  of  his 
face  moved ;  he  remained  perfectly  calm.  Noel,  on  his  side, 
was  like  a  man  who  had  received  a  blow  on  the  head;  he  stag- 
gered, and  was  obliged  to  seek  support  from  the  back  of  a 
chair.  Then  these  two,  father  and  son,  stood  face  to  face, 
apparently  deep  in  thought,  but  in  reality  examining  one 
another  with  mutual  distrust,  each  striving  to  gather  something 
of  the  other's  thoughts.  M.  Daburon  had  augured  better  re- 
sults from  this  meeting,  which  he  had  been  awaiting  ever 
since  the  comte's  arrival.  He  had  expected  that  this  abrupt 
presentation   would   bring   about   an    intensely   pathetic    scene, 


THE    LEROUGE   AFFAIR  799 

which  would  not  give  his  two  witnesses  time  for  reflection.  The 
comte  would  open  his  arms ;  Noel  would  throw  himself  into 
them ;  and  this  reconciliation  would  only  await  the  sanction 
of  the  tribunals,  to  be  complete.  The  coldness  of  the  one,  the 
embarrassment  of  the  other,  disconcerted  his  plans.  He  there- 
fore thought  it  necessary  to  intervene.  '"Comte,"  said  he  re- 
proachfully, "remember  that  it  was  only  a  few  minutes  ago 
that  you  admitted  that  M.  Gerdy  was  your  legitimate  son." 
M.  de  Commarin  made  no  reply;  to  judge  from  his  lack  of 
emotion,  he  could  not  have  heard.  So  Noel,  summoning  all 
his  courage,  venture  to  speak  first.  "Sir,"  he  stammered,  "I 
entertain    no — " 

"You  may  call  me  father,"  interrupted  the  haughty  old  man, 
in  a  tone  which  was  by  no  means  affectionate.  Then  addressing 
the  magistrate  he  said:  "Can  I  be  of  any  further  use  to  you, 
sir?" 

"Only  to  hear  your  evidence  read  over,"  replied  M.  Daburon, 
"and  to  sign  it  if  you  find  everything  correct.  You  can  pro- 
ceed, Constant,"  he  added. 

The  tall  clerk  turned  half  round  on  his  chair  and  commenced. 
He  had  a  peculiar  way  of  jabbering  over  what  he  had  scrawled. 
He  read  very  quickly,  all  at  a  stretch,  without  paying  the  least 
attention  to  either  full  stops  or  commas,  questions  or  replies, 
but  went  on  reading  as  long  as  his  breath  lasted.  When  he 
could  go  on  no  longer,  he  took  a  breath,  and  then  continued 
as  before.  Unconsciously,  he  reminded  one  of  a  diver,  who 
every  now  and  then  raise  his  head  above  water,  obtains  a 
supply  of  air,  and  disappears  again.  Noel  was  the  only  one 
to  listen  attentively  to  the  reading,  which  to  unpractised  ears 
was  unintelligible.  It  apprised  him  of  many  things  which  it 
was  important  for  him  to  know.  At  last  Constant  pronounced 
the  words,  "In  testimony  whereof,"  etc.,  which  end  all  official 
reports  in  France.  He  handed  the  pen  to  the  comte,  who 
signed  without  hesitation.  The  old  nobleman  then  turned  to- 
ward Noel.  "I  am  not  very  strong,"  he  said ;  "you  must 
therefore,  my  son,"  emphasizing  the  word,  "help  your  father 
to   his   carriage." 

The  young  barrister  advanced  eagerly.  His  face  brightened, 
as  he  passed  the  count's  arm  through  his  own.  When  they 
were  gone  M.  Daburon  could  not  resist  an  impulse  of  curiosity. 
He  hastened  to  the  door,  which  he  opened  slightly;  and.  keep- 
ing his  body  in  the  background,  that  he  might  not  himself  be 


800  THE   LEROUGE    AFFAIR 

seen,  he  looked  out  into  the  passage.  The  comte  and  Noel 
had  not  yet  reached  the  end.  They  were  going  slowly.  The 
comte  seemed  to  drag  heavily  and  painfully  along;  the  bar- 
rister took  short  steps,  bending  slightly  toward  his  father ;  and 
all  his  movements  were  marked  with  the  greatest  solicitude. 
The  magistrate  remained  watching  them  until  they  passed  out 
of  sight  at  the  end  of  the  gallery.  Then  he  returned  to  his 
seat,  heaving  a  deep  sigh.  "At  least,"  thought  he,  "I  have 
helped  to  make  one  person  happy.  The  day  will  not  be  en- 
tirely a  bad  one." 

But  he  had  no  time  to  give  way  to  his  thoughts,  the  hours 
flew  by  so  quickly.  He  wished  to  interrogate  Albert  as  soon 
as  possible ;  and  he  had  still  to  receive  the  evidence  of  several 
of  the  comte's  servants,  and  the  report  of  the  commissary  of 
police  charged  with  the  arrest.  The  servants  who  had  been 
waiting  their  turn  a  long  while,  were  now  brought  in  without 
delay,  and  examined  separately.  They  had  but  little  informa- 
tion to  give ;  but  the  testimony  of  each  was,  so  to  say,  a  fresh 
accusation.  It  was  easy  to  see  that  all  believed  their  master 
guilty.  Albert's  conduct  since  the  beginning  of  the  fatal 
week,  his  least  words,  his  most  insignificant  movements,  were 
reported,  commented  upon,  and  explained.  The  man  who 
lives  in  the  midst  of  thirty  servants  is  like  an  insect  in  a  glass 
box  under  the  magnifying  glass  of  a  naturalist.  Not  one  of 
his  acts  escapes  their  notice;  he  can  scarcely  have  a  secret  of 
his  own;  and,  if  they  can  not  divine  what  it  is,  they  at  least 
know  that  he  has  one.  From  morn  till  night,  he  is  the  point 
of  observation  for  thirty  pairs  of  eyes,  interested  in  studying 
the  slightest  changes  in  his  countenance.  The  magistrate  ob- 
tained, therefore,  an  abundance  of  those  frivolous  details  which 
seem  nothing  at  first;  but  the  slightest  of  which  may,  at  the 
trial,  become  a  question  of  life  or  death.  By  combining  these 
depositions,  reconciling  them  and  putting  them  in  order,  M. 
Daburon  was  able  to  follow  his  prisoner  hour  by  hour  from 
the  Sunday  morning.  Directly  Noel  left,  the  vicomte  gave 
orders  that  all  visitors  should  be  informed  that  he  had  gone 
into  the  country.  From  that  moment,  the  whole  household 
perceived  that  something  had  gone  wrong  with  him,  that  he 
was  very  much  annoyed,  or  very  unwell.  He  did  not  leave 
his  study  on  that  day,  but  had  his  dinner  brought  up  to  him. 
He  ate  very  little — only  some  soup,  and  a  very  thin  fillet  of 
sole  with  white  wine.     While  eating,  he  said  to  M.   Courtois, 


THE    LEROUGE    AFFAIR  801 

the  butler:  "Remind  the  cook  to  spice  the  sauce  a  little  more, 
in  future,"  and  then  added  in  a  low  tone,  "Ah  !  to  what  pur- 
pose?" In  the  evening  he  dismissed  his  servants  from  all 
duties,  saying,  "Go,  and  amuse  yourselves."  He  expressly 
warned  them  not  to  disturb  him  unless  he  rang.  On 
the  Monday,  he  did  not  get  up  until  noon,  although  usually  an 
early  riser.  He  complained  of  a  violent  headache,  and  of 
feeling  sick.  He  took,  however  a  cup  of  tea.  He  ordered  his 
brougham,  but  almost  immediately  countermanded  the  order. 
Lubin,  his  valet,  heard  him  say :  "I  am  hesitating  too  much" ; 
and  a  few  moments  later.  "I  must  make  up  my  mind."  Shortly 
afterward  he  began  writing.  He  then  gave  Lubin  a  letter  to 
carry  to  Mademoiselle  Claire  d'Arlange,  with  orders  to  deliver 
it  only  to  herself  or  to  Mademoiselle  Schmidt,  the  governess. 
A  second  letter,  containing  two  thousand-frank  notes,  was  in- 
trusted to  Joseph,  to  be  taken  to  the  vicomte's  club.  Joseph 
no  longer  remembered  the  name  of  the  person  to  whom  the 
letter  was  addressed;  but  it  was  not  a  person  of  title.  That 
evening,  Albert  only  took  a  little  soup,  and  remained  shut  up 
in  his  room. 

He  rose  early  on  the  Tuesday.  He  wandered  about  the  house, 
as  though  he  was  in  great  trouble,  or  impatiently  awaiting 
something  which  did  not  arrive.  On  his  going  into  the 
garden,  the  gardener  asked  his  advice  concerning  a  lawn.  He 
replied,  "You  had  better  consult  the  comte  upon  his  return." 
He  did  not  breakfast  any  more  than  the  day  before.  About 
one  o'clock,  he  went  down  to  the  stables,  and  caressed,  with  an 
air  of  sadness,  his  favorite  mare.  Norma.  Stroking  her  neck, 
he  said,  "Poor  creature!  poor  old  girl!"  At  three  o'clock,  a 
messenger  arrived  with  a  letter.  The  vicomte  took  it,  and 
opened  it  hastily.  He  was  then  near  the  flower-garden.  Two 
footmen  distinctly  heard  him  say.  "She  can  not  resist."  He 
returned  to  the  house,  and  burned  the  letter  in  a  large  stove 
in  the  hall.  As  he  was  sitting  down  to  dinner,  at  six  o'clock, 
two  of  his  friends,  M.  de  Courtivois  and  the  Marquis  de 
Chouze.  insisted  upon  seeing  him,  in  spite  of  all  orders.  They 
would  not  be  refused.  These  gentlemen  were  anxious  for 
him  to  join  them  in  some  pleasure  party,  but  he  declined, 
saying  that  he  had  a  very  important  appointment.  At  dinner 
he  ate  a  little  more  than  on  the  previous  days.  He  even  asked 
the  butler  for  a  bottle  of  Chateau-Lafite.  the  whole  of  which 
he  drank  himself.     While  taking  his  coffee,  he  smoked  a  cigar 


302  THE    LEROUGE   AFFAIR 

in  the  dining-room,  contrary  to  the  rules  of  the  house.  At 
half-past  seven,  according  to  Joseph  and  two  footmen,  or  at 
eight  according  to  the  Swiss  porter  and  Lubin,  the  vicomte 
went  out  on  foot,  taking  an  umbrella  with  him.  He  returned 
home  at  two  o'clock  in  the  morning,  and  at  once  dismissed 
his  valet,  who  had  waited  up  for  him.  On  entering  the  vicomte's 
room  on  the  Wednesday,  the  valet  was  struck  with  the  con- 
dition in  which  he  found  his  master's  clothes.  They  were 
wet,  and  stained  with  mud;  the  trousers  were  torn.  He 
ventured  to  make  a  remark  about  them.  Albert  replied,  in  a 
furious  manner,  "Throw  the  old  things  in  a  corner,  ready  to 
be  given  away."  He  appeared  to  be  much  better  all  that  day. 
He  breakfasted  with  a  good  appetite ;  and  the  butler  noticed 
that  he  was  in  excellent  spirits.  He  passed  the  afternoon  in 
the  library,  and  burned  a  pile  of  papers.  On  the  Thursday,  he 
again  seemed  very  unwell.  He  was  scarcely  able  to  go  and 
meet  the  comte.  That  evening,  after  his  interview  with  his 
father,  he  went  to  his  room  looking  extremely  ill.  Lubin 
wanted  to  run  for  the  doctor ;  he  forbade  him  to  do  so,  or  to 
mention  to  any  one  that  he  was  not  well. 

Such  was  the  substance  of  twenty  large  pages,  which  the 
tall  clerk  had  covered  with  writing,  without  once  turning 
his  head  to  look  at  the  witnesses  who  passed  by  in  their  fine 
livery.  M.  Daburon  managed  to  obtain  this  evidence  in  less 
than  two  hours.  Though  well  aware  of  the  importance  of  their 
testimony,  all  these  servants  were  very  voluble.  The  difficulty 
was,  to  stop  them  when  they  had  once  started.  From  all  they 
said,  it  appeared  that  Albert  was  a  very  good  master — easily 
served,  kind  and  polite  to  his  servants.  Wonderful  to  relate ! 
there  were  found  three  among  them  who  did  not  appear  per- 
fectly delighted  at  the  misfortune  which  had  befallen  the  family. 
Two  were  greatly  distressed.  M.  Lubin,  although  he  had  been 
an  object  of  especial  kindness,  was  not  one  of  these. 

The  turn  of  the  commissary  of  police  had  now  come.  In  a 
few  words,  he  gave  an  account  of  the  arrest,  already  described 
by  old  Tabaret.  He  did  not  forget  to  mention  the  one  word 
"Lost,"  which  had  escaped  Albert;  to  his  mind,  it  was  a  con- 
fession. He  then  delivered  all  the  articles  seized  in  the  Vicomte 
de  Commarin's  apartments.  The  magistrate  carefully  examined 
these  things,  and  compared  them  closely  with  the  scraps  of 
evidence  gathered  at  La  Jonchere.  He  soon  appeared,  more 
than   ever   satisfied   with  the   course  he   had  taken.     He  then 


THE    LEROUGE   AFFAIR 


803 


placed  all  these  material  proofs  upon  his  table,  and  covered 
them  over  with  three  or  four  large  sheets  of  paper.  The  day 
was  far  advanced ;  and  M.  Daburon  had  no  more  than  sufficient 
time  to  examine  the  prisoner  before  night.  He  now  re- 
membered that  he  had  tasted  nothing  since  morning;  and  he 
sent  hastily  for  a  bottle  of  wine  and  some  biscuits.  It  was  not 
strength,  however,  that  the  magistrate  needed ;  it  was  courage. 
All  the  while  that  he  was  eating  and  drinking,  his  thoughts 
kept  repeating  this  strange  sentence,  "I  am  about  to  appear 
before  the  Vicomte  de  Commarin."  At  any  other  time,  he 
would  have  laughed  at  the  absurdity  of  the  idea,  but,  at  this 
moment,  it  seemed  to  him  like  the  will  of  Providence. 

"So  be  it,"  said  he  to  himself;  "this  is  my  punishment." 
And  immediately  he  gave  the  necessary  orders  for  Vicomte 
Albert  to  be  brought  before  him. 


ALBERT  scarcely  noticed  his  removal  from  home  to  the 
..  seclusion  of  the  prison.  Snatched  away  from  his  painful 
thoughts  by  the  harsh  voice  of  the  commissary,  saying,  "In 
the  name  of  the  law  I  arrest  you,"  his  mind,  completely  upset, 
was  a  long  time  in  recovering  its  equilibrium.  Everything 
that  followed  appeared  to  him  to  float  indistinctly  in  a  thick 
mist,  like  those  dream-scenes  represented  on  the  stage  behind 
a  quadruple  curtain  of  gauze.  To  the  questions  put  to  him 
he  replied,  without  knowing  what  he  said.  Two  police  agents 
took  hold  of  his  arms,  and  helped  him  down  the  stairs.  He 
could  not  have  walked  down  alone.  His  limbs,  which  bent 
beneath  him,  refused  their  support.  The  only  thing  he  under- 
stood of  all  that  was  said  around  him  was  that  the  comte  had 
been  struck  with  apoplexy;  but  even  that  he  soon  forgot.  They 
lifted  him  into  the  cab,  which  was  waiting  in  the  court-yard 
at  the  foot  of  the  steps,  rather  ashamed  at  finding  itself  in  such 
a  place;  and  by  placing  him  on  the  back  seat.  Two 
police  agents  installed  themselves  in  front  of  him;  while  a 
third  mounted  the  box  by  the  side  of  the  driver.     During  the 


804  THE   LEROUGE   AFFAIR 

drive,  he  did  not  at  all  realize  his  situation.  He  lay  perfectly 
motionless  in  the  dirty,  greasy  vehicle.  His  body,  which  fol- 
lowed every  jolt,  scarcely  allayed  by  the  worn-out  springs, 
rolled  from  one  side  to  the  other;  and  his  head  oscillated  on 
his  shoulders,  as  if  the  muscles  of  his  neck  were  broken.  He 
thought  of  Widow  Lerouge.  He  recalled  her  as  she  was  when 
he  went  with  his  father  to  La  Jonchere.  It  was  in  the  spring- 
time; and  the  hawthorn  blossoms  scented  the  air.  The  old 
woman,  in  a  white  cap,  stood  at  her  garden  gate;  she  spoke 
beseechingly.  The  count  looked  sternly  at  her  as  he  listened; 
then,  taking  some  gold  from  his  purse,  he  gave  it  to  her. 

On  arriving  at  their  destination  they  lifted  him  out  of  the 
cab,  the  same  way  as  they  had  lifted  him  in  at  starting.  Dur- 
ing the  formality  of  entering  his  name  in  the  jail  book,  in  the 
dingy,  stinking  record  office,  and  while  replying  mechanically 
to  everything,  he  gave  himself  up  with  delight  to  recollections 
of  Claire.  He  went  back  to  the  time  of  the  early  days  of  their 
love,  when  he  doubted  whether  he  would  ever  have  the  hap- 
piness of  being  loved  by  her  in  return ;  when  they  used  to  meet 
at  Mademoiselle  Goello's.  This  old  maid  had  a  house  on  the 
left  bank  of  the  Seine,  furnished  in  the  most  eccentric  manner. 
On  all  the  drawing-room  furniture,  and  on  the  mantelpiece, 
were  placed  a  dozen  or  fifteen  stuffed  dogs,  of  various  breeds, 
which  together  or  successively  had  helped  to  cheer  the  maiden's 
lonely  hours.  She  loved  to  relate  stories  of  these  pets,  whose 
affection  had  never  failed  her.  Some  were  grotesque,  others 
horrible.  One  especially,  outrageously  stuffed,  seemed  ready 
to  burst.  How  many  times  he  and  Claire  had  laughed  at  it 
until  the  tears  came ! 

The  officials  next  began  to  search  him.  This  crowning 
humiliation,  those  rough  hands  passing  all  over  his  body, 
brought  him  somewhat  to  himself,  and  roused  his  anger. 
But  it  was  already  over;  they  at  once  dragged  him  along  the 
dark  corridors,  over  the  filthy,  slippery  floor.  They  opened  a 
door,  and  pushed  him  into  a  small  cell.  He  then  heard  them 
lock  and  bolt  the  door.  He  was  a  prisoner,  and,  in  accordance 
with  special  orders,  in  solitary  confinement.  He  immediately 
felt  a  marked  sensation  of  comfort.  He  was  alone.  No  more 
stifled  whispers,  harsh  voices,  implacable  questions,  sounded 
in  his  ears.  A  profound  silence  reigned  around.  It  seemed 
to  him  that  he  had  forever  escaped  from  society ;  and  he  re- 
joiced at  it.     He  would  have  felt  relieved,  had  this  even  been 


THE    LEROUGE   AFFAIR  805 

the  silence  of  the  grave.  H,is  body,  as  well  as  his  mind,  was 
weighted  down  with  weariness.  He  wanted  to  sit  down,  when 
he  perceived  a  small  bed,  to  the  right,  in  front  of  the  grated 
window,  which  let  in  the  little  light  there  was.  This  bed  was 
as  welcome  to  him  as  a  plank  would  be  to  a  drowning  man. 
He  threw  himself  upon  it,  and  lay  down  with  delight ;  but  he 
felt  cold,  so  he  unfolded  the  coarse  woolen  coverlid,  and  wrap- 
ping it  about  him,  was  soon  sound  asleep. 

In  the  corridor,  two  detectives,  one  still  young,  the  other 
rather  old,  applied  alternately  their  eyes  and  ears  to  the  peep- 
hole in  the  door,  watching  every  movement  of  the  prisoner: 
"What  a  fellow  he  is !"  murmured  the  younger  officer.  "If  a 
man  has  no  more  nerve  than  that,  he  ought  to  remain  honest. 
He  won't  care  much  about  his  looks  the  morning  of  his  execu- 
tion, eh,  M.  Balan?" — "That  depends,"  replied  the  other.  "We 
must  wait  and  see.  Lecoq  told  me  that  he  was  a  terrible  ras- 
cal."— "Ah !  look,  he  arranges  his  bed  and  lies  down.  Can  he 
be  going  to  sleep?  That's  good!  It's  the  first  time  I  ever  saw 
such  a  thing." — "It  is  because,  comrade,  you  have  only  had 
dealings  with  the  smaller  rogues.  All  rascals  of  position — and 
I  have  had  to  do  with  more  than  one — are  this  sort.  At  the 
moment  of  arrest,  they  are  incapable  of  anything;  their  heart 
fails  them ;  but  they  recover  themselves  next  day." — "Upon  my 
word,  one  would  say  he  has  gone  to  sleep  !  What  a  joke  !" — 
"I  tell  you,  my  friend,"  added  the  old  man,  pointedly,  "that 
nothing  is  more  natural.  I  am  sure  that,  since  the  blow  was 
struck,  this  young  fellow  has  hardly  lived:  his  body  has  been 
all  on  fire.  Now  he  knows  that  his  secret  is  out;  and  that 
quiets  him." — "Ha,  ha!  M.  Balan,  you  are  joking:  you  say  that 
that  quiets  him?" — "Certainly.  There  is  no  greater  punish- 
ment, remember,  than  anxiety;  everything  is  preferable.  If 
you  only  possessed  an  income  of  ten  thousand  francs,  I  would 
show  you  a  way  to  prove  this.  I  would  tell  you  to  go  to 
Hamburg  and  risk  your  entire  fortune  on  one  chance  at  rouge 
et  noir.  You  could  relate  to  me,  afterward,  what  your  feelings 
were  while  the  ball  was  rolling.  It  is,  my  boy,  as  though  your 
brain  was  being  torn  with  pincers,  as  though  molten  lead  was 
being  poured  into  your  bones,  in  place  of  marrow.  This  anx- 
iety is  so  strong  that  one  feels  relieved,  one  breathes  again, 
even  when  one  has  lost.  It  is  ruin;  but  then  the  anxiety  is 
over." — "Really,  M.  Balan,  one  would  think  that  you  yourself 
had  had  just  such  an  experience." — "Alas  !"  sighed  the  old  de- 


806  THE    LEROUGE   AFFAIR 

tective,  "it  is  to  my  love,  queen  of  spades,  my  unhappy  love, 
that  you  owe  the  honor  of  looking  through  this  peep-hole  in 
my  company.  But  this  fellow  will  sleep  for  a  couple  of  hours, 
do  not  lose  sight  of  him;  I  am  going  to  smoke  a  cigarette  in 
the  courtyard." 

Albert  slept  four  hours.  On  awaking  his  head  seemed 
clearer  than  it  had  been  ever  since  his  interview  with  Noel.  It 
was  a  terrible  moment  for  him  when,  for  the  first  time,  he 
became  fully  aware  of  his  situation.  "Now,  indeed,"  said  he, 
"I  require  all  my  courage."  He  longed  to  see  some  one,  to 
speak,  to  be  questioned,  to  explain.  He  felt  a  desire  to  call 
out.  "But  what  good  would  that  be?"  he  asked  himself.  "Some 
one  will  be  coming  soon."  He  looked  for  his  watch,  to  see 
what  time  it  was,  and  found  that  they  had  taken  it  away.  He 
felt  this  deeply;  they  were  treating  him  like  the  most  aban- 
doned of  villains.  He  felt  in  his  pockets :  they  had  all  been 
carefully  emptied.  He  thought  now  of  his  personal  appearance ; 
and,  getting  up,  he  repaired  as  much  as  possible  the  disorder 
of  his  toilet.  He  put  his  clothes  in  order,  and  dusted  them; 
he  straightened  his  collar,  and  retied  his  cravat.  Then  pouring 
a  little  water  on  his  handkerchief,  he  passed  it  over  his  face, 
bathing  his  eyes,  which  were  greatly  inflamed.  Then  he  en- 
deavored to  smooth  his  beard  and  hair.  He  had  no  idea  that 
four  lynx  eyes  were  fixed  upon  him  all  the  while. 

"Good !"  murmured  the  young  detective :  "see  how  our  cock 
sticks  up  his  comb,  and  smooths  his  feathers !" 

"I  told  you,"  put  in  Balan,  "that  he  was  only  staggered. 
Hush  !  he  is  speaking,  I  believe." 

But  they  neither  surprised  one  of  those  disordered  gestures 
nor  one  of  those  incoherent  speeches,  which  almost  always  es- 
cape from  the  feeble  when  excited  by  fear,  or  from  the  impru- 
dent ones  who  believe  in  the  discretion  of  their  cells.  One 
word  alone,  "honor,"  reached  the  ears  of  the  two  spies.  "These 
rascals  of  rank,"  grumbled  Balan,  "always  have  this  word  in 
their  mouths.  That  which  they  most  fear  is  the  opinion  of 
some  dozen  friends,  and  several  thousand  strangers,  who  read 
the  'Gazette  des  Tribunaux.'  They  only  think  of  their  own 
heads  later  on." 

When  the  gendarmes  came  to  conduct  Albert  before  the  in- 
vestigating magistrate,  they  found  him  seated  on  the  side  of 
his  bed,  his  feet  pressed  upon  the  iron  rail,  his  elbows  on  his 
knees,  and  his  head  buried  in  his  hands.     He  rose  as  they  en- 


THE   LEROUGE   AFFAIR  807 

tered,  and  took  a  few  steps  toward  them ;  but  his  throat  was 
so  dry  that  he  was  scarcely  able  to  speak.  He  asked  for  a 
moment,  and,  turning  toward  the  little  table,  he  filled  and  drank 
two  large  glassfuls  of  water  in  succession.  "I  am  ready  !"  he 
then  said.  And,  with  a  firm  step,  he  followed  the  gendarmes 
along  the  passage  which  led  to  the  Palais  de  Justice. 

M.  Daburon  was  just  then  in  great  anguish.  He  walked  furi- 
ousry  up  and  down  his  office,  awaiting  the  prisoner.  Again, 
and  for  the  twentieth  time  since  morning,  he  regretted  having 
engaged  in  the  business.  "Curse  this  absurd  point  of  honor, 
which  I  have  obeyed,"  he  inwardly  exclaimed.  "I  in  vain  at- 
tempt to  reassure  myself  by  the  aid  of  sophisms.  I  was  wrong 
in  not  withdrawing.  Nothing  in  the  world  can  change  my  feel- 
ings toward  this  young  man.  I  hate  him.  I  am  his  judge;  and 
it  is  no  less  true  that  at  one  time  I  longed  to  assassinate  him. 
I  faced  him  with  a  revolver  in  my  hand :  why  did  I  not  present 
it  and  fire?  Do  I  know  why?  What  power  held  my  finger, 
when  an  almost  insensible  pressure  would  have  sufficed  to  kill 
him?  I  can  not  say.  Why  is  not  he  the  judge  and  I  the 
assassin  ?  If  the  intention  was  as  punishable  as  the  deed,  I 
ought  to  be  guillotined.  And  it  is  under  such  conditions  that 
I  dare  examine  him  !"  Passing  before  the  door  he  heard  the 
heavy  footsteps  of  the  gendarmes  in  the  passage.  "It  is  he," 
he  said  aloud;  and  then  hastily  seated  himself  at  his  table, 
bending  over  his  portfolios,  as  though  striving  to  hide  himself. 
If  the  tall  clerk  had  used  his  eyes,  he  would  have  noticed  the 
singular  spectacle  of  an  investigating  magistrate  more  agitated 
than  the  prisoner  he  was  about  to  examine.  But  he  was  blind 
to  all  around  him;  and,  at  this  moment,  he  was  only  aware  of 
an  error  of  fifteen  centimes,  which  had  slipped  into  his  ac- 
counts, and  which  he  was  unable  to  rectify.  Albert  entered 
the  magistrate's  office  with  his  head  erect.  His  features  bore 
traces  of  great  fatigue  and  of  sleepless  nights.  He  was  very 
pale;  but  his  eyes  were  clear  and  sparkling. 

The  usual  questions  which  open  such  examinations  gave  M. 
Daburon  an  opportunity  to  recover  himself.  Fortunately,  he 
had  found  time  in  the  morning  to  prepare  a  plan,  which  he  had 
now  simply  to  follow.  "You  are  aware,  sir,"  he  commenced 
in  a  tone  of  perfect  politeness,  "that  you  have  no  right  to  the 
name  you  bear?" 

"I  know,  sir,"  replied  Albert,  "that  I  am  the  natural  son  of 
M.  de  Commarin.     I  know  further   that  my  father  would  be 


808  THE   LEROUGE    AFFAIR 

unable  to  recognize  me,  even  if  he  wished  to,  since  I  was  born 
during  his  married  life." 

"What  were  your  feelings  upon  learning  this?'' 

"I  should  speak  falsely,  sir,  if  I  had  said  I  did  not  feel  very 
bitterly.  When  one  is  in  the  high  position  I  occupied,  the  fall 
is  terrible.  However,  I  never  for  a  moment  entertained  the 
thought  of  contesting  M.  Noel  Gerdy's  rights.  I  always  pur- 
posed, and  still  purpose,  to  yield.  I  have  so  informed  M.  de 
Commarin." 

M.  Daburon  expected  just  such  a  reply:  and  it  only  strength- 
ened his  suspicions.  Did  it  not  enter  into  the  line  of  defense 
which  he  had  foreseen?  It  was  now  his  duty  to  seek  some  way 
of  demolishing  this  defense,  in  which  the  prisoner  evidently 
meant  to  shut  himself  up  like  a  tortoise  in  its  shell.  "You 
could  not  oppose  M.  Gerdy,''  continued  the  magistrate,  "with 
any  chance  of  success.  You  had,  indeed,  on  your  side,  the 
comte,  and  your  mother;  but  M.  Gerdy  was  in  possession  of 
evidence  that  was  certain  to  win  his  cause,  that  of  Widow 
Lerouge." — "I  have  never  doubted  that,  sir." — "Now,"  con- 
tinued the  magistrate,  seeking  to  hide  the  look  which  he  fas- 
tened upon  Albert,  "justice  supposes  that,  to  do  away  with  the 
only  existing  proof,  you  have  assassinated  Widow  Lerouge." 

This  terrible  accusation,  terribly  emphasized,  caused  no 
change  in  Albert's  features.  He  preserved  the  same  firm  bear- 
ing, without  bravado.  "Before  God,"  he  answered,  "and  by  all 
that  is  most  sacred  on  earth,  I  swear  to  you,  sir,  that  I  am 
innocent !  I  am  at  this  moment  a  close  prisoner,  without  com- 
munication with  the  outer  world,  reduced  consequently  to  the 
most  absolute  helplessness.  It  is  through  your  probity  that  I 
hope  to  demonstrate  my  innocence." 

"What  an  actor!"  thought  the  magistrate.  "Can  crime  be 
so  strong  as  this?"  He  glanced  over  his  papers,  reading  certain 
passages  of  the  preceding  depositions,  turning  down  the  corners 
of  certain  pages  which  contained  important  information.  Then 
suddenly  he  resumed :  "When  you  were  arrested,  you  cried  out : 
T  am  lost.'     What  did  you  mean  by  that?" 

"Sir,"  replied  Albert,  "I  remember  having  uttered  those 
words.  When  T  knew  of  what  crime  I  was  accused,  I  was 
overwhelmed  with  consternation.  My  mind  was,  as  it  were, 
enlightened  by  a  glimpse  of  the  future.  In  a  moment,  I  per- 
ceived all  the  horror  of  my  situation.  I  understood  the  weight 
of  the  accusation,  its  probability,  and  the  difficulties  I   should 


THE    LEROUGE   AFFAIR  809 

have  in  defending  myself.  A  voice  cried  out  to  me:  'Who  was 
most  interested  in  Claudine's  death  ?'  And  the  knowledge  of 
my  imminent  peril  forced  from  me  the  exclamation  you 
speak  of." 

His  explanation  was  more  than  plausible,  was  possible,  and 
even  likely.  It  had  the  advantage,  too,  of  anticipating  the 
axiom:  "Search  out  the  one  whom  the  crime  will  benefit!" 
Tabaret  had  spoken  truly,  when  he  said  that  they  would  not 
easily  make  the  prisoner  confess.  M.  Daburon  admired  Al- 
bert's presence  of  mind,  and  the  resources  of  his  perverse 
imagination. 

"You  do  indeed,"  continued  the  magistrate,  "appear  to  have 
had  the  greatest  interest  in  this  death.  Moreover,  I  will  inform 
you  that  robbery  was  not  the  object  of  the  crime.  The  things 
thrown  into  the  Seine  have  been  recovered.  We  know,  also, 
that  all  the  widow's  papers  were  burned.  Could  they  compro- 
mise any  one  but  yourself?  If  you  know  of  any  one,  speak." — 
"What  can  I  answer,  sir?  Nothing." — "Have  you  often  gone 
to  see  this  woman  ?" — "Three  or  four  times  with  my  father." — 
"One  of  your  coachmen  pretends  to  have  driven  you  there  at 
least  ten  times." — "The  man  is  mistaken.  But  what  matters  the 
number  of  visits?" — "Do  you  recollect  the  arrangements  of  the 
rooms  ?  Can  you  describe  them  ?" — "Perfectly,  sir  :  there  were 
two.  Claudine  slept  in  the  back  room." — "You  were  in  no  way 
a  stranger  to  Widow  Lerouge.  If  you  had  knocked  one  evening 
at  her  window-shutter,  do  you  think  she  would  have  let  you 
in  ?" — "Certainly,  sir.  and  eagerly." — "You  have  been  unwell 
these  last  few  days?" — "Very  unwell,  to  say  the  least,  sir. 
My  body  bent  under  the  weight  of  a  burden  too  great  for  my 
strength.  It  was  not,  however,  for  want  of  courage." — "Why 
did  you  forbid  your  valet,  Lubin,  to  call  in  the  doctor?" — "Ah, 
sir,  how  could  the  doctor  cure  my  disease?  All  his  science 
could  not  make  me  the  legitimate  son  of  the  Comte  de  Com- 
marin." — "Some  very  singular  remarks  made  by  you  were  over- 
heard. You  seemed  to  be  no  longer  interested  in  anything  con- 
cerning your  home.  You  destroyed  a  large  number  of  papers 
and  letters." — "I  had  decided  to  leave  the  comte,  sir.  My  reso- 
lution explains  my  conduct." 

Albert  replied  promptly  to  the  magistrate's  questions,  with- 
out the  least  embarrassment,  and  in  a  confident  tone.  His  voice, 
which  was  very  pleasant  to  the  ear,  did  not  tremble.  It  con- 
cealed no  emotion;  it  retained  its  pure  and  vibrating  sound 

8 — Vol.  Ill-    Gab. 


810  THE    LEROUGE   AFFAIR 

M.  Daburon  deemed  it  wise  to  suspend  the  examination  for  a 
short  time.  With  so  cunning  an  adversary,  he  was  evidently 
pursuing  a  false  course.  To  proceed  in  detail  was  folly;  he 
neither  intimidated  the  prisoner,  nor  made  him  break  through 
his  reserve.    It  was  necessary  to  take  him  unawares. 

"Sir,"  resumed  the  magistrate,  abruptly,  "tell  me  exactly  how 
you  passed  your  time  last  Tuesday  evening,  from  six  o'clock 
until  midnight?" 

For  the  first  time,  Albert  seemed  disconcerted.  His  glance, 
which  had,  till  then,  been  fixed  upon  the  magistrate,  wavered. 
"During  Tuesday  evening,"  he  stammered,  repeating  the  phrase 
to  gain  time. 

"I  have  him,"  thought  the  magistrate,  starting  with  joy,  and 
then  added  aloud:  "Yes,  from  six  o'clock  until  midnight." 

"I  am  afraid,  sir,"  answered  Albert,  "it  will  be  difficult  for 
me  to  satisfy  you.     I  haven't  a  very  good  memory." 

"Oh,  don't  tell  me  that!"  interrupted  the  magistrate.  "If  I 
had  asked  what  you  were  doing  three  months  ago,  on  a  certain 
evening,  and  at  a  certain  hour,  I  could  understand  your  hesita- 
tion; but  this  is  about  Tuesday,  and  it  is  now  Friday.  More- 
over, this  day,  so  close,  was  the  last  of  the  carnival;  it  was 
Shrove  Tuesday.  That  circumstance  ought  to  help  your 
memory." 

"That  evening  I  went  out  walking,"  murmured  Albert. — 
"Now,"  continued  the  magistrate,  "where  did  you  dine?" — 
"At  home,  as  usual." — "No,  not  as  usual.  At  the  end  of 
your  meal,  you  asked  for  a  bottle  of  Bordeaux,  of  which  you 
drank  the  whole.  You  doubtless  had  need  of  some  extra  excite- 
ment for  your  subsequent  plans." — "I  had  no  plans,"  replied  the 
prisoner  with  very  evident  uneasiness. — "You  make  a  mistake. 
Two  friends  came  to  seek  you.  You  replied  to  them,  before  sit- 
ting down  to  dinner,  that  you  had  a  very  important  engage- 
ment to  keep." — "That  was  only  a  polite  way  of  getting  rid  of 
them." — "Why?" — "Can  you  not  understand,  sir?  I  was  re- 
signed, but  not  comforted.  I  was  learning  to  get  accustomed 
to  the  terrible  blow.  Would  not  one  seek  solitude  in  the  great 
crisis  of  one's  life?" — "The  prosecution  pretends  that  you 
wished  to  be  left  alone  that  you  might  go  to  La  Jonchere. 
During  the  day  you  said :  'She  can  not  resist  me.'  Of  whom 
were  you  speaking?" — "Of  some  one  to  whom  I  had  written  the 
evening  before,  and  who  had  replied  to  me.  I  spoke  the  words, 
with   her  letter   still   in   my   hands." — "This   letter   was,   then, 


THE    LEROUGE    AFFAIR  811 

from  a  woman?" — "Yes." — "What  have  you  done  with  it?" — 
"I  have  burned  it." — "This  precaution  leads  one  to  suppose  that 
you  considered  the  letter  compromising." — "Not  at  all,  sir;  it 
treated  entirely  of  private  matters." 

M.  Daburon  was  sure  that  this  letter  came  from  Mademoi- 
selle d'Arlange.  Should  he  nevertheless  ask  the  question,  and 
again  hear  pronounced  the  name  of  Claire,  which  always 
aroused  such  painful  emotions  within  him  ?  He  ventured  to  do 
so,  leaning  over  his  papers,  so  that  the  prisoner  could  not  detect 
his  emotion.    "From  whom  did  this  letter  come?"  he  asked. 

"From  one  whom  I  can  not  name." 

"Sir,"  said  the  magistrate  severely,  "I  will  not  conceal  from 
you  that  your  position  is  greatly  compromised.  Do  not  aggra- 
vate it  by  this  culpable  reticence.  You  are  here  to  tell  every- 
thing, sir." 

"My  own  affairs,  yes,  not  those  of  others." 

Albert  gave  this  last  answer  in  a  dry  tone.  He  was  giddy, 
flurried,  exasperated,  by  the  prying  and  irritating  mode  of  the 
examination,  which  scarcely  gave  him  time  to  breathe.  The 
magistrate's  questions  fell  upon  him  more  thickly  than  the  blows 
of  the  blacksmith's  hammer  upon  the  red-hot  iron  which  he  is 
anxious  to  beat  into  shape  before  it  cools.  The  apparent  rebel- 
lion of  his  prisoner  troubled  M.  Daburon  a  great  deal.  He  was 
further  extremely  surprised  to  find  the  discernment  of  the  old 
detective  at  fault;  just  as  though  Tabaret  were  infallible.  Taba- 
ret  had  predicted  an  unexceptionable  alibi ;  and  this  alibi  was 
not  forthcoming.  Why?  Had  this  subtle  villain  something  bet- 
ter than  that?  What  artful  defense  had  he  to  fall  back  upon? 
Doubtless  he  kept  in  reserve  some  unforeseen  stroke,  perhaps 
irresistible.  "Gently,"  thought  the  magistrate.  "I  have  not  got 
him  yet."  Then  he  quickly  added  aloud :  "Continue.  After 
dinner  what  did  you  do?" — "I  went  out  for  a  walk." — "Not  im- 
mediately. The  bottle  emptied,  you  smoked  a  cigar  in  the 
dining-room,  which  was  so  unusual  as  to  be  noticed.  What 
kind  of  cigars  do  you  usually  smoke?" — "Trabucos." — "Do  you 
not  use  a  cigar-holder,  to  keep  your  lips  from  contact  with  the 
tobacco?" — "Yes,  sir,"  replied  Albert,  much  surprised  at  this 
series  of  questions. — "At  what  time  did  you  go  out?" — "About 
eight  o'clock." — "Did  you  carry  an  umbrella?" — "Yes." — 
"Where  did  you  go?" — "I  walked  about." — "Alone,  without  any 
object,  all  the  evening?" — "Yes,  sir." — "Now  trace  out  your 
wanderings  for  me  very  carefully." 


812  THE    LEROUGE   AFFAIR 

"Ah,  sir,  that  is  very  difficult  to  do !  I  went  out  simply  to 
walk  about,  for  the  sake  of  exercise,  to  drive  away  the  torpor 
which  had  depressed  me  for  three  days.  I  don't  know  whether 
you  can  picture  to  yourself  my  exact  condition.  I  was  half 
out  of  my  mind.  I  walked  about  at  hazard  along  the  quays.  I 
wandered  through  the  streets — " 

"All  that  is  very  improbable,"  interrupted  the  magistrate.  M. 
Daburon,  however,  knew  that  it  was  at  least  possible.  Had  not 
he  himself,  one  night,  in  a  similar  condition,  traversed  all 
Paris?  What  reply  could  he  have  made,  had  some  one  asked 
him  next  morning  where  he  had  been,  except  that  he  had  not 
paid  attention,  and  did  not  know  ?  But  he  had  forgotten  this ; 
and  his  previous  hesitations,  too,  had  all  vanished.  As  the  in- 
quiry advanced,  the  fever  of  investigation  took  possession  of 
him.  He  enjoyed  the  emotions  of  the  struggle,  his  passion  for 
his  calling  became  stronger  than  ever.  He  was  again  an  inves- 
tigating magistrate,  like  the  fencing  master,  who,  once  practis- 
ing with  his  dearest  friend,  became  excited  by  the  clash  of  the 
weapons,  and,  forgetting  himself,  killed  him. 

"So,"  resumed  M.  Daburon,  "you  met  absolutely  no  one  who 
can  affirm  that  he  saw  you  ?  You  did  not  speak  to  a  living 
soul  ?  You  entered  no  place,  not  even  a  cafe,  or  a  theatre,  or 
a  tobacconist's  to  light  one  of  your  favorite  trabucos?" 

"No  sir." 

"Well,  it  is  a  great  misfortune  for  you,  yes,  a  very  great 
misfortune;  for  I  must  inform  you  that  it  was  precisely  during 
this  Tuesday  evening,  between  eight  o'clock  and  midnight,  that 
Widow  Lerouge  was  assassinated.  Justice  can  point  out  the 
exact  hour.  Again,  sir,  in  your  own  interest,  I  recommend  you 
to  reflect — to  make  a  strong  appeal  to  your  memory." 

This  pointing  out  of  the  exact  day  and  hour  of  the  murder 
seemed  to  astound  Albert.  He  raised  his  hand  to  his  forehead 
with  a  despairing  gesture.  However,  he  replied  in  a  calm 
voice :  "I  am  very  unfortunate,  sir :  but  I  can  recollect  nothing." 
M.  Daburon's  surprise  was  immense.  What,  not  an  alibi? 
Nothing?  This  could  be  no  snare  nor  system  of  defense.  Was, 
then,  this  man  as  cunning  as  he  had  imagined?  Doubtless. 
Only  he  had  been  taken  unawares.  He  had  never  imagined  it 
possible  for  the  accusation  to  fall  upon  him ;  and  it  was  almost 
by  a  miracle  it  had  done  so.  The  magistrate  slowly  raised,  one 
by  one,  the  large  pieces  of  paper  that  covered  the  articles  seized 
in  Albert's  rooms.     "We  will  pass,"  he  continued,  "to  the  ex- 


THE    LEROUGE    AFFAIR  813 

amination  of  the  charges  which  weigh  against  you.  Will  you 
please  come  nearer?  Do  you  recognize  these  articles  as  be- 
longing to  yourself?" — "Yes,  sir,  they  are  all  mine." — "Well, 
take  this  foil.  Who  broke  it?" — "I,  sir,  in  fencing  with  M.  de 
Courtivois,  who  can  bear  witness  to  it." — "He  will  be  heard. 
Where  is  the  broken  end?" — "I  do  not  know.  You  must  ask 
Lubin,  my  valet."' — "Exactly.  He  declares  that  he  has  hunted 
for  it,  and  can  not  find  it.  I  must  tell  you  that  the  victim  re- 
ceived the  fatal  blow  from  the  sharpened  end  of  a  broken  foil. 
This  piece  of  stuff,  on  which  the  assassin  wiped  his  weapon,  is 
a  proof  of  what  I  state." — "I  beseech  you,  sir,  to  order  a  most 
minute  search  to  be  made.  It  is  impossible  that  the  other  half 
of  the  foil  is  not  to  be  found." — "Orders  shall  be  given  to  that 
effect.  Look,  here  is  the  exact  imprint  of  the  murderer's  foot 
traced  on  this  sheet  of  paper.  I  will  place  one  of  your  boots 
upon  it  j  and  the  sole,  as  you  perceive,  fits  the  tracing  with  the 
utmost  precision.  This  plaster  was  poured  into  the  hollow  left 
by  the  heel :  you  observe  that  it  is,  in  all  respects,  similar  in 
shape  to  the  heels  of  your  own  boots.  I  perceive,  too,  the  mark 
of  a  peg,  which  appears  in  both." 

Albert  followed  with  marked  anxiety  every  movement  of  the 
magistrate.  It  was  plain  that  he  was  struggling  against  a 
growing  terror.  Was  he  attacked  by  that  fright  which  over- 
powers the  guilty  when  they  see  themselves  on  the  point  of 
being  confounded.  To  all  the  magistrate's  remarks,  he  an- 
swered in  a  low  voice:  "It  is  true — perfectly  true." 

"That  is  so,"  continued  M.  Daburon;  "yet  listen  further, 
before  attempting  to  defend  yourself.  The  criminal  had  an 
umbrella.  The  end  of  this  umbrella  sank  in  the  clayey  soil ;  the 
round  of  wood  which  is  placed  at  the  end  of  the  silk  was  found 
molded  in  the  clay.  Look  at  this  clod  of  clay,  raised  with  the 
utmost  care;  and  now  look  at  your  umbrella.  Compare  the 
rounds.     Are  they  alike,  or  not?" 

"These  things,  sir,"  attempted  Albert,  "are  manufactured  in 
large  quantities." 

"Well,  we  will  pass  over  that  proof.  Look  at  this  cigar 
end,  found  on  the  scene  of  the  crime,  and  tell  me  of  what 
brand  it  is.  and  how  it  was  smoked." 

"It  is  a  trabucos,  and  was  smoked  in  a  cigar-holder." 

"Like  these?"  persisted  the  magistrate,  pointing  to  the  cigar- 
and  the  amber  and  meerschaum-holders  found  in  the  vicomte's 
library. 


814  THE   LEROUGE   AFFAIR 

"Yes!"  murmured  Albert,  "it  is  a  fatality — a  strange  coin- 
cidence." 

"Patience;  that  is  nothing,  as  yet.  The  assassin  wore  gloves. 
The  victim,  in  the  death  struggle,  seized  his  hands;  and  some 
pieces  of  kid  remained  in  her  nails.  These  have  been  pre- 
served, and  are  here.  They  are  of  a  lavender  color,  are  they 
not?  Now,  here  are  the  gloves  which  you  wore  on  Tuesday. 
They,  too,  are  lavender,  and  they  are  frayed.  Compare  these 
pieces  of  kid  with  your  own  gloves.  Do  they  not  correspond? 
Are  they  not  of  the  same  color,  the  same  skin  ?"  It  was  useless 
to  deny  it,  equivocate,  or  seek  subterfuges.  The  evidence  was 
there,  and  it  was  irrefutable.  While  appearing  to  occupy  him- 
self solely  with  the  objects  lying  upon  his  table,  M.  Daburon 
did  not  lose  sight  of  the  prisoner.  Albert  was  terrified.  A  cold 
perspiration  bathed  his  temples,  and  glided  drop  by  drop  down 
his  cheeks.  His  hands  trembled  so  much  that  they  were  of  no 
use  to  him.  In  a  choking  voice  he  kept  repeating:  "It  is  hor- 
rible, horrible !" 

"Finally,"  pursued  the  inexorable  magistrate,  "here  are  the 
trousers  you  wore  on  the  evening  of  the  murder.  It  is  plain 
that  not  long  ago  they  were  very  wet;  and,  besides  the  mud  on 
them,  there  are  traces  of  earth.  Besides  that,  they  are  torn 
at  the  knees.  We  will  admit,  for  the  moment,  that  you  might 
not  remember  where  you  went  on  that  evening;  but  who  would 
believe  that  you  do  not  know  where  you  tore  your  trousers 
and  how  you  frayed  your  gloves !" 

What  courage  could  resist  such  assaults?  Albert's  firmness 
and  energy  were  at  an  end.  His  brain  whirled.  He  fell  heavily 
into  a  chair,  exclaiming:  "It  is  enough  to  drive  me  mad!" 

"Do  you  admit,"  insisted  the  magistrate,  whose  gaze  had 
become  firmly  fixed  upon  the  prisoner,  "do  you  admit  that 
Widow  Lerouge  could  only  have  been  stabbed  by  you?" 

"I  admit,"  protested  Albert,  "that  I  am  the  victim  of  one  of 
those  terrible  fatalities  which  make  men  doubt  the  evidence  of 
their  reason.     I  am  innocent." 

"Then  tell  me  where  you  passed  Tuesday  evening." 

"Ah,  sir!"  cried  the  prisoner,  "I  should  have  to — "  But, 
restraining  himself,  he  added  in  a  faint  voice:  "I  have  made 
the  only  answer  that  I  can  make." 

M.  Daburon  rose,  having  now  reached  his  grand  stroke.  "It 
is,  then,  my  duty,"  said  he,  with  a  shade  of  irony,  "to  supply 
your  failure  of  memory.     I  am  going  to  remind  you  of  where 


THE    LEROUGE   AFFAIR  «lo 

you  went  and  what  you  did.  On  Tuesday  evening,  at  eight 
o'clock,  after  having  obtained  from  the  wine  you  drank  the 
dreadful  energy  you  needed,  you  left  your  home.  At  thirty- 
five  minutes  past  eight,  you  took  the  train  at  the  St.  Lazare 
station.  At  nine  o'clock,  you  alighted  at  the  station  at  Reuil." 
And,  not  disdaining  to  employ  old  Tabar^t's  ideas,  the  investi- 
gating magistrate  repeated  nearly  word  for  word  the  tirade 
improvised  the  night  before  by  the  amateur  detective.  He  had 
every  reason,  while  speaking,  to  admire  the  old  fellow's  pene- 
tration. In  all  his  life,  his  eloquence  had  never  produced  so 
striking  an  effect.  Every  sentence,  every  word,  told.  The 
prisoner's  assurance,  already  shaken,  fell  little  by  little,  just  like 
the  outer  coating  of  a  wall  when  riddled  with  bullets.  Albert 
was,  as  the  magistrate  perceived,  like  a  man,  who,  rolling  to 
the  bottom  of  a  precipice,  sees  every  branch  and  every  projec- 
tion which  might  retard  his  fall  fail  him,  and  who  feels  a  new 
and  more  painful  bruise  each  time  his  body  comes  in  contact 
with  them. 

"And  now,"  concluded  the  investigating  magistrate,  "'listen 
to  good  advice:  do  not  persist  in  a  system  of  denying,  impos- 
sible to  sustain.  Give  in.  Justice,  rest  assured,  is  ignorant  of 
nothing  which  it  is  important  to  know.  Believe  me ;  seek  to 
deserve  the  indulgence  of  your  judges;  confess  your  guilt." 

M.  Daburon  did  not  believe  that  his  prisoner  would  still  per- 
sist in  asserting  his  innocence.  He  imagined  he  would  be 
overwhelmed  and  confounded,  that  he  would  throw  himself  at 
his  feet,  begging  for  mercy.  But  he  was  mistaken.  Albert, 
in  spite  of  his  great  prostration,  found,  in  one  last  effort  of 
his  will,  sufficient  strength  to  recover  himself  and  again  protest : 
"You  are  right,  sir,"  he  said  in  a  sad  but  firm  voice;  "every- 
thing seems  to  prove  me  guilty.  In  your  place,  I  should  have 
spoken  as  you  have  done ;  yet  all  the  same,  I  swear  to  you  that 
I  am  innocent." 

"Come  now,  do  you  really — "  began  the  magistrate. 

"I  am  innocent,"  interrupted  Albert ;  "and  I  repeat  it,  with- 
out the  least  hope  of  changing  in  any  way  your  conviction. 
Yes,  everything  speaks  against  me,  everything,  even  my  own 
bearing  before  you.  It  is  true,  my  courage  has  been  shaken  by 
these  incredible,  miraculous,  overwhelming  coincidences.  I  am 
overcome,  because  I  feel  the  impossibility  of  proving  my  inno- 
cence. But  I  do  not  despair.  My  honor  and  my  life  are  in  the 
hands  of  God.     At  this  very  hour  when  to  you  I  appear  lost — 


816  THE    LEROUGE   AFFAIR 

for  I  in  no  way  deceive  myself,  sir — I  do  not  despair  of  a  com- 
plete justification.     I  await  confidently." 

"What  do  you  mean?"  asked  the  magistrate. — "Nothing  but 
what  I  say,  sir." — "So  you  persist  in  denying  your  guilt?" — "I 
am  innocent." — "But  this  is  folly." — "I  am  innocent. — "Very 
well,"  said  M.  Daburon ;  "that  is  enough  for  to-day.  You  will 
hear  the  official  report  of  your  examination  read,  and  will  then 
be  taken  back  to  solitary  confinement.  I  exhort  you  to  reflect. 
Night  will  perhaps  bring  on  a  better  feeling;  if  you  wish  at 
any  time  to  speak  to  me,  send  word,  and  I  will  come  to  you. 
I  will  give  orders  to  that  effect.    You  may  read  now,  Constant." 

When  Albert  had  departed  under  the  escort  of  the  gendarmes, 
the  magistrate  muttered  in  a  low  tone :  "There's  an  obstinate 
fellow  for  you." '  He  certainly  no  longer  entertained  the  shadow 
of  a  doubt.  To  him,  Albert  was  as  surely  the  murderer  as  if 
he  had  admitted  his  guilt.  Even  if  he  should  persist  in  his 
system  of  denial  to  the  end  of  the  investigation,  it  was  impos- 
sible that,  with  the  proofs  already  in  the  possession  of  the 
police,  a  true  bill  should  not  be  found  against  him.  He  was 
therefore  certain  of  being  committed  for  trial  at  the  assizes.  It 
was  a  hundred  to  one  that  the  jury  would  bring  in  a  verdict  of 
guilty.  Left  to  himself,  however,  M.  Daburon  did  not  expe- 
rience that  intense  satisfaction,  mixed  with  vanity,  which  he 
ordinarily  felt  after  he  had  successfully  conducted  an  examina- 
tion, and  had  succeeded  in  getting  his  prisoner  into  the  same 
position  as  Albert.  Something  disturbed  and  shocked  him.  At 
the  bottom  of  his  heart,  he  felt  ill  at  ease.  He  had  triumphed; 
but  his  victory  gave  him  only  uneasiness,  pain,  and  vexation. 
A  reflection  so  simple  that  he  could  hardly  understand  why  it 
had  not  occurred  to  him  at  first  increased  his  discontent,  and 
made  him  angry  with  himself.  "Something  told  me,"  he  mut- 
tered, "that  I  was  wrong  to  undertake  this  business.  I  am 
punished  for  not  having  obeyed  that  inner  voice.  I  ought  to 
have  declined  to  proceed  with  the  investigation.  The  Vicomte 
de  Commarin  was,  all  the  same,  certain  to  be  arrested,  impris- 
oned, examined,  confounded,  tried,  and  probably  condemned. 
Then,  being  in  no  way  connected  with  the  trial,  I  could  have 
reappeared  before  Claire.  Her  grief  will  be  great.  As  her 
friend,  I  could  have  soothed  her,  mingled  my  tears  with  hers, 
calmed  her  regrets.  With  time,  she  might  have  been  consoled, 
and  perhaps  have  forgotten  him.  She  could  not  have  helped 
feeling  grateful  to  me,  and  then  who  knows — ?     While  now, 


THE    LEROUGE    AFFAIR  817 

whatever  may  happen,  I  shall  be  an  object  of  loathing  to  her: 
she  will  never  be  able  to  endure  the  sight  of  me.  In  her  eyes 
I  shall  always  be  her  lover's  assassin.  I  have  with  my  own 
hands  opened  an  abyss  between  her  and  myself  which  cen- 
turies could  not  fill  up.  I  have  lost  her  a  second  time,  and  by 
my  own  fault."  The  unhappy  man  heaped  the  bitterest  re- 
proaches upon  himself.  He  was  in  despair.  He  had  never  so 
hated  Alhert — that  wretch,  who,  stained  with  a  crime,  stood  in 
the  way  of  his  happiness.  Then,  too.  he  cursed  old  Tabaret ! 
Alone,  he  would  not  have  decided  so  quickly.  He  would  have 
waited,  thought  over  the  matter,  matured  his  decision,  and 
certainly  have  perceived  the  inconveniences  which  now  occurred 
to  him.  The  old  fellow,  always  carried  away  like  a  badly 
trained  bloodhound,  and  full  of  stupid  enthusiasm,  had  con- 
fused him,  and  led  him  to  do  what  he  now  so  much  regretted. 

It  was  precisely  this  unfavorable  moment  that  M.  Tabaret 
chose  for  reappearing  before  the  magistrate.  He  had  just  been 
informed  of  the  termination  of  the  inquiry ;  and  he  arrived, 
impatient  to  know  what  had  passed,  swelling  with  curiosity,  and 
full  of  the  sweet  hope  of  hearing  of  the  fulfilment  of  his  pre- 
dictions. "What  answers  did  he  make  ?"  he  asked  even  before 
he  had  closed  the  door. 

"He  is  evidently  guilty,"  replied  the  magistrate,  with  a  harsh- 
ness very  different  from  his  usual  manner.  Old  Tabaret,  who 
expected  to  receive  praises  by  the  basketful,  was  astounded  at 
this  tone  !  It  was,  therefore,  with  great  hesitancy  that  he  offered 
his  further  services.  "I  have  come,"  he  said  modestly,  "to  know 
if  any  investigations  are  necessary  to  demolish  the  alibi  pleaded 
by  the  prisoner." 

"He  pleaded  no  alibi,"  replied  the  magistrate,  dryly. — "How," 
cried  the  detective,  "no  alibi?  Pshaw!  I  ask  pardon:  he  has, 
of  course,  then  confessed  everything." 

"No,"  said  the  magistrate  impatiently,  "he  has  confessed 
nothing.  He  acknowledges  that  the  proofs  are  decisive :  he 
can  not  give  an  account  of  how  he  spent  his  time ;  but  he  pro- 
tests his  innocence."  In  the  centre  of  the  room,  M.  Tabaret 
stood  with  his  mouth  wide  open,  and  his  eyes  staring  wildly,  and 
altogether  in  the  most  grotesque  attitude  his  astonishment  could 
effect.  He  was  literally  thunderstruck.  In  spite  of  his  anger. 
M.  Daburon  could  not  help  smiling:  and  even  Constant  gave  a 
grin,  which  on  his  lips  was  equivalent  to  a  paroxysm  of  laugh- 
ter.    "Not  an  alibi,  nothing?"  murmured  the  old  fellow.     "N« 


818  THE   LEROUGE   AFFAIR 

explanations?  The  idea!  It  is  inconceivable!  Not  an  alibi? 
We  must  then  be  mistaken :  he  can  not  be  the  criminal.  That 
is  certain !" 

The  investigating  magistrate  felt  that  the  old  amateur  must 
have  been  waiting  the  result  of  the  examination  at  the  wine- 
shop round  the  corner,  or  else  that  he  had  gone  mad.  "Unfor- 
tunately," said  he,  "we  are  not  mistaken.  It  is  but  too  clearly 
shown  that  M.  de  Commarin  is  the  murderer.  However,  if  you 
like,  you  can  ask  Constant  for  his  report  of  the  examination, 
and  read  it  over  while  I  put  these  papers  in  order." — "Very 
well,"  said  the  old  fellow  with  feverish  anxiety.  He  sat  down 
in  Constant's  chair,  and,  leaning  his  elbows  on  the  table,  thrust- 
ing his  hands  in  his  hair,  he  in  less  than  no  time  read  the  re- 
port through.  When  he  had  finished,  he  arose  with  pale  and 
distorted  features.  "Sir,"  said  he  to  the  magistrate  in  a  strange 
voice,  "I  have  been  the  involuntary  cause  of  a  terrible  mistake. 
This  man  is  innocent." 

"Come,  come,"  said  M.  Daburon,  without  stopping  his  prep- 
arations for  departure,  "you  are  going  out  of  your  mind,  my 
dear  M.  Tabaret.  How,  after  all  that  you  have  read  there, 
can — 

"Yes,  sir,  yes:  it  is  because  I  have  read  this  that  I  entreat 
you  to  pause,  or  we  shall  add  one  more  mistake  to  the  sad  list 
of  judicial  errors.  Read  this  examination  over  carefully;  there 
is  not  a  reply  but  which  declares  this  unfortunate  man  innocent, 
not  a  word  but  which  throws  out  a  ray  of  light.  And  he  is 
still  in  prison,  still  in  solitary  confinement?" 

"He  is ;  and  there  he  will  remain,  if  you  please,"  interrupted 
the  magistrate.  "It  becomes  you  well  to  talk  in  this  manner, 
after  the  way  you  spoke  last  night,  when  I  hesitated  so  much." 

"But,  sir,"  cried  the  old  detective,  "I  still  say  precisely  the 
same.  Ah,  wretched  Tabaret !  all  is  lost ;  no  one  understands 
you.  Pardon  me,  sir,  if  I  lack  the  respect  due  to  you ;  but  you 
have  not  grasped  my  method.  It  is,  however,  very  simple. 
Given  a  crime,  with  all  the  circumstances  and  details,  I  con- 
struct, bit  by  bit,  a  plan  of  accusation,  which  I  do  not  guarantee 
until  it  is  entire  and  perfect.  If  a  man  is  found  to  whom  this 
plan  applies  exactly  in  every  particular  the  author  of  the  crime 
is  found:  otherwise,  one  has  laid  hands  upon  an  innocent  per- 
son. It  is  not  sufficient  that  such  and  such  particulars  seem 
to  point  to  him;  it  must  be  all  or  nothing.  This  is  infallible. 
Now,  in  this  case,  how  have  I  reached  the  culprit?     Through 


THE   LEROUGE   AFFAIR  819 

proceeding  by  inference  from  the  known  to  the  unknown.  I 
have  examined  his  work;  and  I  have  formed  an  idea  of  the 
worker.  Reason  and  logic  lead  us  to  what?  To  a  villain,  de- 
termined, audacious,  and  prudent,  versed  in  the  business.  And 
do  you  think  that  such  a  man  would  neglect  a  precaution  that 
would  not  be  omitted  by  the  stupidest  tyro?  It  is  inconceivable. 
What !  this  man  is  so  skilful  as  to  leave  such  feeble  traces  that 
they  escape  Gevrol's  practised  eye,  and  you  think  he  would 
risk  his  safety  by  leaving  an  entire  night  unaccounted  for?  It's 
impossible !  I  am  as  sure  of  my  system  as  of  a  sum  that  has 
been  proved.  The  assassin  has  an  alibi.  Albert  has  pleaded 
none ;  then  he  is  innocent." 

M.  Daburon  surveyed  the  detective  pityingly,  much  as  he 
would  have  looked  at  a  remarkable  monomaniac.  When  the 
old  fellow  had  finished:  "My  worthy  M.  Tabaret,"  the  magis- 
trate said  to  him:  "you  have  but  one  fault.  You  err  through 
an  excess  of  subtlety,  accord  too  freely  to  others  the  wonderful 
sagacity  with  which  you  yourself  are  endowed.  Our  man  has 
failed  in  prudence,  simply  because  he  believed  his  rank  would 
place  him  above  suspicion." 

"No,  sir,  no,  a  thousand  times  no.  My  culprit — the  true  one 
— he  whom  we  have  missed  catching,  feared  everything.  Be- 
sides, does  Albert  defend  himself?  No.  He  is  overwhelmed 
because  he  perceives  coincidences  so  fatal  that  they  appear  to 
condemn  him,  without  a  chance  of  escape.  Does  he  try  to 
excuse  himself?  No.  He  simply  replies:  'It  is  terrible.'  And 
yet  all  through  his  examination  I  feel  reticence  that  I  can  not 
explain." 

"I  can  explain  it  very  easily ;  and  I  am  as  confident  as  though 
he  had  confessed  everything.  I  have  more  than  sufficient  proofs 
for  that." 

"Ah,  sir,  proofs !  There  are  always  enough  of  those  against 
an  arrested  man.  They  existed  against  every  innocent  man 
who  was  ever  condemned.  Proofs !  Why,  I  had  them  in  quan- 
tities against  Kaiser,  the  poor  little  tailor,  who — " 

"Well,"  interrupted  the  magistrate,  hastily,  "if  it  is  not  he, 
the  most  interested  one,  who  committed  the  crime,  who  then 
is  it?    His  father,  the  Comte  de  Commarin?" 

"No;  the  true  assassin  is  a  young  man." 

M.  Daburon  had  arranged  his  papers  and  finished  his  prep- 
arations. He  took  up  his  hat,  and,  as  he  prepared  to  leave, 
replied :  "You  must  then  see  that  I  am  right !     Come,  good-by, 


820 


THE    LEROUGE   AFFAIR 


M.  Tabaret,  and  make  haste  and  get  rid  of  all  your  foolish 
ideas.  To-morrow  we  will  talk  the  whole  matter  over  again. 
I  am  rather  tired  to-night."  Then  he  added,  addressing  his 
clerk,  "Constant,  look  in  at  the  record  office,  in  case  the  pris- 
oner Commarin  should  wish  to  speak  to  me."  He  moved  toward 
the  door;  but  M.  Tabaret  barred  his  exit.  "Sir,"  said  the  old 
man,  "in  the  name  of  heaven,  listen  to  me !  He  is  innocent, 
I  swear  to  you.  Help  me,  then,  to  find  the  real  culprit.  Sir, 
think  of  your  remorse  should  you  cause  an — "  But  the  mag- 
istrate would  not  hear  more.  He  pushed  old  Tabaret  quickly 
aside  and  hurried  out.  The  old  man  now  turned  to  Constant. 
He  wished  to  convince  him.  Lost  trouble:  the  tall  clerk  has- 
tened to  put  his  things  away,  thinking  of  his  soup,  which  was 
getting  cold.  So  that  M.  Tabaret  soon  found  himself  locked 
out  of  the  room  and  alone  in  the  dark  passage.  All  the  usual 
sounds  of  the  Palais  had  ceased :  the  place  was  silent  as  the 
tomb.  The  old  detective  desperately  tore  his  hair  with  both 
hands.  "Ah!"  he  exclaimed,  "Albert  is  innocent;  and  it  is  I 
who  have  cast  suspicion  upon  him.  It  is  I,  fool  that  I  am,  who 
have  infused  into  the  obstinate  spirit  of  this  magistrate  a  con- 
viction that  I  can  no  longer  destroy.  He  is  innocent,  and  is 
yet  enduring  the  most  horrible  anguish.  Suppose  he  should 
commit  suicide !  There  have  been  instances  of  wretched  men 
who.  in  despair  at  being  falsely  accused,  have  killed  themselves 
in  their  cells.  Poor  boy !  But  I  will  not  abandon  him.  I  have 
ruined  him:  I  will  save  'iim !  I  must,  I  will,  find  the  culprit; 
and  he  shall  pay  dearly  for. my  mistake,  the  scoundrel!" 


A  FTER  seeing  the  Comte  de  Commarin  safely  in  his  carriage 
at  the  entrance  of  the  Palais  de  Justice,  Noel  Gerdy  seemed 
inclined  to  leave  him.  Resting  one  hand  against  the  half- 
opened  carriage  door,  he  bowed  respectfully,  and  said :  "When, 
sir,  shall  I  have  the  honor  of  paying  my  respects  to  you?" 

"Come  with  me  now,"  said  the  old  nobleman. 

The  barrister,  still  leaning  forward,  muttered  some  excuses. 


THE   LEROUGE    AFFAIR  821 

He  had,  he  said,  important  business :  he  must  positively  return 
home  at  once.  "Come,"  repeated  the  comte  in  a  tone  which 
admitted  of  no  reply.  Noel  obeyed.  "You  have  found  your 
father,"  said  M.  de  Commarin  in  a  low  tone;  "but  I  must  warn 
you  that  at  the  same  time  you  lose  your  independence." 

The  carriage  started ;  and  only  then  aid  the  comte  notice 
that  Noel  had  very  modestly  seated  himself  opposite  him.  This 
humility  seemed  to  displease  him  greatly.  "Sit  here  by  my  side, 
sir,"  he  exclaimed ;  "are  you  not  my  son  ?" 

The  barrister,  without  replying,  took  his  seat  by  the  side  of 
the  terrible  old  man,  but  occupied  as  little  room  as  possible. 
He  had  been  very  much  upset  by  his  interview  with  M.  Dabu- 
ron,  for  he  retained  none  of  his  usual  assurance,  none  of  that 
exterior  coolness  by  which  he  was  accustomed  to  conceal  his 
feelings.  Fortunately,  the  ride  gave  him  time  to  breathe  and 
to  recover  himself  a  little.  On  the  way  from  the  Palais  de 
Justice  to  the  De  Commarin  mansion  not  a  word  passed  be- 
tween the  father  and  son.  When  the  carriage  stopped  before 
the  steps  leading  to  the  principal  entrance,  and  the  comte  got 
out  with  Noel's  assistance,  there  was  great  commotion  among 
the  servants.  There  were,  it  is  true,  few  of  them  present, 
nearly  all  having  been  summoned  to  the  Palais ;  but  the  comte 
and  the  barrister  had  scarcely  disappeared  when,  as  if  by  en- 
chantment, they  were  all  assembled  in  the  hall.  They  came 
from  the  garden,  the  stables,  the  cellar,  and  the  kitchen.  Nearly 
all  bore  marks  of  their  calling.  A  young  groom  appeared  with 
his  wooden  shoes  filled  with  straw,  shuffling  about  on  the  mar- 
ble floor  like  a  mangy  dog  on  a  Gobelin  tapestry.  One  of  them 
recognized  Noel  as  the  visitor  of  the  previous  Sunday :  and 
that  was  enough  to  set  fire  to  all  these  gossip-mongers  thirst- 
ing for  scandal. 

Since  morning,  moreover,  the  unusual  events  at  the  De  Com- 
marin mansion  had  caused  a  great  stir  in  society.  A  thousand 
stories  were  circulated,  talked  over,  corrected,  and  added  to 
by  the  ill-natured  and  malicious — some  abominably  absurd, 
others  simply  idiotic.  Twenty  people,  very  noble  and  still  more 
proud,  had  not  been  above  sending  their  most  intelligent  ser- 
vants to  pay  a  little  visit  among  the  comte's  retainers,  for  the 
sole  purpose  of  learning  something  positive.  As  it  was,  nobody 
knew  anything;  and  yet  everybody  pretended  to  be  fully  in- 
formed. Let  any  one  explain  who  can  this  very  common  phe- 
nomenon: A  crime  is  committed;  justice  arrives,  wrapped  in 


822  THE    LEROUGE   AFFAIR 

mystery ;  the  police  are  still  ignorant  of  almost  everything ;  and 
yet  details  of  the  most  minute  character  are  already  circulated 
about  the  streets. 

"So,"  said  a  cook,  "that  tall  dark  fellow  with  the  whiskers 
is  the  comte's  true  son !" — "You  are  right,"  said  one  of  the 
footmen  who  had  accompanied  M.  de  Commarin;  "as  for  the 
other,  he  is  no  more  his  son  than  Jean  here ;  who,  by  the  way, 
Will  be  kicked  out  of  doors  if  he  is  caught  in  this  part  of  the 
house  with  his  dirty  working-shoes  on." — "What  a  romance !" 
exclaimed  Jean,  supremely  indifferent  to  the  danger  which 
threatened  him.  "Such  things  constantly  occur  in  great  fam- 
ilies," said  the  cook.  "How  ever  did  it  happen?" — "Well,  you 
see,  one  day,  long  ago,  when  the  comtesse  who  is  now  dead 
was  out  walking  with  her  little  son,  who  was  about  six  months 
old,  the  child  was  stolen  by  gipsies.  The  poor  lady  was  full 
of  grief ;  but,  above  all,  was  greatly  afraid  of  her  husband,  who 
was  not  overkind.  What  did  she  do?  She  purchased  a  brat 
from  a  woman  who  happened  to  be  passing;  and,  never  having 
noticed  his  child,  the  comte  has  never  known  the  difference." 
— "But  the  assassination !" — "That's  very  simple.  When  the 
woman  saw  her  brat  in  such  a  nice  berth,  she  bled  him  finely, 
and  has  kept  up  a  system  of  blackmailing  all  along.  The 
vicomte  had  nothing  left  for  himself.  So  he  resolved  at  last 
to  put  an  end  to  it,  and  come  to  a  final  settling  with  her." — 
"And  the  other,  who  is  up  there,  the  dark  fellow?" 

The  orator  would  have  gone  on,  without  doubt,  giving  the 
most  satisfactory  explanations  of  everything  if  he  had  not  been 
interrupted  by  the  entrance  of  M.  Lubin,  who  came  from  the 
Palais  in  company  of  young  Joseph.  His  success,  so  brilliant  up 
to  this  time,  was  cut  short,  just  like  that  of  a  second-rate  singer 
when  the  star  of  the  evening  comes  on  the  stage.  The  entire 
assembly  turned  toward  Albert's  valet,  all  eyes  questioning  him. 
He,  of  course,  knew  all ;  he  was  the  man  they  wanted.  He  did 
not  take  advantage  of  his  position  and  keep  them  waiting. 

"What  a  rascal !"  he  exclaimed  at  first.  "What  a  villainous 
fellow  is  this  Albert !"  He  entirely  did  away  with  the  "M." 
and  "Vicomte,"  and  met  with  general  approval  for  doing  so. 
"However,"  he  added,  "I  always  had  my  doubts.  The  fellow 
didn't  please  me  by  half.  You  see  now  to  what  we  are  exposed 
every  day  in  our  profession,  and  it  is  dreadfully  disagreeable. 
The  magistrate  did  not  conceal  it  from  me.  'M.  Lubin,'  said 
he,  'it  is  very  sad  for  a  man  like  you  to  have  waited  on  such 


THE    LEROUGE    AFFAIR  823 

a  scoundrel.'  For  you  must  know  that,  besides  an  old  woman 
over  eighty  years  old,  he  also  assassinated  a  young  girl  of 
twelve.  The  little  child,  the  magistrate  told  me,  was  chopped 
into  bits." 

"Ah !"  put  in  Joseph,  "he  must  have  been  a  great  fool.  Do 
people  do  those  sort  of  things  themselves  when  they  are  rich, 
and  when  there  are  so  many  poor  devils  who  only  ask  to  gain 
their  living?" 

"Pshaw!"  said  M.  Lubin  in  a  knowing  tone;  "you  will  see 
him  come  out  of  it  as  white  as  snow.  These  rich  men  can  do 
anything." 

"Anyhow,"  said  the  cook,  "I'd  willingly  give  a  month's  wages 
to  be  a  mouse,  and  to  listen  to  what  the  comte  and  the  tall 
dark  fellow  are  talking  about.  Suppose  some  one  went  up  and 
tried  to  find  out  what  is  going  on." 

This  proposition  did  not  meet  with  the  least  favor.  The 
servants  knew  by  experience  that,  on  important  occasions,  spy- 
ing was  worse  than  useless.  M.  de  Commarin  knew  all  about 
servants  from  infancy.  His  study  was,  therefore,  a  shelter  from 
all  indiscretion.  The  sharpest  ear  placed  at  the  keyhole  could 
hear  nothing  of  what  was  going  on  within,  even  when  the  mas- 
ter was  in  a  passion  and  his  voice  loudest.  One  alone,  Denis, 
the  comte's  valet,  had  the  opportunity  of  gathering  informa- 
tion; but  he  was  well  paid  to  be  discreet,  and  he  was  so.  At 
this  moment  M.  de  Commarin  was  sitting  in  the  same  arm- 
chair on  which  the  evening  before  he  had  bestowed  such  furi- 
ous blows  while  listening  to  Albert.  As  soon  as  he  left  his 
carriage,  the  old  nobleman  recovered  his  haughtiness.  He 
became  even  more  arrogant  in  his  manner  than  he  had  been 
humble  when  before  the  magistrate,  as  though  he  were  ashamed 
of  what  he  now  considered  an  unpardonable  weakness.  He 
wondered  how  he  could  have  yielded  to  a  momentary  impulse, 
how  his  grief  could  have  so  basely  betrayed  him.  At  the  re- 
membrance of  the  avowals  wrested  from  him  by  a  sort  of 
delirium,  he  blushed  and  reproached  himself  bitterly.  The  same 
as  Albert  the  night  before,  Noel,  having  fully  recovered  him- 
self, stood  erect,  cold  as  marble,  respectful,  but  no  longer  hum- 
ble. The  father  and  son  exchanged  glances  which  had  nothing 
of  sympathy  or  friendliness.  They  examined  one  another, 
they  almost  measured  each  other,  much  as  two  adversaries 
feel  their  way  with  their  eyes  before  encountering  with  their 
weapons. 


824  THE    LEROUGE   AFFAIR 

*'Sir,"  said  the  comte  at  length  in  a  harsh  voice,  "henceforth 
this  house  is  yours.  From  this  moment  you  are  the  Vicomte 
de  Commarin;  you  regain  possession  of  all  the  rights  of  which 
you  were  deprived.  Listen  before  you  thank  me.  I  wish,  at 
once,  to  relieve  you  of  all  misunderstanding.  Remember  this 
well,  sir ;  had  I  been  master  of  the  situation,  I  would  never 
have  recognized  you :  Albert  should  have  remained  in  the  posi- 
tion in  which  I  placed  him." 

"I  understand  you,  sir,"  replied  Noel.  "I  don't  think  that 
I  could  ever  bring  myself  to  do  an  act  like  that  by  which  you 
deprived  me  of  my  birthright;  but  I  declare  that,  if  I  had  the 
misfortune  to  do  so,  I  should  afterward  have  acted  as  you  have. 
Your  rank  was  too  conspicuous  to  permit  a  voluntary  acknowl- 
edgment. It  was  a  thousand  times  better  to  suffer  an  injustice 
to  continue  in  secret  than  to  expose  the  name  to  the  comments 
of  the  malicious." 

This  answer  surprised  the  comte,  and  very  agreeably  too. 
But  he  would  not  let  his  satisfaction  be  seen,  and  it  was  in 
a  still  harsher  voice  that  he  resumed.  "I  have  no  claim,  sir, 
upon  your  affection ;  I  do  not  ask  for  it,  but  I  insist  at  all 
times  upon  the  utmost  deference.  It  is  traditional  in  our  house 
that  a  son  shall  never  interrupt  his  father  when  he  is  speak- 
ing; that  you  have  just  been  guilty  of.  Neither  do  children 
judge  their  parents:  that  also  you  have  just  done.  When  I  was 
forty  years  of  age  my  father  was  in  his  second  childhood ;  but 
1  do  not  remember  ever  having  raised  my  voice  above  his. 
This  said,  I  continue.  I  provided  the  necessary  funds  for  the 
expenses  of  Albert's  household  completely,  distinct  from  my 
own,  for  he  had  his  own  servants,  horses,  and  carriages ;  and 
besides  that  I  allowed  the  unhappy  boy  four  thousand  francs  a 
month.  I  have  decided,  in  order  to  put  a  stop  to  all  foolish 
gossip,  and  to  make  your  position  the  easier,  that  you  should 
live  on  a  grander  scale ;  this  matter  concerns  myself.  Further, 
I  will  increase  your  monthly  allowance  to  six  thousand  francs, 
which  I  trust  you  will  spend  as  nobly  as  possible,  giving  the 
least  possible  cause  for  ridicule.  I  can  not  too  strongly  exhort 
you  to  the  utmost  caution.  Keep  close  watch  over  yourself. 
Weigh  your  words  well.  Study  your  slightest  actions.  You 
will  be  the  point  of  observation  of  the  thousands  of  imperti- 
nent idlers  who  compose  our  world ;  your  blunders  will  be  their 
delight.  Do  you  fence ?"— "Moderately  well."— "That  will  do! 
Do  you  ride  ?" — "No ;  but  in  six  months  I  will  be  a  good  horse- 


THE   LEROUGE   AFFAIR  825 

man,  or  break  my  neck." — "You  must  become  a  horseman,  and 
not  break  anything.  Let  us  proceed.  You  will,  of  course,  not 
occupy  Albert's  apartments.  They  will  be  walled  off  as  soon  as 
I  am  free  of  the  police.  Thank  heaven !  the  house  is  large. 
You  will  occupy  the  other  wing:  and  there  will  be  a  separate 
entrance  to  your  apartments  by  another  staircase.  Servants, 
horses,  carriages,  furniture,  such  as  become  a  vicomte,  will  be 
at  your  service,  cost  what  it  may,  within  forty-eight  hours. 
On  the  day  of  your  taking  possession,  you  must  look  as  though 
you  had  been  installed  there  for  years.  There  will  be  a  great 
scandal,  but  that  can  not  be  avoided.  A  prudent  father  might 
send  you  away  for  a  few  months  to  the  Austrian  or  Russian 
courts,  but  in  this  instance  such  prudence  would  be  absurd. 
Much  better  a  dreadful  outcry,  which  ends  quickly,  than  low 
murmurs  which  last  forever.  Dare  public  opinion  ;  and  in  eight 
days  it  will  have  exhausted  its  comments,  and  the  story  will 
have  become  old.  So  to  work !  This  very  evening  the  work- 
men shall  be  here;  and,  in  the  first  place,  I  must  present  you 
to  my  servants." 

To  put  his  purpose  into  execution,  the  comte  moved  to  touch 
the  bell-rope.  Noel  stopped  him.  Since  the  commencement  of 
this  interview  the  barrister  had  wandered  in  the  regions  of 
the  thousand  and  one  nights,  the  wonderful  lamp  in  his  hand. 
The  fairy  reality  cast  into  the  shade  his  wildest  dreams.  He 
was  dazzled  by  the  comte's  words,  and  had  need  of  all  his 
reason  to  struggle  against  the  giddiness  which  came  over  him 
on  realizing  his  great  good  fortune.  Touched  by  a  magic  wand, 
he  seemed  to  awake  to  a  thousand  novel  and  unknown  sensa- 
tions. He  rolled  in  purple  and  bathed  in  gold.  But  he  knew 
how  to  appear  unmoved.  His  face  had  contracted  the  habit  of 
guarding  the  secret  of  the  most  violent  internal  excitement. 
While  all  his  passions  vibrated  within  him.  he  appeared  to 
listen  with  a  sad  and  almost  indifferent  coldness.  "Permit  me, 
sir,"  he  said  to  the  comte,  "without  overstepping  the  bounds 
of  the  utmost  respect,  to  say  a  few  words.  I  am  touched  more 
than  I  can  express  by  your  goodness ;  and  yet  I  beseech  you  to 
delay  its  manifestation.  The  proposition  I  am  about  to  suggest 
may  perhaps  appear  to  you  worthy  of  consideration.  It  seems 
to  me  that  the  situation  demands  the  greatest  delicacy  on  my 
part.  It  is  well  to  despise  public  opinion,  but  not  to  defy  it. 
I  am  certain  to  be  judged  with  the  utmost  severity.  If  I  install 
myself  so  suddenly  in  your  house,  what  will  be  said?     I  shall 


826  THE    LEROUGE   AFFAIR 

have  the  appearance  of  a  conqueror,  who  thinks  little,  so  long 
as  he  succeeds,  of  passing  over  the  body  of  the  conquered.  They 
will  reproach  me  with  occupying  the  bed  still  warm  from 
Albert's  body.  They  will  jest  bitterly  at  my  haste  in  taking 
possession.  They  will  certainly  compare  me  to  Albert,  and 
the  comparison  will  be  to  my  disadvantage,  since  I  should 
appear  to  triumph  at  a  time  when  a  great  disaster  has  fallen 
upon  our  house."  The  comte  listened  without  showing  any 
signs  of  disapprobation,  struck  perhaps  by  the  justice  of  these 
reasons.  Noel  imagined  that  his  harshness  was  much  more 
feigned  than  real;  and  this  idea  encouraged  him. 

"I  beseech  you  then,  sir,"  he  continued,  "to  permit  me  for 
the  present  in  no  way  to  change  my  mode  of  living.  By  not 
showing  myself,  I  leave  all  malicious  remarks  to  waste  them- 
selves in  air — I  let  public  opinion  the  better  familiarize  itself 
with  the  idea  of  a  coming  change.  There  is  a  great  deal  in 
not  taking  the  world  by  surprise.  Being  expected,  I  shall  not 
have  the  air  of  an  intruder  on  presenting  myself.  Absent,  I 
shall  have  the  advantages  which  the  unknown  always  possess; 
I  shall  obtain  the  good  opinion  of  all  those  who  have  envied 
Albert ;  and  I  shall  secure  as  champions  all  those  who  would 
to-morrow  assail  me  if  my  elevation  came  suddenly  upon  them. 
Besides,  by  this  delay,  I  shall  accustom  myself  to  my  abrupt 
change  of  fortune.  I  ought  not  to  bring  into  your  world,  which 
is  now  mine,  the  manners  of  a  parvenu.  My  name  ought  not 
to  inconvenience  me,  like  a  badly  fitting  coat." 

"Perhaps  it  would  be  wisest,"  murmured  the  comte. 

This  assent,  so  easily  obtained,  surprised  Noel.  He  got  the 
idea  that  the  comte  had  only  wished  to  prove  him,  to  tempt 
him.  In  any  case,  whether  he  had  triumphed  by  his  eloquence, 
or  whether  he  had  simply  shunned  a  trap,  he  had  succeeded. 
His  confidence  increased ;  he  recovered  all  his  former  assurance. 
"I  must  add,  sir."  he  continued,  "that  there  are  a  few  matters 
concerning  myself  which  demand  my  attention.  Before  enter- 
ing upon  my  new  life,  I  must  think  of  those  I  am  leaving  behind 
me.  I  have  friends  and  clients.  This  event  has  surprised  me. 
just  as  I  am  beginning  to  reap  the  reward  of  ten  years  of  hard 
work  and  perseverance.  I  have  as  yet  only  sown ;  I  am  on  the 
point  of  reaping.  My  name  is  already  known ;  I  have  ob- 
tained some  little  influence.  I  confess,  without  shame,  that  I 
have  heretofore  professed  ideas  and  opinions  that  would  not  be 
suited  to  this  house;  and  it  is  impossible  in  the  space  of  a  day — " 


THE    LEROUGE    AFFAIR  827 

"Ah !"  interrupted  the  conite  in  a  bantering  tone,  "you  are 
a  liberal.  It  is  a  fashionable  disease.  Albert  also  was  a  great 
liberal." 

"My  ideas,  sir,"  said  Noel  quickly,  "  were  those  of  every  in- 
telligent man  who  wishes  to  succeed.  Besides,  have  not  all 
parties  one  and  the  same  aim — power?  They  merely  take  dif- 
ferent means  of  reaching  it.  I  will  not  enlarge  upon  this  sub- 
ject. Be  assured,  sir,  that  I  shall  know  how  to  bear  my  name, 
and  think  and  act  as  a  man  of  my  rank  should." 

"I  trust  so,"  said  M.  de  Commarin ;  "and  I  hope  that  you 
will  never  make  me  regret  Albert." 

"At  least,  sir,  it  will  not  be  my  fault.  But  since  you  have 
mentioned  the  name  of  that  unfortunate  young  man,  let  us 
occupy  ourselves  about  him." 

The  comte  cast  a  look  of  distrust  upon  Noel.  "What  can 
now  be  done  for  Albert  ?"  he  asked. — "What,  sir !"  cried  Noel 
with  ardor,  "would  you  abandon  him  when  he  has  not  a  friend 
left  in  the  world?  He  is  still  your  son,  sir;  he  is  my  brother; 
for  thirty  years  he  has  borne  the  name  of  Commarin.  All  the 
members  of  a  family  are  jointly  liable.  Innocent,  or  guilty,  he 
has  a  right  to  count  upon  us ;  and  we  owe  him  our  assistance." 

"What  do  you,  then,  hope  for,  sir?"  asked  the  comte. 

"To  save  him  if  he  is  innocent;  and  I  love  to  believe  that 
he  is.  I  am  a  barrister,  sir,  and  I  wish  to  defend  him.  I  have 
been  told  that  I  have  some  talent ;  in  such  a  cause  I  must  have. 
Yes,  however  strong  the  charges  against  him  may  be,  I  will 
overthrow  them.  I  will  dispel  all  doubts.  The  truth  shall 
burst  forth  at  the  sound  of  my  voice.  I  will  find  new  accents 
to  imbue  the  judges  with  my  own  conviction.  I  will  save  him. 
and  this  shall  be  my  last  cause." 

"And  if  he  should  confess,"  said  the  comte;  "if  he  has  already 
confessed  ?" 

"Then,  sir,"  replied  Noel  with  a  dark  look,  "I  will  render 
him  the  last  service,  which  in  such  a  misfortune  I  should 
ask  of  a  brother;  I  will  procure  him  the  means  of  avoiding 
judgment." 

"That  is  well  spoken,  sir,"  said  the  comte;  "very  well. 
my   son !" 

And  he  held  out  his  hand  to  Noel,  who  pressed  it,  bowing  a 
respectful  acknowledgment.  The  barrister  took  a  long  breath. 
At  last  he  had  found  the  way  to  this  haughty  noble's  heart; 
he  had  conquered,  he  had  pleased  him. 


828  THE    LEROUGE   AFFAIR 

"Let  us  return  to  yourself,  sir,"  continued  the  comte.  "I 
yield  to  the  reasons  which  you  have  suggested.  All  shall  be 
done  as  you  desire.  But  do  not  consider  this  a  precedent.  I 
never  change  my  plans,  even  though  they  are  proved  to  be  bad 
and  contrary  to  my  interests.  But  at  least  nothing  prevents 
your  remaining  here  from  to-day  and  taking  your  meals  with 
me.  We  will,  first  of  all,  see  where  you  can  be  lodged  until 
you  formally  take  possession  of  the  apartments  which  are  to 
be  prepared  for  you." 

Noel  had  the  hardihood  to  again  interrupt  the  old  nobleman. 
"Sir,"  said  he,  "when  you  bade  me  follow  you  here,  I  obeyed 
you,  as  was  my  duty.  Now  another  and  a  sacred  duty  calls  me 
away.  Madame  Gerdy  is  at  this  moment  dying.  Ought  I  to 
leave  the  deathbed  of  her  who  filled  my  mother's  place?" 

"Valerie !"  murmured  the  comte.  He  leaned  upon  the  arm  of 
his  chair,  his  face  buried  in  his  hands;  in  one  moment  the 
whole  past  rose  up  before  him.  "She  has  done  me  great  harm," 
he  murmured,  as  if  answering  his  thoughts.  "She  has  ruined 
my  whole  life;  but  ought  I  to  be  implacable?  She  is  dying 
from  the  accusation  which  is  hanging  over  Albert  our  son.  It 
was  I  who  was  the  cause  of  it  all.  Doubtless,  in  this  last  hour, 
a  word  from  me  would  be  a  great  consolation  to  her.  I  will 
accompany  you,  sir." 

Noel  started  at  this  unexpected  proposal.  "Oh,  sir !"  said 
he  hastily,  "spare  yourself,  pray,  a  heartrending  sight.  Your 
going  would  be  useless.  Madame  Gerdy  exists  probably  still, 
but  her  mind  is  dead.  Her  brain  was  unable  to  resist  so  vio- 
lent a  shock.  The  unfortunate  woman  would  neither  recognize 
nor  understand  you." 

"Go  then  alone,"  sighed  the  comte ;  "go,  my  son  !" 

The  words  "my  son,"  pronounced  with  a  marked  emphasis, 
sounded  like  a  note  of  victory  in  Noel's  ears.  He  bowed  to 
take  his  leave.  The  comte  motioned  him  to  wait.  "In  any 
case,"  he  said,  "a  place  at  table  will  be  set  for  you  here.  I  dine 
at  half-past  six  precisely.  I  shall  be  glad  to  see  you."  He 
rang.  His  valet  appeared.  "Denis,"  said  he,  "none  of  the 
orders  I  may  give  will  affect  this  gentleman.  You  will  tell 
this  to  all  the  servants.     This  gentleman  is  at  home  here." 

The  barrister  took  his  leave ;  and  the  comte  felt  great  comfort 
in  being  once  more  alone.  Since  morning  events  had  followed 
one  another  with  such  bewildering  rapidity  that  his  thoughts 
could  scarcely  keep  pace  with  them.     At  last  he  was  able  to 


THE   LEROUGE   AFFAIR  829 

reflect.  "That,  then,"  said  he  to  himself,  "is  my  legitimate  son. 
I  am  sure  of  his  birth  at  any  rate.  Besides  I  should  be  fool- 
ish to  disown  him,  for  I  find  him  the  exact  picture  of  myself 
at  thirty.  He  is  a  handsome  fellow,  Noel,  very  handsome.  His 
features  are  decidedly  in  his  favor.  He  is  intelligent  and  acute. 
He  knows  how  to  be  humble  without  loweiing  himself,  and  firm 
without  arrogance.  His  unexpected  good  fortune  does  not  turn 
his  head.  I  augur  well  of  a  man  who  knows  how  to  bear 
himself  in  prosperity.  He  thinks  well;  he  will  carry  his  title 
proudly.  And  yet  I  feel  no  sympathy  with  him;  it  seems  to 
me  that  I  shall  always  regret  my  poor  Albert.  I  never  knew 
how  to  appreciate  him.  Unhappy  boy !  To  commit  such  a  vile 
crime  !  He  must  have  lost  his  reason.  I  do  not  like  the  look 
of  this  one's  eye.  They  say  that  he  is  perfect.  He  expresses, 
at  least,  the  noblest  and  most  appropriate  sentiments.  He  is 
gentle  and  strong,  magnanimous,  generous,  heroic.  He  is  with- 
out malice,  and  is  ready  to  sacrifice  himself  to  repay  me  for 
what  I  have  done  for  him.  He  forgives  Madame  Gerdy ;  he 
loves  Albert.  It  is  enough  to  make  one  distrust  him.  But  all 
young  men  nowadays  are  so.  Ah !  we  live  in  a  happy  age. 
Our  children  are  born  free  from  all  human  shortcomings. 
They  have  neither  the  vices,  the  passions,  nor  the  tempers  of 
their  fathers ;  and  these  precocious  philosophers,  models  of 
sagacity  and  virtue,  are  incapable  of  committing  the  least  folly. 
Alas !  Albert,  too,  was  perfect ;  and  he  has  assassinated  Clau- 
dine!  What  will  this  one  do? —  All  the  same,"  he  added, 
half-aloud,  "I  ought  to  have  accompanied  him  to  see  Valerie !" 
And,  although  the  barrister  had  been  gone  at  least  a  good  ten 
minutes,  M.  de  Commarin,  not  realizing  how  the  time  had 
passed,  hastened  to  the  window,  in  the  hope  of  seeing  Noel  in 
the  courtyard  and  calling  him  back. 

But  Noel  was  already  far  away.  On  leaving  the  house  he 
took  a  cab  in  the  Rue  de  Bourgogne,  and  was  quickly  driven  to 
the  Rue  St.  J^azare.  On  reaching  his  own  door  he  threw  rather 
than  gave  five  francs  to  the  driver,  and  ran  rapidly  up  the  four 
flights  of  stairs.  "Who  has  called  to  see  me  ?"  he  asked  of  the 
servant. — "No  one,  sir."  He  seemed  relieved  from  a  great 
anxiety,  and  continued  in  a  calmer  tone:  "And  the  doctor?" — 
"He  came  this  morning,  sir,"  replied  the  girl,  "while  you  were 
out ;  and  he  did  not  seem  at  all  hopeful.  He  came  again  just 
now,  and  is  still  here." — "Very  well.  I  will  go  and  speak  to  him. 
If  any  one  calls,  show  them  into  my  study,  and  let  me  know." 


830  THE    LEROUGE   AFFAIR 

On  entering  Madame  Gerdy's  chamber,  Noel  saw  at  a  glance 
that  no  change  for  the  better  had  taken  place  during  his  ab- 
sence. With  fixed  eyes  and  convulsed  features,  the  sick  woman 
lay  extended  upon  her  back.  She  seemed  dead,  save  for  the 
sudden  starts,  which  shook  her  at  intervals,  and  disarranged  the 
bedclothes.  Above  her  head  was  placed  a  little  vessel,  filled 
with  ice-water,  which  fell  drop  by  drop  upon  her  forehead, 
covered  with  large  bluish  spots.  The  table  and  mantelpiece 
were  covered  with  little  pots,  medicine  bottles,  and  half- 
emptied  glasses.  At  the  foot  of  the  bed  a  rag  stained  with 
blood  showed  that  the  doctor  had  just  had  recourse  to  leeches. 
Near  the  fireplace,  where  was  blazing  a  large  fire,  a  nun  of  the 
order  of  St.  Vincent  de  Paul  was  kneeling,  watching  a  sauce- 
pan. She  was  a  young  woman,  with  a  face  whiter  than  her 
cap.  Her  immovably  placid  features,  her  mournful  look,  be- 
tokened the  renunciation  of  the  flesh,  and  the  abdication  of  all 
independence  of  thought.  Her  heavy  gray  costume  hung  about 
her  in  large  ungraceful  folds.  Every  time  she  moved,  her  long 
chaplet  of  beads  and  colored  box-wood,  loaded  with  crosses  and 
copper  medals,  shook  and  trailed  along  the  floor  with  a  noise 
like  a  jingling  of  chains. 

Dr.  Herve  was  seated  on  a  chair  opposite  the  bed,  watching, 
apparently  with  close  attention,  the  nun's  preparations.  He 
jumped  up  as  Noel  entered.  "At  last  you  are  here,"  he  said, 
giving  his  friend  a  strong  grasp  of  the  hand. 

"I  was  detained  at  the  Palais,"  said  the  barrister,  as  if  he 
felt  the  necessity  of  explaining  his  absence ;  "and  I  have  been, 
as  you  may  well  imagine,  dreadfully  anxious."  He  leaned 
toward  the  doctor's  ear,  and  in  a  trembling  voice  asked :  "Well, 
is  she  at  all  better?" 

The  doctor  shook  his  head  with  an  air  of  deep  discourage- 
ment. "She  is  much  worse,"  he  replied:  "since  morning  bad 
symptoms  have  succeeded  each  other  with  frightful  rapidity." 
He  checked  himself.  The  barrister  had  seized  bis  arm  and 
was  pressing  it  with  all  his  might.  Madame  Gerdy  stirred  a 
little,  and  a  feeble  groan  escaped  her.  "She  heard  you,"  mur- 
mured Noel. — "I  wish  it  were  so,"  said  the  doctor;  "it  would 
be  most  encouraging.  But  I  fear  you  are  mistaken.  How- 
ever, we  will  see.  He  went  up  to  Madame  Gerdy,  and.  while 
feeling  her  pulse,  examined  her  carefully;  then,  with  the  tip 
of  his  finger,  he  lightly  raised  her  eyelid.  The  eye  appeared 
dull,  glassy,  lifeless.    "Come,  judge  for  yourself;  take  her  hand, 


THE    LEROUGE   AFFAIR  831 

speak  to  her."  Noel,  trembling  all  over,  did  as  his  friend 
wished.  He  drew  near,  and,  leaning  over  the  bed,  so  that  his 
mouth  almost  touched  the  sick  woman's  ear,  he  murmured : 
"Mother,  it  is  I,  Noel,  your  own  Noel.  Speak  to  me,  make 
some  sign;  do  you  hear  me,  mother?"  It  was  in  vain;  she 
retained  her  frightful  immobility.  Not  a  sign  of  intelligence 
crossed  her  features.  "You  see,"  said  the  doctor,  "I  told  you 
the  truth." — "Poor  woman!"  sighed  Noel,  "does  she  suffer?" — 
"Not  at  present."  The  nun  now  rose ;  and  she  too  came  beside 
the  bed.    "Doctor,"  said  she,  "all  is  ready." 

"Then  call  the  servant,  sister,  to  help  us.  We  are  going  to 
apply  a  mustard  poultice."  The  servant  hastened  in.  In  the 
arms  of  the  two  women,  Madame  Gerdy  was  like  a  corpse  whom 
they  were  dressing  for  the  last  time.  She  was  as  rigid  as 
though  she  were  dead.  She  must  have  suffered  much  and  long, 
poor  woman,  for  it  was  pitiable  to  see  how  thin  she  was.  The 
nun  herself  was  affected,  although  she  had  become  habituated 
to  the  sight  of  suffering.  How  many  invalids  had  breathed  their 
last  in  her  arms  during  the  fifteen  years  that  she  had  gone 
from  pillow  to  pillow !  Noel,  during  this  time,  had  retired  into 
the  window  recess,  and  pressed  his  burning  brow  against  the 
panes.  Of  what  was  he  thinking  while  she  who  had  given  him 
so  many  proofs  of  maternal  tenderness  and  devotion  was  dying 
a  few  paces  from  him?  Did  he  regret  her?  Was  he  not  think- 
ing rather  of  the  grand  and  magnificent  existence  which  awaited 
him  on  the  other  side  of  the  river,  at  the  Faubourg  St.  Ger- 
main ?    He  turned  abruptly  round  on  hearing  his  friend's  voice. 

"It  is  done,"  said  the  doctor;  "we  have  only  now  to  wait 
the  effect  of  the  mustard.  If  she  feels  it,  it  will  be  a  good  sign ; 
if  it  has  no  effect,  we  will  try  cupping." — "And  if  that  does  not 
succeed?"  The  doctor  answered  only  with  a  shrug  of  the  shoul- 
ders, which  showed  his  inability  to  do  more.  "I  understand 
your  silence,  Herve,"  murmured  Noel.  "Alas !  you  told  me 
last  night  she  was  lost." 

"Scientifically,  yes;  but  I  do  not  yet  despair.  It  is  hardly 
a  year  ago  that  the  father-in-law  of  one  of  our  comrades  re- 
covered from  an  almost  identical  attack;  and  I  saw  him  when 
he  was  much  worse  than  this:  suppuration  had  set  in." 

"It  breaks  my  heart  to  see  her  in  this  state,"  resumed  Noel. 
"Must  she  die  without  recovering  her  reason  even  for  one  mo- 
ment?   Will  she  not  recognize  me,  speak  one  word  to  me?" 

"Who  knows?    This  disease,  my  poor  friend,  baffles  all  fore- 


832  THE   LEROUGE   AFFAIR 

sight.  Each  moment  the  aspect  may  change,  according  as  the 
inflammation  affects  such  or  such  a  part  of  the  brain.  She  is 
now  in  a  state  of  utter  insensibility,  of  complete  prostration  of 
all  her  intellectual  faculties,  of  coma,  of  paralysis,  so  to  say; 
to-morrow  she  may  be  seized  with  convulsions,  accompanied 
with  a  fierce  delirium." — "And  will  she  speak  then?" — "Cer- 
tainly; but  that  will  neither  modify  the  nature  nor  the  gravity 
of  the  disease." — "And  will  she  recover  her  reason?" — "Per- 
haps," answered  the  doctor,  looking  fixedly  at  his  friend;  "but 
why  do  you  ask  that?" 

"Ah,  my  dear  Herve,  one  word  from  Madame  Gerdy,  only 
one,  would  be  of  such  use  to  me !" 

"For  your  affair,  eh !  Well,  I  can  tell  you  nothing,  can  prom- 
ise you  nothing.  You  have  as  many  chances  in  your  favor  as 
against  you ;  only  do  not  leave  her.  If  her  intelligence  returns, 
it  will  be  only  momentary;  try  and  profit  by  it.  But  I  must 
go,"  added  the  doctor:  "I  have  still  three  calls  to  make." — 
Noel  followed  his  friend.  When  they  reached  the  landing,  he 
asked :  "You  will  return  ?" 

"This  evening,  at  nine.  There  will  be  no  need  of  me  till  then. 
All  depends  upon  the  watcher.  But  I  have  chosen  a  pearl.  I 
know  her  well." — "It  was  you,  then,  who  brought  this  nun?" — 
"Yes,  and  without  your  permission.  Are  you  displeased?" — "Not 
the  least  in  the  world.  Only  I  confess." — "What !  you  make 
a  grimace.  Do  your  political  opinions  forbid  your  having  your 
mother,  I  should  say  Madame  Gerdy,  nursed  by  a  nun  of  St. 
Vincent  ?" — "My  dear  Herve,  you." — "Ah !  I  know  what  you 
are  going  to  say.  They  are  adroit,  insinuating,  dangerous;  all 
that  is  quite  true.  If  I  had  a  rich  old  uncle  whose  heir  I  ex- 
pected to  be,  I  shouldn't  introduce  one  of  them  into  his  house. 
These  good  creatures  are  sometimes  charged  with  strange  com- 
missions. But  what  have  you  to  fear  from  this  one  ?  Never  mind 
what  fools  say.  Money  aside,  these  worthy  sisters  are  the  best 
nurses  in  the  world.  I  hope  you  will  have  one  when  your  end 
comes.  But  good-by;  I  am  in  a  hurry."  And,  regardless  of  his 
professional  dignity,  the  doctor  hurried  down  the  stairs;  while 
Noel,  full  of  thought,  his  countenance  displaying  the  greatest 
anxiety,  returned  to  Madame  Gerdy.  At  the  door  of  the  sick-room 
the  nun  awaited  the  barrister's  return.    "Sir,"  said  she,  "sir." 

"You  want  something  of  me,  sister?1' 

"Sir,  the  servant  bade  me  come  to  you  for  money;  she  has 
no  more,  and  had  to  get  credit  at  the  chemist's." 


THE    LEROUGE   AFFAIR  833 

"Excuse  me,  sister,"  interrupted  Noel,  seemingly  very  much 
vexed ;  "excuse  me  for  not  having  anticipated  your  request ; 
but  you  see  I  am  rather  confused."  And,  taking  a  hundred- 
franc  note  out  of  his  pocket-book,  he  laid  it  on  the  mantel- 
piece. "Thanks,  sir,"  said  the  nun ;  "I  will  keep  an  account 
of  what  I  spend.  We  always  do  that,"  she  added;  "it  is  more 
convenient  for  the  family.  One  is  so  troubled  at  seeing  those 
one  loves  laid  low  by  illness.  You  have  perhaps  not  thought 
of  giving  this  poor  lady  the  sweet  aid  of  our  holy  religion ! 
In  your  place,  sir,  I  should  send  without  delay  for  a  priest — " 

"What  now,  sister?  Do  you  not  see  the  condition  she  is  in? 
She  is  the  same  as  dead;  you  saw  that  she  did  not  hear  my 
voice." 

"That  is  of  little  consequence,  sir,"  replied  the  nun;  "you 
will  always  have  done  your  duty.  She  did  not  answer  you; 
but  are  you  sure  that  she  will  not  answer  the  priest?  Ah, 
you  do  not  know  all  the  power  of  the  last  sacraments !  I 
have  seen  the  dying  recover  their  intelligence  and  sufficient 
strength  to  confess,  and  to  receive  the  sacred  body  of  our 
Lord  Jesus  Christ.  I  have  often  heard  families  say  that  they 
do  not  wish  to  alarm  the  invalid,  that  the  sight  of  the  minister 
of  our  Lord  might  inspire  a  terror  that  would  hasten  the 
final  end.  It  is  a  fatal  error.  The  priest  does  not  terrify;  he 
reassures  the  soul,  at  the  beginning  of  its  long  journey.  He 
speaks  in  the  name  of  the  God  of  mercy,  who  comes  to  save, 
not  to  destroy.  I  could  cite  to  you  many  cases  of  dying  people 
who  have  been  cured  simply  by  contact  with  the  sacred  balm." 

The  nun  spoke  in  a  tone  as  mournful  as  her  look.  Her 
heart  was  evidently  not  in  the  words  which  she  uttered.  With- 
out doubt,  she  had  learned  them  when  she  first  entered  the 
convent.  Then  they  expressed  something  she  really  felt,  she 
spoke  her  own  thoughts ;  but,  since  then,  she  had  repeated 
the  words  over  and  over  again  to  the  friends  of  every  sick 
person  that  she  attended,  until  they  lost  all  meaning  so  far 
as  she  was  concerned.  To  utter  them  became  simply  a  part  of 
her  duties  as  nurse,  the  same  as  the  preparation  of  drafts, 
and  the  making  of  poultices.  Noel  was  not  listening  to  her; 
his  thoughts  were  far  away. 

"Your  dear  mother,"  continued  the  nun,  "this  good  lady 
that  you  love  so  much,  no  doubt  trusted  in  her  religion.  Do 
you  wish  to  endanger  her  salvation?  If  she  could  speak  in  the 
midst  of  her  cruel  sufferings — " 

9— Vol.  Ill — Gab 


834  THE   LEROUGE   AFFAIR 

The  barrister  was  about  to  reply,  when  the  servant  announced 
that  a  gentleman,  who  would  not  give  his  name,  wished  to  speak 
with  him  on  business.    "I  will  come,"  he  said. 

"What  do  you  decide,  sir?"  persisted  the  nun. — "I  leave 
you  free,  sister,  to  do  as  you  may  judge  best." 

The  worthy  woman  began  to  recite  her  lesson  of  thanks, 
but  to  no  purpose.  Noel  had  disappeared  with  a  displeased 
look;  and  almost  immediately  she  heard  his  voice  in  the  next 
room  saying:  "At  last  you  have  come,  M.  Clergot,  I  had 
almost  given  you  up !" 

The  visitor,  whom  the  barrister  had  been  expecting,  is  a 
person  well  known  in  the  Rue  St.  Lazare,  round  about  the  Rue 
de  Provence,  the  neighborhood  of  Notre  Dame  de  Lorette, 
and  all  along  the  exterior  Boulevards,  from  the  Chaussee  des 
Martyrs  to  the  Rond-Point  of  the  old  Barriere  de  Clichy.  M. 
Clergot  is  no  more  a  usurer  than  M.  Jourdain's  father  was  a 
shopkeeper.  Only,  as  he  has  lots  of  money,  and  is  very  oblig- 
ing, he  lends  it  to  his  friends ;  and,  in  return  for  this  kindness, 
he  consents  to  receive  interest,  which  varies  from  fifteen  to 
five  hundred  per  cent.  The  excellent  man  positively  loves  his 
clients,  and  his  honesty  is  generally  appreciated.  H'e  has  never 
been  known  to  seize  a  debtor's  goods;  he  prefers  to  follow 
him  up  without  respite  for  ten  years,  and  tear  from  him  bit  by 
bit  what  is  his  due.  He  lives  near  the  top  of  the  Rue  de  la  Vic- 
toire.  He  has  no  shop,  and  yet  he  sells  everything  salable, 
and  some  other  things,  too,  that  the  law  scarcely  considers 
merchandise.  Anything  to  be  useful  or  neighborly.  He  often 
asserts  that  he  is  not  very  rich.  It  is  possibly  true.  He  is 
whimsical  more  than  covetous,  and  fearfully  bold.  Free  with 
his  money  when  one  pleases  him,  he  would  not  lend  five  francs, 
even  with  a  mortgage  on  the  Chateau  of  Ferrieres  as  guarantee, 
to  whosoever  does  not  meet  with  his  approval.  However,  he 
often  risks  his  all  on  the  most  unlucky  cards.  His  preferred 
customers  consist  of  women  of  doubtful  morality,  actresses, 
artists,  and  those  venturesome  fellows  who  enter  upon  profes- 
sions which  depend  solely  upon  those  who  practise  them,  such 
as  lawyers  and  doctors.  He  lends  to  women  upon  their  present 
beauty,  to  men  upon  their  future  talent.  Slight  pledges !  His 
discernment,  it  should  be  said,  however,  enjoys  a  great  reputa- 
tion. It  is  rarely  at  fault.  A  pretty  girl  furnished  by  Clergot 
is  sure  to  go  far.  For  an  artist  to  be  in  Clergot's  debt  was  a 
recommendation  preferable  to  the  warmest  criticism. 


THE    LEROUGE    AFFAIR  835 

Madame  Juliette  had  procured  this  useful  and  honorable 
acquaintance  for  her  lover.  Noel,  who  well  knew  how  sensitive 
this  worthy  man  was  to  kind  attentions,  and  how  pleased  by 
politeness,  began  by  offering  him  a  seat,  and  asking  after  his 
health.  Clergot  went  into  details.  His  teeth  were  still  good ; 
but  his  sight  was  beginning  to  fail.  His  legs  were  no  longer 
so  steady,  and  his  hearing  was  not  all  that  could  be  desired. 
The  chanter  of  complaints  ended — "You  know."  said  he,  "why  I 
have  called.  Your  bills  fall  due  to-day;  and  I  am  devilishly 
in  need  of  money.  I  have  one  of  ten,  one  of  seven,  and  a  third 
of  five  thousand  francs,  total  twenty-two  thousand  francs." 

"Come,  M.  Clergot,"  replied  Noel,  "do  not  let  us  have  any 
joking." 

"Excuse  me,"  said  the  usurer;  "I  am  not  joking  at  all." 

"I  rather  think  you  are  though.  Why,  it's  just  eight  days 
ago  to-day  that  I  wrote  to  tell  you  that  I  was  not  prepared  to 
meet  the  bills,  and  asked  for  a  renewal !" 

"I   recollect  very  well  receiving  your  letter." 

"What  do  you  say  to  it,  then?" 

"By  my  not  answering  the  note,  I  supposed  that  you  would 
understand  that  I  could  not  comply  with  your  request;  I  hoped 
that   you   would   exert   yourself   to   find   the  amount   for   me." 

Noel  allowed  a  gesture  of  impatience  to  escape  him.  "I  have 
not  done  so,"  he  said,  "so  take  your  own  course.  I  haven't 
a  sou." 

"The  devil.  Do  you  know  that  I  have  renewed  these  bills 
four  times  already?" 

"I  know  that  the  interest  has  been  fully  and  promptly  paid, 
and  at  a  rate  which  can  not  make  you  regret  the  investment." 
Clergot  never  likes  talking  about  the  interest  he  receives.  He 
pretends  that  it  is  humiliating.  "I  do  not  complain ;  I  only  say 
that  you  take  things  too  easy  with  me.  If  I  had  put  your  sig- 
nature in  circulation  all  would  have  been  paid  by  now." 

"Not  at   all." 

"Yes,  you  would  have  found  means  to  escape  being  sued. 
But  you  say  to  yourself :  'Old  Clergot  is  a  good  fellow.'  And 
that  is  true.  But  I  am  so  only  when  it  can  do  me  no  harm. 
Now,  to-day,  I  am  absolutely  in  great  need  of  my  money. 
Ab — so — lute — ly,"  he  added,  emphasizing  each  syllable.  The 
old  fellow's  decided  tone  seemed  to  disturb  the  barrister. 
— "Must  I  repeat  it?"  Noel  said;  "I  am  completely  drained, 
com — plete — ly  1" 


886  THE   LEROUGE   AFFAIR 

"Indeed?"  said  the  usurer;  "well,  I  am  sorry  for  you;  but 
I  shall  have  to  sue  you." 

"And  what  good  will  that  do?  Let  us  play  aboveboard,  M. 
Clergot.  Do  you  care  to  increase  the  lawyers'  fees?  You 
don't,  do  you?  Even  though  you  may  put  me  to  great  expense, 
will  that  procure  you  even  a  centime?  You  will  obtain  judg- 
ment against  me.  Well,  what  then?  Do  you  think  of  putting 
in  an  execution?  This  is  not  my  home;  the  lease  is  in  Ma- 
dame Gerdy's  name." 

"I  know  all  that.  Besides,  the  sale  of  everything  here  would 
not  cover  the  amount." 

"Then  you  intend  to  put  me  in  prison,  at  Clichy !  Bad 
speculation,  I  warn  you ;  my  practise  will  be  lost,  and,  you  know, 
no  practise,  no  money." 

"Good !"  cried  the  worthy  money-lender.  "Now  you  are 
talking  nonsense  !  You  call  that  being  frank.  Pshaw !  If  you 
suppose  me  capable  of  half  the  cruel  things  you  have  said,  my 
money  would  be  there  in  your  drawer,  ready  for  me." 

"A  mistake !  I  should  not  know  where  to  get  it,  unless  by 
asking  Madame  Gerdy,  a  thing  I  would  never  do." 

A  sarcastic  and  most  irritating  little  laugh,  peculiar  to  old 
Clergot,  interrupted  Noel.  "It  would  be  no  good  doing  that," 
said  the  usurer ;  "mama's  purse  has  long  been  empty ;  and 
if  the  dear  creature  should  die  now — they  tell  me  she  is  very 
ill — I  would  not  give  two  hundred  napoleons  for  the  inheri- 
tance." The  barrister  turned  red  with  passion,  his  eyes  glit- 
tered; but  he  dissembled,  and  protested  with  some  spirit.  "We 
know  what  we  know,"  continued  Clergot  quietly.  "Before 
a  man  risks  his  money,  he  takes  care  to  make  some  inquiries. 
Mama's  remaining  bonds  were  sold  last  October.  Ah !  the  Rue 
de  Provence  is  an  expensive  place !  I  have  made  an  estimate, 
which  is  at  home.  Juliette  is  a  charming  woman,  to  be  sure ; 
she  has  not  her  equal,  I  am  convinced;  but  she  is  expensive, 
devilish  expensive."  Noel  was  enraged  at  hearing  his  Juliette 
thus  spoken  of  by  this  honorable  personage.  But  what  reply 
could  he  make  ?  Besides,  none  of  us  are  perfect ;  and  M.  Clergot 
possesses  the  fault  of  not  properly  appreciating  women,  which 
doubtless  arises  from  the  business  transactions  he  has  had 
with  them.  He  is  charming  in  his  business  with  the  fair  sex, 
complimenting  and  flattering  them;  but  the  coarsest  insults 
would  be   less  revolting  than  his  disgusting  familiarity. 

"You  have  gone  too  fast,"  he  continued,  without  deigning  to 


THE    LEROUGE   AFFAIR  837 

notice  his  client's  ill  looks ;  "and  I  have  told  you  so  before. 
But,  you  would  not  listen ;  you  are  mad  about  the  girl.  You 
can  never  refuse  her  anything.  Fool !  When  a  pretty  girl 
wants  anything,  you  should  let  her  long  for  it  for  a  while; 
she  has  then  something  to  occupy  her  mind  and  keep  her  from 
thinking  of  a  quantity  of  other  follies.  Four  good  strong 
wishes,  well  managed,  ought  to  last  a  year.  You  don't  know 
how  to  look  after  your  own  interests.  I  know  that  her  glance 
would  turn  the  head  of  a  stone  saint ;  but  you  should  reason 
with  yourself,  hang  it !  Why,  there  are  not  ten  girls  in  Paris 
who  live  in  such  style  !  And  do  you  think  she  loves  you  any 
the  more  for  it?  Not  a  bit.  When  she  has  ruined  you,  she'll 
leave  you  in  the  lurch."  Noel  accepted  the  eloquence  of  his 
prudent  banker  as  a  man  without  an  umbrella  accepts  a 
shower.  "What  is  the  meaning  of  all  this?"  he  asked. — "Simply 
that  I  will  not  renew  your  bills.  You  understand?  Just  now, 
if  you  try  very  hard,  you  will  be  able  to  hand  me  the  twenty- 
two  thousand  francs  in  question.  You  need  not  frown ;  you 
will  find  means  to  do  so  to  prevent  my  seizing  your  goods — 
not  here,  for  that  would  be  absurd,  but  at  your  little  woman's 
apartments.  She  would  not  be  at  all  pleased,  and  would  not 
hesitate  to  tell  you  so." 

"But  everything  there  belongs  to  her ;  and  you  have  no 
right—" 

"What  of  that?  She  will  oppose  the  seizure,  no  doubt,  and 
I  expect  her  to  do  so;  but  she  will  make  you  find  the  requisite 
sum.  Believe  me,  you  had  best  parry  the  blow.  I  insist  on 
being  paid  now.  I  won't  give  you  any  further  delay ;  because, 
in  three  months'  time,  you  will  have  used  your  last  resources. 
It  is  no  use  saying  'No,'  like  that.  You  are  in  one  of  those 
conditions  that  must  be  continued  at  any  price.  You  would 
burn  the  wood  from  your  dying  mother's  bed  to  warm  this 
creature's  feet.  Where  did  you  obtain  the  ten  thousand  francs 
that  you  left  with  her  the  other  evening?  Who  knows  what 
you  will  next  attempt  to  procure  money?  The  idea  of  keeping 
her  fifteen  days,  three  days,  a  single  day  more,  may  lead  you 
far.  Open  your  eyes.  I  know  the  game  well.  If  you  do  not 
leave  Juliette,  you  are  lost.  Listen  to  a  little  good  advice, 
gratis.  You  must  give  her  up,  sooner  or  later,  musn't  you? 
Do  it  to-day.,  then." 

As  you  see,  our  worthy  Clergot  never  minces  the  truth 
to  his  customers,  when  they  do  not  keep  their  engagements. 


838  THE   LEROUGE   AFFAIR 

If  they  are  displeased,  so  much  the  worse  for  them !  His 
conscience  is  at  rest.  He  would  never  join  in  any  foolish 
business.  Noel  could  bear  it  no  longer ;  and  his  anger  burst 
forth.  "Enough,"  he  cried  decidedly.  "Do  as  you  please,  M. 
Clergot,  but  have  done  with  your  advice.  I  prefer  the 
lawyer's  plain  prose.  If  I  have  committed  follies,  I  can  repair 
them,  and  in  a  way  that  would  surprise  you.  Yes,  M.  Clergot, 
I  can  procure  twenty-two  thousand  francs;  I  could  have  a 
hundred  thousand  to-morrow  morning,  if  I  saw  fit.  They 
would  only  cost  me  the  trouble  of  asking  for  them.  But  that 
I  will  not  do.  My  extravagance,  with  all  due  deference  to 
you,  will  remain  a  secret  as  heretofore.  I  do  not  choose  that 
my  present  embarrassed  circumstances  should  be  even  sus- 
pected. I  will  not  relinquish,  for  your  sake,  that  at  which 
I  have  been  aiming,  the  very  day  it  is  within  my  grasp." 

"He  resists,"  thought  the  usurer;  "he  is  less  deeply  involved 
than  I  imagined." 

"So,"  continued  the  barrister,  "put  your  bills  in  the  hands 
of  your  lawyer.  Let  him  sue  me.  In  eight  days  I  shall  be 
summoned  to  appear  before  the  Tribunal  de  Commerce,  and  I 
shall  ask  for  the  twenty-five  days'  delay,  which  the  judges 
always  grant  to  an  embarrassed  debtor.  Twenty-five  and  eight, 
all  the  world  over,  make  just  thirty-three  days.  That  is  pre- 
cisely the  respite  I  need.  You  have  two  alternatives :  either 
accept  from  me  at  once  a  new  bill  for  twenty-four  thousand 
francs,  payable  in  six  weeks,  or  else,  as  I  have  an  appoint- 
ment, go  off  to  your  lawyer." 

"And  in  six  weeks,"  replied  the  usurer,  "you  will  be  in  pre- 
cisely the  same  condition  you  are  to-day.  And  forty-five  days 
more  of  Juliette  will  cost — " 

"M.  Clergot,"  interrupted  Noel,  "long  before  that  time  my 
position  will  be  completely  changed.  But  I  have  finished,"  he 
added,  rising,  "and  my  time  is  valuable." 

"One  moment,  you  impatient  fellow !"  exclaimed  the  banker, 
"you  said  twenty-four  thousand  francs  at  forty-five  days?" 

"Yes.  That  is  about  seventy-five  per  cent — pretty  fair 
interest." 

"I  never  cavil  about  interest,"  said  M.  Clergot ;  "only — " 
He  looked  slyly  at  Noel,  scratching  his  chin  violently,  a  move- 
ment which  in  him  indicated  how  insensibly  his  brain  was  at 
work.  "Only,"  he  continued,  "I  should  very  much  like  to  know 
what  you  are  counting  upon." 


THE   LEROUGE   AFFAIR  839 

"That  I  will  not  tell  you.  You  will  know  it  ere  long,  in  com- 
mon with  all  the  world." 

'T  have  it!"  cried  M.  Clergot,  "I  have  it!  You  are  going 
to  marry!  You  have  found  an  heiress,  of  course;  your  little 
Juliette  told  me  something  of  the  sort  this  morning.  Ah !  you 
are  going  to  marry!  Is  she  pretty?  Bui  no  matter.  She  has 
a  full  purse,  eh  ?  You  wouldn't  take  her  without  that.  So  you 
are  going  to  start  a  home  of  your  own?" 

"I  did  not  say  so." 

"That's  right.  Be  discreet.  But  I  can  take  a  hint.  One 
word  more.  Beware  of  the  storm ;  your  little  woman  has  a 
suspicion  of  the  truth.  You  are  right;  it  wouldn't  do  to  be 
Seeking  money  now.  The  slightest  inquiry  would  be  sufficient 
to  enlighten  your  father-in-law  as  to  your  financial  position, 
and  you  would  lose  the  damsel.  Marry  and  settle  down.  But 
get  rid  of  Juliette,  or  I  won't  give  five  francs  for  the  fortune. 
So  it  is  settled:  prepare  a  new  bill  for  twenty-four  thousand 
francs,  and  I  will  call  for  it  when  I  bring  you  the  old  ones  on 
Monday." 

"You  haven't  them  with  you,  then?" 

"No.  And  to  be  frank,  I  confess  that,  knowing  well  I  should 
get  nothing  from  you,  I  left  them  with  others  at  my  lawyer's. 
However,  you  may  rest  easy :  you  have  my  word." 

M.  Clergot  made  a  pretense  of  retiring;  but  just  as  he  was 
going  out,  he  returned  quickly.  "I  had  almost  forgotten,"  said 
he;  "while  you  are  about  it,  you  can  make  the  bill  for  twenty- 
six  thousand  francs.  Your  little  woman  ordered  some  dresses, 
which  I  shall  deliver  to-morrow ;  in  this  way  they  will  be  paid 
for."  The  barrister  began  to  remonstrate.  He  certainly  did 
not  refuse  to  pay,  only  he  thought  he  ought  to  be  consulted 
when  any  purchases  were  made.  He  didn't  like  this  way  of 
disposing  of  his  money. 

"What  a  fellow !"  said  the  usurer,  shrugging  his  shoulders ; 
"do  you  want  to  make  the  girl  unhappy  for  nothing  at  all  ? 
She  won't  let  you  off  yet,  my  friend.  You  may  be  quite  sure 
she  will  eat  up  your  new  fortune  also.  And  you  know,  if  you 
need  any  money  for  the  wedding,  you  have  but  to  give  me  some 
guarantee.  Procure  me  an  introduction  to  the  notary,  and 
everything  shall  be  arranged.  But  I  must  go.  On  Monday 
then." 

Noel  listened,  to  make  sure  that  the  usurer  had  actually  gone. 
When  he  heard  him  descending  the  staircase,  "Scoundrel !"  he 


840  THE   LEROUGE   AFFAIR 

cried,  "miserable  thieving  old  skinflint !  Didn't  he  need  a  lot 
of  persuading?  He  had  quite  made  up  his  mind  to  sue  me.  It 
would  have  been  a  pleasant  thing  had  the  comte  come  to  hear 
of  it.  Vile  usurer !  I  was  afraid  one  moment  of  being  obliged 
to  tell  him  all." 

While  inveighing  thus  against  the  money-lender,  the  bar- 
rister looked  at  his  watch.  "Half-past  five  already,"  he  said. 
His  indecision  was  great.  Ought  he  to  go  and  dine  with  his 
father?  Could  he  leave  Madame  Gerdy?  He  longed  to  dine 
at  the  De  Commarin  mansion ;  yet,  on  the  other  hand,  to  leave 
a  dying  woman !  "Decidedly,"  he  murmured,  "I  can't  go."  He 
sat  down  at  his  desk,  and  with  all  haste  wrote  a  letter  of 
apology  to  his  father.  Madame  Gerdy,  he  said,  might  die  at 
any  moment;  he  must  remain  with  her.  As  he  bade  the  servant 
give  the  note  to  a  messenger,  to  carry  it  to  the  comte,  a  sudden 
thought  seemed  to  strike  him.  "Does  madame's  brother,"  he 
asked,  "know  that  she  is  dangerously  ill?" 

"I  do  not  know,  sir,"  replied  the  servant,  "at  any  rate,  I  have 
not  informed  him." 

"What,  did  you  not  think  to  send  him  word?  Run  to  his 
house  quickly.  Have  him  sought  for,  if  he  is  not  at  home ;  he 
must  come."  Considerably  more  at  ease,  Noel  went  and  sat  in 
the  sick-room.  The  lamp  was  lighted ;  and  the  nun  was  moving 
about  the  room  as  though  quite  at  home,  dusting  and  arranging 
everything,  and  putting  it  in  its  place.  She  wore  an  air  of 
satisfaction  that  Noel  did  not  fail  to  notice.  "Have  we  any 
gleam  of  hope,  sister?"  he  asked. 

"Perhaps,"  replied  the  nun.  "The  priest  has  been  here,  sir; 
your  dear  mother  did  not  notice  his  presence ;  but  he  is  coming 
back.  That  is  not  all.  Since  the  priest  was  here,  the  poultice 
has  taken  admirably.  The  skin  is  quite  reddened.  I  am  sure 
she  feels  it." 

"God  grant  that  she  does,  sister !" 

"Oh,  I  have  already  been  praying!  But  it  is  important  not 
to  leave  her  alone  a  minute.  I  have  arranged  all  with  the  ser- 
vant. After  the  doctor  has  been  here,  I  shall  lie  down,  and  she 
will  watch  until  one  in  the  morning.  I  will  then  take  her  place 
and—" 

"You  shall  go  to  bed,  sister,"  interrupted  Noel,  sadly.  "It  is 
I,  who  could  not  sleep  a  wink,  who  will  watch  through  the 
night." 


THE    LEROUGE   AFFAIR 


841 


o 


iLD  TABARET  did  not  consider  himself  defeated,  because 
he  had  been  repulsed  by  the  investigating  magistrate,  al- 
ready irritated  by  a  long  day's  examination.  You  may  call  it 
a  fault,  or  an  accomplishment ;  but  the  old  man  was  more  obsti- 
nate than  a  mule.  To  the  excess  of  despair  to  which  he  suc- 
cumbed in  the  passage  outside  the  magistrate's  office,  there  soon 
succeeded  that  firm  resolution  which  is  the  enthusiasm  called 
forth  by  danger.  The  feeling  of  duty  got  the  upper  hand.  Was 
it  a  time  to  yield  to  unworthy  despair,  when  the  life  of  a  fellow 
man  depended  on  each  minute?  Inaction  would  be  unpardon- 
able. He  had  plunged  an  innocent  man  into  the  abyss ;  and  he 
must  draw  him  out,  he  alone,  if  no  one  would  help  him.  Old 
Tabaret,  as  well  as  the  magistrate,  was  greatly  fatigued.  On 
reaching  the  open  air,  he  perceived  that  he,  too,  was  in  want  of 
food.  The  emotions  of  the  day  had  prevented  him  from  feeling 
hungry;  and,  since  the  previous  evening,  he  had  not  even  taken 
a  glass  of  water.  He  entered  a  restaurant  on  the  Boulevard, 
and  ordered  dinner.  While  eating,  not  only  his  courage,  but 
also  his  confidence,  came  insensibly  back  to  him.  It  was  with 
him,  as  with  the  rest  of  mankind;  who  knows  how  much  one's 
ideas  may  change,  from  the  beginning  to  the  end  of  a  repast, 
be  it  ever  so  modest !  A  philosopher  has  plainly  demonstrated 
that  heroism  is  but  an  affair  of  the  stomach.  The  old  fellow 
looked  at  the  situation  in  a  much  less  sombre  light.  He  had 
plenty  of  time  before  him  !  A  clever  man  could  accomplish  a 
great  deal  in  a  month  !  Would  his  usual  penetration  fail  him 
now?  Certainly  not.  His  great  regret  was  his  inability  to  let 
Albert  know  that  some  one  was  working  for  him. 

He  was  entirely  another  man  as  he  rose  from  the  table ;  and 
it  was  with  a  sprightly  step  that  he  walked  toward  the  Rue  St. 
Lazare.  Nine  o'clock  struck  as  the  concierge  opened  the  door 
for  him.  He  went  at  once  up  to  the  fourth  floor  to  inquire  after 
the  health  of  his  former  friend,  her  whom  he  used  to  call  the 
excellent,  the  worthy   Madame   Gerdy.     It  was   Noel  who  let 


842  THE    LEROUGE   AFFAIR 

him  in,  Noel,  who  had  doubtless  been  thinking  of  the  past,  for 
he  looked  as  sad  as  though  the  dying  woman  were  really  his 
mother.  In  consequence  of  this  unexpected  circumstance,  old 
Tabaret  could  not  avoid  going  in  for  a  few  minutes,  though  he 
would  much  have  preferred  not  doing  so.  He  knew  very  well 
that,  being  with  the  barrister,  he  would  be  unavoidably  led  to 
speak  of  the  Lerouge  case;  and  how  could  he  do  this,  knowing, 
as  he  did,  the  particulars  much  better  than  his  young  friend 
himself,  without  betraying  his  secret?  A  single  imprudent  word 
might  reveal  the  part  he  was  playing  in  this  sad  drama.  It  was. 
above  all  others,  from  his  dear  Noel,  now  Vicomte  de  Com- 
marin,  that  he  wished  entirely  to  conceal  his  connection  with 
the  police.  But,  on  the  other  hand,  he  thirsted  to  know  what 
had  passed  between  the  barrister  and  the  comte.  His  igno- 
rance on  this  single  point  aroused  his  curiosity.  However,  as 
he  could  not  withdraw,  he  resolved  to  keep  close  watch  upon 
his  language  and  remain  constantly  on  his  guard.  The  barrister 
ushered  the  old  man  into  Madame  Gerdy's  room.  Her  condi- 
tion, since  the  afternoon,  had  changed  a  little ;  though  it  was 
impossible  to  say  whether  for  the  better  or  the  worse.  One 
thing  was  evident,  her  prostration  was  not  so  great.  Her  eyes 
still  remained  closed ;  but  a  slight  quivering  of  the  lids  was  evi- 
dent.    She  constantly  moved  on  her  pillow,  and  moaned  feebly. 

"What  does  the  doctor  say?"  asked  old  Tabaret,  in  that  low 
voice  one  unconsciously  employs  in  a  sick-room. 

"He  has  just  gone,"  replied  Noel;  "before  long  all  will  be 
over."  The  old  man  advanced  on  tiptoe,  and  looked  at  the 
dying  woman  with  evident  emotion.  "Poor  creature  !"  he  mur- 
mured ;  "God  is  merciful  in  taking  her.  She  perhaps  suffers 
much ;  but  what  is  this  pain  compared  to  what  she  would  feel 
if  she  knew  that  her  son,  her  true  son,  was  in  prison,  accused 
of  murder?" 

"That  is  what  I  keep  thinking,"  said  Noel,  "to  console  myself 
for  this  sight.  For  I  still  love  her,  my  old  friend ;  I  shall  al- 
ways regard  her  as  a  mother.  You  have  heard  me  curse  her. 
have  you  not  ?  I  have  twice  treated  her  very  harshly.  I  thought 
I  hated  her;  but  now,  at  the  moment  of  losing  her,  I  forget 
every  wrong  she  has  done  me,  only  to  remember  her  tender- 
ness. Yes,  for  her,  death  is  far  preferable !  And  yet  I  do  not 
think,  no,  I  can  not  think  her  son  guilty." 

"No !  what,  you  too  ?"  Old  Tabaret  put  so  much  warmth  and 
vivacity   into   this   exclamation   that   Noel   looked   at   him   with 


THE    LEROUGE    AFFAIR  843 

astonishment.  He  felt  his  face  grow  red,  and  he  hastened  to 
explain  himself.  "I  said,  'You  too,'  "  he  continued,  "because  I, 
thanks  perhaps  to  my  inexperience,  am  persuaded  also  of  this 
young  man's  innocence.  I  can  not  in  the  least  imagine  a  man 
of  his  rank  meditating  and  accomplishing  so  cowardly  a  crime. 
I  have  spoken  with  many  persons  on  this  matter  which  has 
made  so  much  noise ;  and  everybody  is  of  my  opinion.  He  has 
public  opinion  in  his  favor;  that  is  already  something." 

Seated  near  the  bed,  sufficiently  far  from  the  lamp  to  be  in 
the  shade,  the  nun  hastily  knitted  stockings  destined  for  the 
poor.  It  was  a  purely  mechanical  work,  during  which  she  usu- 
ally prayed.  But,  since  old  Tabaret  entered  the  room,  she  for- 
got her  everlasting  prayers  while  listening  to  the  conversation. 
What  did  it  all  mean?  Who  could  this  woman  be?  And  this 
young  man  who  was  not  her  son,  and  who  yet  called  her  mother, 
and  at  the  same  time  spoke  of  a  true  son  accused  of  being  an 
assassin?  Before  this  she  had  overheard  mysterious  remarks 
pass  between  Noel  and  the  doctor.  Into  what  strange  house 
had  she  entered?  She  was  a  little  afraid;  and  her  conscience 
was  sorely  troubled.  Was  she  not  sinning?  She  resolved  to 
tell  all  to  the  priest,  when  he  returned. 

"No,"  said  Noel,  "no,  M.  Tabaret;  Albert  has  not  public 
opinion  for  him.  We  are  sharper  than  that  in  France,  as 
you  know.  When  a  poor  devil  is  arrested,  entirely  innocent, 
perhaps,  of  a  crime  charged  against  him,  we  are  always  ready 
to  throw  stones  at  him.  We  keep  all  our  pity  for  him,  who, 
without  doubt  guilty,  appears  before  the  court  of  assize.  As 
long  as  justice  hesitates,  we  side  with  the  prosecution  against 
the  prisoner.  The  moment  it  is  proved  that  the  man  is  a 
villain,  all  our  sympathies  are  in  his  favor.  That  is  public 
opinion.  You  understand,  however,  that  it  affects  me  but  little. 
I  despise  it  to  such  an  extent  that  if,  as  I  dare  still  hope,  Albert 
is  not  released,  I  will  defend  him.  Yes,  I  have  told  the  Comte 
de  Commarin,  my  father,  as  much.  I  will  be  his  counsel,  and 
I  will  save  him." 

Gladly  would  the  old  man  have  thrown  himself  on  Noel's 
neck.  He  longed  to  say  to  him :  "We  will  save  him  together." 
But  he  restrained  himself.  Would  not  the  barrister  despise 
him,  if  he  told  him  his  secret !  He  resolved,  however,  to  reveal 
all  should  it  become  necessary,  or  should  Albert's  position  be- 
come worse.  For  the  time  being,  he  contended  himself  with 
strongly  approving  his  young  friend.     "Bravo !   my  boy,"   said 


844  THE    LEROUGE   AFFAIR 

he;  "you  have  a  noble  heart.  I  feared  to  see  you  spoiled  by 
wealth  and  rank ;  pardon  me.  You  will  remain,  I  see.  what 
you  have  always  been  in  your  more  humble  position.  But,  tell 
me,  you  have,  then,  seen  your  father,  the  comte  ?" 

Now,  for  the  first  time,  Noel  seemed  to  notice  the  nun's  eyes, 
which,  lighted  by  eager  curiosity,  glittered  in  the  shadow  like 
carbuncles.  With  a  look,  he  drew  the  old  man's  attention  to 
her,  and  said :  "I  have  seen  him ;  and  everything  is  arranged 
to  my  satisfaction.  I  will  tell  you  all,  in  detail,  by  and  by, 
when  we  are  more  at  ease.  By  this  bedside,  I  am  almost 
ashamed  of  my  happiness." 

M.  Tabaret  was  obliged  to  content  himself  with  this  reply 
and  this  promise.  Seeing  that  he  would  learn  nothing  that 
evening,  he  spoke  of  going  to  bed.  declaring  himself  tired  out 
by  what  he  had  had  to  do  during  the  day.  Noel  did  not  ask 
him  to  stop.  He  was  expecting,  he  said,  Madame  Gerdy's 
brother,  who  had  been  sent  for  several  times,  but  who  was  not 
at  home.  He  hardly  knew  how  he  could  again  meet  this  brother, 
he  added :  he  did  not  yet  know  what  conduct  he  ought  to  pur- 
sue. Should  he  tell  him  all  ?  It  would  only  increase  his  grief. 
On  the  other  hand,  silence  would  oblige  him  to  play  a  difficult 
part.  The  old  man  advised  him  to  say  nothing;  he  could 
explain  all  later  on.  "What  a  fine  fellow  Noel  is !"  murmured 
old  Tabaret,  as  he  regained  his  apartments  as  quietly  as  possi- 
ble. He  had  been  absent  from  home  twenty-four  hours ;  and 
he  fully  expected  a  formidable  scene  with  his  housekeeper.  Ma- 
nette  was  decidedly  out  of  temper,  and  declared,  once  for  all, 
that  she  would  certainly  seek  a  new  place,  if  her  master  did 
not  change  his  conduct.  She  had  remained  up  all  night,  in  a 
terrible  fright,  listening  to  the  least  sound  on  the  stairs,  ex- 
pecting every  moment  to  see  her  master  brought  home  on  a 
litter,  assassinated.  As  though  on  purpose,  there  had  been 
great  commotion  in  the  house.  M.  Gerdy  had  gone  down  a 
short  time  after  her  master,  and  she  had  seen  him  return  two 
hours  later.  After  that,  they  had  sent  for  the  doctor.  Such 
goings  on  would  be  the  death  of  her,  without  counting  that 
her  constitution  was  too  weak  to  allow  her  to  sit  up  so  late. 
But  Manette  forgot  that  she  did  not  sit  up  on  her  master's 
account  nor  on  Noel's,  but  was  expecting  one  of  her  old  friends, 
one  of  those  handsome  Gardes  de  Paris  who  had  promised  to 
marry  her,  and  for  whom  she  had  waited  in  vain,  the  rascal ! 
She  burst  forth  in  reproaches,  while  she  prepared  her  master's 


THE    LEROUGE   AFFAIR  845 

bed,  too  sincere,  she  declared,  to  keep  anything  on  her  mind,  or 
to  keep  her  mouth  closed,  when  it  was  a  question  of  his  health 
and  reputation.  M.  Tabaret  made  no  reply,  not  being  in  the 
mood  for  argument.  He  bent  his  head  to  the  storm,  and  turned 
his  back  to  the  hail.  But,  as  soon  as  Manette  had  finished  what 
she  was  about,  he  put  her  out  of  the  room,  and  double  locked 
the  door.  He  busied  himself  in  forming  a  new  line  of  battle, 
and  in  deciding  upon  prompt  and  active  measures.  He  rapidly 
examined  the  situation.  Had  he  been  deceived  in  his  investiga- 
tions? No.  Were  his  calculations  of  probabilities  erroneous? 
No.  He  had  started  with  a  positive  fact,  the  murder.  He  had 
discovered  the  particulars ;  his  inferences  were  correct,  and 
the  criminal  was  evidently  such  as  he  had  described  him.  The 
man  M.  Daburon  had  had  arrested  could  not  be  the  criminal. 
His  confidence  in  a  judicial  axiom  had  led  him  astray,  when 
he  pointed  to  Albert. 

"That,"  thought  he,  "is  the  result  of  following  accepted  opin- 
ions and  those  absurd  phrases,  all  ready  to  hand,  which  are  like 
milestones  along  a  fool's  road  !  Left  free  to  my  own  inspira- 
tions, I  should  have  examined  this  case  more  thoroughly,  I 
would  have  left  nothing  to  chance.  The  formula,  'Seek  out  the 
one  whom  the  crime  benefits,'  may  often  be  as  absurd  as  true. 
The  heirs  of  a  man  assassinated  are  in  reality  all  benefited  by 
the  murder ;  while  the  assassin  obtains  at  most  the  victim's 
watch  and  purse.  Three  persons  were  interested  in  Widow  Le- 
rouge's  death :  Albert,  Madame  Gerdy,  and  the  Comte  de  Com- 
marin.  It  is  plain  to  me  that  Albert  is  not  the  criminal.  It 
is  not  Madame  Gerdy,  who  is  dying  from  the  shock  caused  by 
the  unexpected  announcement  of  the  crime.  There  remains, 
then,  the  comte.  Can  it  be  he?  If  so,  he  certainly  did  not  do 
it  himself.  He  must  have  hired  some  wretch,  a  wretch  of  good 
position,  if  you  please,  wearing  patent-leather  boots  of  a  good 
make,  and  smoking  trabucos  cigars  with  an  amber  mouthpiece. 
These  well-dressed  villains  ordinarily  lack  nerve.  They  cheat, 
they  forge;  but  they  don't  assassinate.  Supposing,  though,  that 
the  comte  did  get  hold  of  some  dare-devil  fellow.  He  would 
simply  have  replaced  one  accomplice  by  another  still  more  dan- 
gerous. That  would  be  idiotic,  and  the  comte  is  a  sensible  man. 
He,  therefore,  had  nothing  whatever  to  do  with  the  matter.  To 
be  quite  sure  though,  I  will  make  some  inquiries  about  him. 
Another  thing,  Widow  Lerouge,  who  so  readily  exchanged  the 
children  while  nursing  them,  would  be  very  likely  to  undertake 


846  THE    LEROUGE   AFFAIR     ' 

a  number  of  other  dangerous  commissions.  Who  can  say  that 
she  has  not  obliged  other  persons  who  had  an  equal  interest 
in  getting  rid  of  her?  There  is  a  secret,  I  am  getting  at  it, 
but  I  do  not  hold  it  yet.  One  thing  is  certain  though,  she  was 
not  assassinated  to  prevent  Noel  recovering  his  rights.  She 
must  have  been  suppressed  for  some  analogous  reason,  by  a 
bold  and  experienced  scoundrel,  prompted  by  similar  motives 
to  those  of  which  I  suspected  Albert.  It  is,  then,  in  that  direc- 
tion that  I  must  follow  up  the  case  now.  And.  above  all,  I 
must  obtain  the  past  history  of  this  obliging  widow,  and  I  will 
have  it  too,  for  in  all  probability  the  particulars  which  have 
been  written  for  from  her  birthplace  will  arrive  to-morrow." 
Returning  to  Albert,  old  Tabaret  weighed  the  charges  which 
were  brought  against  the  young  man,  and  reckoned  the  chances 
which  he  still  had  in  favor  of  his  release.  "From  the  look  of 
things,"  he  murmured,  "I  see  only  luck  and  myself,  that  is  to 
say,  absolutely  nothing,  in  his  favor  at  present.  As  to  the 
charges,  they  are  countless.  However,  it  is  no  use  going  over 
them.  It  is  I  who  amassed  them ;  and  I  know  what  they  are 
worth  !  At  once  everything  and  nothing.  What  do  signs  prove, 
however  striking  they  may  be,  in  cases  where  one  ought  to  dis- 
believe even  the  evidence  of  one's  own  senses  ?  Albert  is  a 
victim  of  the  most  remarkable  coincidences ;  but  one  word  might 
explain  them.  There  have  been  many  such  cases.  It  was  even 
worse  in  the  matter  of  the  little  tailor.  At  five  o'clock,  he 
bought  a  knife,  which  he  showed  to  ten  of  his  friends,  saying: 
'This  is  for  my  wife,  who  is  an  idle  jade,  and  plays  me  false 
with  my  workmen.'  In  the  evening,  the  neighbors  heard  a  ter- 
rible quarrel  between  the  couple,  cries,  threats,  stampings, 
blows ;  then  suddenly  all  was  quiet.  The  next  day,  the  tailor 
had  disappeared  from  his  home,  and  the  wife  was  discovered 
dead,  with  the  very  same  knife  buried  to  the  hilt  between  her 
shoulders.  Ah,  well !  it  turned  out  it  was  not  the  husband  who 
had  stuck  it  there ;  it  was  a  jealous  lover.  After  that,  what  is 
to  be  believed?  Albert,  it  is  true,  will  not  give  an  account  of 
how  he  passed  Tuesday  evening.  That  does  not  affect  me. 
The  question  for  me  is  not  to  prove  where  he  was,  but  that  he 
was  not  at  La  Jonchere.  Perhaps,  after  all,  Gevrol  is  on  the 
right  track.  I  hope  so,  from  the  bottom  of  my  heart.  Yes ; 
God  grant  that  he  may  be  successful.  My  vanity  and  my  mad 
presumption  will  deserve  the  slight  punishment  of  his  triumph 
over  me.     What  would  I  not  give  to  establish  this  man's  inno- 


THE   LEROUGE   AFFAIR  847 

•cence?  Half  of  my  fortune  would  be  but  a  small  sacrifice.  If 
I  should  not  succeed !  If,  after  having  caused  the  evil,  I  should 
find  myself  powerless  to  undo  it !" 

Old  Tabaret  went  to  bed,  shuddering  at  this  last  thought.  He 
fell  asleep,  and  had  a  terrible  nightmare.  Lost  in  that  vulgar 
crowd,  which,  on  the  days  when  society  revenges  itself,  presses 
about  the  Place  de  la  Roquette  and  watches  the  last  convul- 
sions of  one  condemned  to  death,  he  attended  Albert's  execution. 
He  saw  the  unhappy  man,  his  hands  bound  behind  his  back,  his 
collar  turned  down,  ascend,  supported  by  a  priest,  the  steep 
flight  of  steps  leading  on  to  the  scaffold.  He  saw  him  standing 
upon  the  fatal  platform,  turning  his  proud  gaze  upon  the  ter- 
rified assembly  beneath  him.  Soon  the  eyes  of  the  condemned 
man  met  his  own ;  and,  bursting  his  cords,  he  pointed  him, 
Tabaret,  out  to  the  crowd,  crying,  in  a  loud  voice :  "That  man 
is  my  assassin."  Then  a  great  clamor  arose  to  curse  the  detec- 
tive. He  wished  to  escape ;  but  his  feet  seemed  fixed  to  the 
ground.  He  tried  at  least  to  close  his  eyes;  he  could  not.  A 
power  unknown  and  irresistible  compelled  him  to  look.  Then 
Albert  again  cried  out :  "I  am  innocent ;  the  guilty  one  is — " 
He  pronounced  a  name ;  the  crowd  repeated  this  name,  and  he 
alone  did  not  catch  what  it  was.  At  last  the  head  of  the  con- 
demned man  fell.  M.  Tabaret  uttered  a  loud  cry,  and  awoke 
in  a  cold  perspiration.  It  took  him  some  time  to  convince  him- 
self that  nothing  was  real  of  what  he  had  just  heard  and  seen, 
and  that  he  was  actually  in  his  own  house,  in  his  own  bed.  It 
was  only  a  dream !  But  dreams  sometimes  are,  they  say,  warn- 
ings from  heaven.  His  imagination  was  so  struck  with  what 
had  just  happened  that  he  made  unheard-of  efforts  to  recall  the 
name  pronounced  by  Albert.  Not  succeeding,  he  got  up  and 
lighted  his  candle.  The  darkness  made  him  afraid,  the  night 
was  full  of  fantoms.  It  was  no  longer  with  him  a  question  of 
sleep.  Beset  with  these  anxieties,  he  accused  himself  most 
severely,  and  harshly  reproached  himself  for  the  occupation  he 
had  until  then  so  delighted  in.  Poor  humanity !  He  was  evi- 
dently stark  mad  the  day  when  he  first  had  the  idea  of  seeking 
employment  in  the  Rue  de  Jerusalem.  A  noble  hobby,  truly, 
for  a  man  of  his  age,  a  good  quiet  citizen  of  Paris,  rich,  and 
esteemed  by  all !  And  to  think  that  he  had  been  proud  of  his 
exploits,  that  he  had  boasted  of  his  cunning,  that  he  had 
plumed  himself  on  his  keenness  of  scent,  that  he  had  been 
flattered  by  that  ridiculous  sobriquet,  "Tirauclair."     Old  fool ! 


848  THE    LEROUGE   AFFAIR 

What  could  he  hope  to  gain  from  that  bloodhound  calling?  All 
sorts  of  annoyance,  the  contempt  of  the  world,  without  count- 
ing the  danger  of  contributing  to  the  conviction  of  an  innocent 
man.  Why  had  he  not  taken  warning  by  the  little  tailor's  case  ? 
Recalling  his  few  satisfactions  of  the  past,  and  comparing  them 
with  his  present  anguish,  he  resolved  that  he  would  have  no 
more  to  do  with  it.  Albert  once  saved,  he  would  seek  some  less 
dangerous  amusement,  and  one  more  generally  appreciated.  He 
would  break  the  connection  of  which  he  was  ashamed,  and  the 
police  and  justice  might  get  on  the  best  they  could  without  him. 

At  last  the  day,  which  he  had  awaited  with  feverish  impa- 
tience, dawned.  To  pass  the  time,  he  dressed  himself  slowly, 
with  much  care,  trying  to  occupy  his  mind  with  needless  de- 
tails, and  to  deceive  himself  as  to  the  time  by  looking  con- 
stantly at  the  clock,  to  see  if  it  had  not  stopped.  In  spite  of 
all  this  delay,  it  was  not  eight  o'clock  when  he  presented  him- 
self at  the  magistrate's  house,  begging  him  to  excuse,  on  ac- 
count of  the  importance  of  his  business,  a  visit  too  early  not  to 
be  indiscreet.  Excuses  were  superfluous.  M.  Daburon  was 
never  disturbed  by  a  call  at  eight  o'clock  in  the  morning.  He 
was  already  at  work.  He  received  the  old  amateur  detective 
with  his  usual  kindness,  and  even  joked  with  him  a  little  about 
his  excitement  of  the  previous  evening.  Who  would  have 
thought  his  nerves  were  so  sensitive?  Doubtless  the  night  had 
brought  deliberation.  Had  he  recovered  his  reason?  or  had  he 
put  his  hand  on  the  true  criminal? 

This  trifling  tone  in  a  magistrate,  who  was  accused  of  being 
grave  even  to  a  fault,  troubled  the  old  man.  Did  not  this  quiz- 
zing hide  a  determination  not  to  be  influenced  by  anything  that 
he  could  say?  He  believed  it  did;  and  it  was  without  the  least 
deception  that  he  commenced  his  pleading.  He  put  the  case 
more  calmly  this  time,  but  with  all  the  energy  of  a  well-digested 
conviction.  He  had  appealed  to  the  heart,  he  now  appealed  to 
reason ;  but,  although  doubt  is  essentially  contagious,  he  neither 
succeeded  in  convincing  the  magistrate,  nor  in  shaking  his  opin- 
ion. His  strongest  arguments  were  of  no  more  avail  against 
M.  Daburon's  absolute  conviction  than  bullets  made  of  bread 
crumbs  would  be  against  a  breastplate.  And  there  was  nothing 
very  surprising  in  that.  Old  Tabaret  had  on  his  side  only  a 
subtle  theory,  mere  words ;  M.  Daburon  possessed  palpable  tes- 
timony, facts.  And  such  was  the  peculiarity  of  the  case  that 
all  the  reasons  brought  forward  by  the  old  man  to  justify  Albert 


THE   LEROUGE   AFFAIR  849 

simply  reacted  against  him,  and  confirmed  his  guilt.  A  repulse 
at  the  magistrate's  hands  had  entered  too  much  into  M.  Taba- 
ret's  anticipations  for  him  to  appear  troubled  or  discouraged. 
He  declared  that,  for  the  present,  he  would  insist  no  more ;  he 
had  full  confidence  in  the  magistrate's  wisdom  and  impartiality. 
All  he  wished  was  to  put  him  on  his  guard  against  the  presump- 
tions which  he  himself  unfortunately  had  taken  such  pains  to 
inspire.  He  was  going,  he  added,  to  busy  himself  with  obtain- 
ing more  information.  They  were  only  at  the  beginning  of 
the  investigation ;  and  they  were  still  ignorant  of  very  many 
things,  even  of  Widow  Lerouge's  past  life.  More  facts  might 
come  to  light.  Who  knew  what  testimony  the  man  with  the 
earrings,  who  was  being  pursued  by  Gevrol,  might  give  ? 
Though  in  a  great  rage  internally,  and  longing  to  insult  and 
chastise  him  whom  he  inwardly  styled  a  "fool  of  a  magistrate." 
old  Tabaret  forced  himself  to  be  humble  and  polite.  He  wished, 
he  said,  to  keep  well  posted  up  in  the  different  phases  of  the 
investigation,  and  to  be  informed  of  the  result  of  future  inter- 
rogations. He  ended  by  asking  permission  to  communicate 
with  Albert.  He  thought  his  services  deserved  this  slight 
favor.  He  desired  an  interview  of  only  ten  minutes  without 
witnesses.  M.  Daburon  refused  this  request.  "Your  refusal 
is  cruel,  sir,"  said  M.  Tabaret;  "but  I  understand  it,  and  sub- 
mit." That  was  his  only  complaint;  and  he  withdrew  almost 
immediately,  fearing  that  he  could  no  longer  master  his  indig- 
nation. "Three  or  four  days,"  he  muttered,  "that  is  the  same 
as  three  or  four  years  to  the  unfortunate  prisoner.  But  I  must 
find  out  the  real  truth  of  the  case  between  now  and  then." 

Yes,  M.  Daburon  only  required  three  or  four  days  to  wring 
a  confession  from  Albert,  or  at  least  to  make  him  abandon  his 
system  of  defense.  The  difficulty  of  the  prosecution  was  not 
being  able  to  produce  any  witness  who  had  seen  the  prisoner 
during  the  evening  of  Shrove  Tuesday.  It  was  only  Saturday, 
the  day  of  the  murder  was  remarkable  enough  to  fix  people's 
memories,  and  up  till  then  there  had  not  been  time  to  start  a 
proper  investigation.  He  arranged  for  five  of  the  most  expe- 
rienced detectives  in  the  secret  service  to  be  sent  to  Bougival, 
supplied  with  photographs  of  the  prisoner.  They  were  to  scour 
the  entire  country  between  Rueil  and  La  Tonchere,  to  inquire 
everywhere,  and  make  the  most  minute  investigations.  The 
photographs  would  greatly  aid  their  efforts.  It  was  impossible 
that,  on  an  evening  when  so  many  people  were  about,  no  one 


850  THE    LEROUGE   AFFAIR 

had  noticed  the  original  of  the  portrait  either  at  the  railway 
station  at  Rueil  or  upon  one  of  the  roads  which  lead  to  La 
Jonchere,  the  highroad,  and  the  path  by  the  river.  These  ar- 
rangements made,  the  investigating  magistrate  proceeded  to  the 
Palais  de  Justice,  and  sent  for  Albert.  He  had  already  in  the 
morning  received  a  report,  informing  him  hour  by  hour  of  the 
acts,  gestures,  and  utterances  of  the  prisoner,  who  had  been 
carefully  watched.  Nothing  in  him,  the  report  said,  betrayed 
the  criminal.  He  seemed  very  sad,  but  not  despairing.  After 
eating  lightly,  he  had  gone  to  the  window  of  his  cell,  and  had 
there  remained  standing  for  more  than  an  hour.  Then  he  had 
lain  down,  and  quietly  gone  to  sleep.  "What  an  iron  constitu- 
tion I"  thought  M.  Daburon,  when  the  prisoner  entered  his  office. 

Albert  was  no  longer  the  despairing  man  who,  the  night  be- 
fore, bewildered  with  the  multiplicity  of  charges,  surprised  by 
the  rapidity  with  which  they  were  brought  against  him,  had 
writhed  beneath  the  magistrate's  gaze,  and  appeared  ready  to 
succumb.  Innocent  or  guilty,  he  had  made  up  his  mind  how  to 
act ;  his  face  left  no  doubt  of  that.  On  beholding  him,  the  magis- 
trate understood  that  he  would  have  to  change  his  mode  of 
attack.  He  therefore  gave  up  his  former  tactics,  and  attempted 
to  move  him  by  kindness.  It  was  a  hackneyed  trick,  but  almost 
always  successful,  like  certain  pathetic  scenes  at  theatres.  Now 
M.  Daburon  excelled  in  producing  affecting  scenes.  No  one 
knew  so  well  as  he  how  to  touch  those  old  chords  which  vibrate 
still  even  in  the  most  corrupt  hearts :  honor,  love,  and  family 
ties.  With  Albert,  he  became  kind  and  friendly,  and  full  of 
the  liveliest  compassion.  Unfortunate  man !  how  greatly  he 
must  suffer,  he  whose  whole  life  had  been  like  one  long  en- 
chantment. Recalling  the  past,  the  magistrate  pictured  to  him 
the  most  touching  reminiscences  of  his  early  youth,  and  stirred 
up  the  ashes  of  all  his  extinct  affections.  Taking  advantage  of 
all  that  he  knew  of  the  prisoner's  life,  he  tortured  him  by  the 
most  mournful  allusions  to  Claire.  Why  did  he  persist  in 
bearing  alone  his  great  misfortune?  Why  this  morose  silence? 
Should  he  not  rather  hasten  to  reassure  her  whose  very  life  de- 
pended upon  his  ?  What  was  necessary  for  that  ?  A  single  word. 
Then  he  would  be,  if  not  free,  at  least  returned  to  the  world. 

It  was  no  longer  the  magistrate  who  spoke ;  it  was  a  father. 
For  a  moment  he  imagined  himself  in  Albert's  position.  What 
would  he  have  done  after  the  terrible  revelation?  He  scarcely 
dared  ask  himself.     He  understood  the  motive  which  prompted 


THE   LEROUGE   AFFAIR  851 

the  murder  of  Widow  Lerouge;  he  could  explain  it  to  himself; 
he  could  almost  excuse  it.  (Another  trap.)  It  was  certainly 
a  great  crime,  but  in  no  way  revolting  to  conscience  or  to  rea- 
son. Besides,  was  not  the  Comte  de  Commarin  the  more  guilty 
of  the  two  ?  Was  it  not  his  folly  that  prepared  the  way  for  this 
terrible  event?  His  son  was  the  victim  of  fatality,  and  was 
greatly  to  be  pitied.  But  he  wasted  his  eloquence  precisely  as 
M.  Tabaret  had  wasted  his.  Albert  appeared  in  no  way  affected. 

One  test,  which  has  often  given  the  desired  result,  still  re- 
mained to  be  tried.  On  this  same  day,  Saturday,  Albert  was 
confronted  with  the  corpse  of  Widow  Lerouge.  He  appeared 
impressed  by  the  sad  sight,  but  no  more  than  any  one  would  be, 
if  forced  to  look  at  the  victim  of  an  assassination  four  days 
after  the  crime.  One  of  the  bystanders  having  exclaimed :  "Ah, 
if  she  could  but  speak !"  he  replied :  "That  would  be  very  for- 
tunate for  me."  Since  morning,  M.  Daburon  had  not  gained 
the  least  advantage.  He  had  had  to  acknowledge  the  failure 
of  his  maneuvres ;  and  now  this  last  attempt  had  not  succeeded 
either.  His  spite  was  evident  to  all,  when,  suddenly  ceasing 
his  wheedling,  he  harshly  gave  the  order  to  reconduct  the  pris- 
oner to  his  cell.  "I  will  compel  him  to  confess !"  he  muttered 
between  his  teeth.  Had  Albert  confessed  his  guilt,  he  would 
have  found  M.  Daburon  disposed  to  pity  him ;  but  as  he  denied 
it,  he  opposed  himself  to  an  implacable  enemy. 

Having  previously  wished  Albert  innocent,  he  now  absolutely 
longed  to  prove  him  guilty,  and  that  for  a  hundred  reasons 
which  he  was  unable  to  analyze.  He  remembered,  too  well,  his 
having  had  the  Vicomte  de  Commarin  for  a  rival,  and  his 
having  nearly  assassinated  him.  Had  he  not  repented  even  to 
remorse  his  having  signed  the  warrant  of  arrest,  and  his  having 
accepted  the  duty  of  investigating  the  case.  Old  Tabaret's  in- 
comprehensible change  of  opinion  troubled  him,  too.  It  was 
now  less  the  proofs  of  Albert's  guilt  which  he  sought  for  than 
the  justification  of  his  own  conduct  as  magistrate. 

M.  Daburon  passed  all  Sunday  in  listening  to  the  reports  of 
the  detectives  he  had  sent  to  Bougival.  They  had  spared  no 
trouble,  they  stated,  but  they  could  report  nothing  new.  They 
had  heard  many  people  speak  of  a  woman,  who  pretended,  they 
said,  to  have  seen  the  assassin  leave  Widow  Lerouge's  cottage ; 
but  no  one  had  been  able  to  point  this  woman  out  to  them,  or 
even  to  give  them  her  name.  They  all  thought  it  their  duty. 
however,   to   inform  the   magistrate   that  another  inquiry  was 


852 


THE   LEROUGE   AFFAIR 


going  on  at  the  same  time  as  theirs.  It  was  directed  by  M. 
Tabaret,  who  personally  scoured  the  country  round  about  in  a 
cabriolet  drawn  by  a  very  swift  horse.  He  appeared  to  have 
under  his  orders  a  dozen  men,  four  of  whom  at  least  certainly 
belonged  to  the  Rue  de  Jerusalem.  All  the  detectives  had  met 
him ;  and  he  had  spoken  to  them.  To  one,  he  had  said :  "What 
the  deuce  are  you  showing  this  photograph  for?  In  less  than 
no  time  you  will  have  a  crowd  of  witnesses,  who,  to  earn  three 
francs,  will  describe  some  one  more  like  the  portrait  than  the 
portrait  itself."  He  had  met  another  on  the  highroad,  and  had 
laughed  at  him.  "You  are  a  simple  fellow,"  he  cried  out,  "to 
hunt  for  a  hiding  man  on  the  highway;  look  a  little  aside,  and 
you  may  find  him."  Again  he  had  accosted  two  who  were  to- 
gether in  a  cafe  at  Bougival,  and  had  taken  them  aside.  "I  have 
him,"  he  said  to  them.  "He  is  a  smart  fellow;  he  came  by 
Chatou.  Three  people  have  seen  him — two  railway  porters  and 
a  third  person  whose  testimony  will  be  decisive,  for  she  spoke 
to  him.     He  was  smoking." 

M.  Daburon  became  so  angry  with  old  Tabaret  that  he  im- 
mediately started  for  Bougival,  firmly  resolved  to  bring  the  too 
zealous  man  back  to  Paris,  and  to  report  his  conduct  in  the 
proper  quarter.  The  journey,  however,  was  useless.  M.  Taba- 
ret, the  cabriolet,  the  swift  horse,  and  the  twelve  men  had  all 
disappeared.  On  returning  home,  greatly  fatigued,  and  very 
much  out  of  temper,  the  investigating  magistrate  found  the  fol- 
lowing telegram  from  the  chief  of  the  detective  force  awaiting 
him;  it  was  brief,  but  to  the  point: 

"Rouen,  Sunday. — "The  man  is  found.  This  evening  we 
start  for  Paris.     The  most  valuable  testimony.  Gevrol." 


/"\N  Monday  morning,  at  nine  o'clock,  M.  Daburon  was 
preparing  to  start  for  the  Palais  de  Justice,  where  he 
expected  to  find  Gevrol  and  his  man,  and  perhaps  old  Tabaret. 
His  preparations  were  nearly  made,  when  his  servant  announced 
that  a  young  lady,  accompanied  by  another  considerably  older, 


THE    LEROUGE   AFFAIR  853 

asked  to  speak  with  him.  She  declined  giving  her  name,  say- 
ing, however,  that  she  would  not  refuse  it,  if  it  was  absolutely 
necessary  in  order  to  be  received.  "Show  them  in,"  said  the 
magistrate.  He  thought  it  must  be  a  relation  of  one  or  other 
of  the  prisoners,  whose  case  he  had  had  in  hand  when  this  fresh 
crime  occurred.  At  the  sound  of  the  opening  of  the  door  he 
cast  a  careless  glance  in  the  mirror.  But  he  immediately 
started  with  a  movement  of  dismay,  as  if  he  had  seen  a  ghost. 

"Claire!"  he  stammered,  "Claire!" 

And  as  if  he  feared  equally  either  being  deceived  by  an  illu- 
sion, or  actually  seeing  her  whose  name  he  had  uttered,  he 
turned  slowly  round.  It  was  truly  Mademoiselle  d'Arlange. 
Never,  even  in  the  time  when  a  sight  of  her  was  his  greatest 
happiness,  had  she  appeared  to  him  more  fascinating.  In  her 
eyes,  rendered  more  brilliant  by  recent  tears  but  partly  wiped 
away,  shone  the  noblest  resolution. 

She  advanced  calm  and  dignified,  and  held  out  her  hand  to 
the  magistrate  in  that  English  style  that  some  ladies  can  render 
so  gracefully.  "We  are  always  friends,  are  we  not?"  asked 
she,  with  a  sad  smile.  The  magistrate  did  not  dare  take  the 
ungloved  hand  she  held  out  to  him.  He  scarcely  touched  it 
with  the  tips  of  his  fingers,  as  though  he  feared  too  great  an 
emotion.  "Yes,"  he  replied  indistinctly,  "I  am  always  devoted 
to  you." 

Mademoiselle  d'Arlange  sat  down  in  the  large  armchair, 
where,  two  nights  previously,  old  Tabaret  had  planned  Albert's 
arrest.  M.  Daburon  remained  standing,  leaning  against  his 
writing-table.  "You  know  why  I  have  come  ?"  asked  the  young 
girl.  With  a  nod,  he  replied  in  the  affirmative.  "I  only  knew 
of  this  dreadful  event  yesterday,"  pursued  Claire ;  "my  grand- 
mother considered  it  best  to  hide  it  from  me,  and,  but  for  my 
devoted  Schmidt,  I  should  still  be  ignorant  of  it  all.  What  a 
night  I  have  passed !  At  first  I  was  terrified ;  but,  when  they 
told  me  that  all  depended  upon  you,  my  fears  were  dispelled. 
It  is  for  my  sake,  is  it  not,  that  you  have  undertaken  this  in- 
vestigation ?  Oh,  you  are  good,  I  know  it !  How  can  I  ever 
express  my  gratitude?"  What  humiliation  for  the  worthy  mag- 
istrate were  these  heartfelt  thanks !  Yes,  he  had  at  first  thought 
of  Mademoiselle  d'Arlange,  but  since —  He  bowed  his  head  to 
avoid  Claire's  glance,  so  pure  and  so  daring.  "Do  not  thank 
me,  mademoiselle,"  he  stammered,  "I  have  not  the  claim  that 
you  think  upon  your  gratitude." 


864  THE    LEROUGE   AFFAIR 

Claire  had  been  too  troubled  herself,  at  first,  to  notice  the 
magistrate's  agitation.  The  trembling  of  his  voice  attracted  her 
attention ;  but  she  did  not  suspect  the  cause.  "And  yet,  sir," 
she  continued,  "I  thank  you  all  the  same.  I  might  never  have 
dared  go  to  another  magistrate,  to  speak  to  a  stranger !  Be- 
sides, what  value  would  another  attach  to  my  words,  not  know- 
ing me  ?  While  you,  so  generous,  will  reassure  me,  will  tell  me 
by  what  awful  mistake  he  has  been  arrested  like  a  villain  and 
thrown  into  prison." — 'Alas !"  sighed  the  magistrate,  so  low 
that  Claire  scarcely  heard  him,  and  did  not  understand  the  ter- 
rible meaning  of  the  exclamation. — "With  you,"  she  continued, 
"I  am  not  afraid.  You  are  my  friend,  you  told  me  so ;  you  will 
not  refuse  my  prayers.  Give  him  his  liberty  quickly.  I  do  not 
know  exactly  of  what  he  is  accused,  but  I  swear  to  you  that  he 
is  innocent." 

Claire  spoke  in  the  positive  manner  of  one  who  saw  no 
obstacle  in  the  way  of  the  very  simple  and  natural  desire  which 
she  had  expressed.  The  magistrate  was  silent.  He  was  really 
an  upright  man,  as  good  as  the  best,  as  is  proved  from  the  fact 
that  he  trembled  at  the  moment  of  unveiling  the  fatal  truth.  He 
hesitated  to  pronounce  the  words  which,  like  a  whirlwind,  would 
overturn  the  fragile  edifice  of  this  young  girl's  happiness. 

"And  if  I  should  tell  you,  mademoiselle,"  he  commenced, 
"that  M.  Albert  is  not  innocent?"  She  half-raised  herself  with 
a  protesting  gesture.  He  continued:  "If  I  should  tell  you  that 
he  is  guilty?" — "Oh,  sir!"  interrupted  Claire,  "you  can  not 
think  so  !" — "I  do  think  so,  mademoiselle,"  exclaimed  the  mag- 
istrate in  a  sad  voice,  "and  I  must  add  that  I  am  morally  certain 
of  it." — Claire  looked  at  the  investigating  magistrate  with  pro- 
found amazement.  Had  she  heard  him  aright?  Did  she  un- 
derstand ?  She  was  far  from  sure.  Was  he  not  deluding  her 
by  a  cruel,  unworthy  jest? 

Not  daring  to  raise  his  eyes,  he  continued  in  a  tone,  expres- 
sive of  the  sincerest  pity:  "I  suffer  cruelly  for  you  at  this  mo- 
ment, mademoiselle ;  but  I  have  the  sad  courage  to  tell  you  the 
truth,  and  you  must  summon  yours  to  hear  it.  It  is  far  better 
that  you  should  know  everything  from  the  mouth  of  a  friend. 
Summon,  then,  all  your  fortitude;  strengthen  your  noble  soul 
against  a  most  dreadful  misfortune.  No,  there  is  no  mistake. 
Justice  has  not  been  deceived.  The  Vicomte  de  Commarin  is 
accused  of  an  assassination ;  and  everything,  you  understand 
me,  proves  that  he  committed  it."    M.  Daburon  pronounced  this 


THE    LEROUGE   AFFAIR  855 

last  sentence  slowly,  word  by  word.  He  expected  a  burst  of 
despair,  tears,  distressing  cries.  She  might  perhaps  faint  away ; 
and  he  stood  ready  to  call  in  the  worthy  Schmidt.  He  was 
mistaken.  Claire  drew  herself  up  full  of  energy  and  courage. 
The  flame  of  indignation  flushed  her  cheeks,  and  dried  her 
tears.  "It  is  false,"  she  cried,  "and  those  who  say  it  are  liars ! 
He  can  not  be — no,  he  can  not  be  an  assassin.  If  he  were  here, 
sir,  and  should  himself  say,  'It  is  true,'  I  would  refuse  to  believe 
it;  I  would  still  cry  out:  'It  is  false!'" 

"He  has  not  yet  admitted  it,"  continued  the  magistrate,  "but 
he  will  confess.  Even  if  he  should  not,  there  are  more  proofs 
than  are  needed  to  convict  him." 

"Ah !  well,"  interrupted  Mademoiselle  d'Arlange,  in  a  voice 
filled  with  emotion,  "I  assert,  I  repeat,  that  justice  is  deceived. 
Yes,"  she  persisted,  in  answer  to  the  magistrate's  gesture  of 
denial,  "yes,  he  is  innocent.  I  am  sure  of  it;  and  I  would  pro- 
claim it,  even  were  the  whole  world  to  join  with  you  in  accus- 
ing him." 

The  investigating  magistrate  attempted  timidly  to  make  an 
objection;  Claire  quickly  interrupted  him.  "Must  I  then,  sir," 
said  she,  "in  order  to  convince  you,  forget  that  I  am  a  young 
girl,  and  that  I  am  not  talking  to  my  mother,  but  to  a  man  ! 
For  his  sake  I  will  do  so.  It  is  four  years,  sir,  since  we  first 
loved  each  other.  For  four  years  there  has  never  been  a  secret 
between  us;  he  lived  in  me,  as  I  lived  in  him.  He  is,  like 
me,  alone  in  the  world ;  his  father  never  loved  him.  Sustained 
one  by  the  other,  we  have  passed  through  many  unhappy  days ; 
and  it  is  at  the  very  moment  our  trials  are  ending  that  he  has 
become  a  criminal?     Why?  tell  me,  why?" 

"Neither  the  name  nor  the  fortune  of  the  Comte  de  Com- 
marin  would  descend  to  him,  mademoiselle ;  and  the  knowledge 
of  it  came  upon  him  with  a  sudden  shock.  One  old  woman 
alone  was  able  to  prove  this.  To  maintain  his  position,  he 
killed  her." 

"What  infamy,"  cried  the  young  girl,  "what  a  shameful, 
wicked  calumny !  I  know,  sir,  that  story  of  fallen  greatness : 
he  himself  told  me  of  it.  It  is  true  that  for  three  days  this 
misfortune  unmanned  him ;  but,  if  he  was  dismayed,  it  was  on 
my  account  more  than  his  own.  Ah !  what  to  me  are  that 
great  name,  that  immense  wealth  ?  I  owe  to  them  the  only 
unhappiness  I  have  ever  known.  Was  it,  then,  for  such  things 
that  I  loved  him?    It  was  thus  that  I  replied  to  him;  and  he,  so 


856  THE    LEROUGE   AFFAIR 

sad,  immediately  recovered  his  gaiety.  He  thanked  me,  saying: 
'You  love  me ;  the  rest  is  of  no  consequence.'  I  chided  him, 
then,  for  having  doubted  me;  and  after  that,  you  pretend  that 
he  cowardly  assassinated  an  old  woman  ?  You  would  not  dare 
repeat  it."  Mademoiselle  d'Arlange  ceased  speaking,  a  smile  of 
victory  on  her  lips.  That  smile  meant :  "At  last  I  have  attained 
my  end :  you  are  conquered." 

The  investigating  magistrate  did  not  long  leave  this  smiling 
illusion  to  the  unhappy  child.  "You  do  not  know,  mademoi- 
selle," he  resumed,  "how  a  sudden  calamity  may  affect  a  good 
man's  reason.  God  preserve  me  from  doubting  all  that  you 
have  said ;  but  picture  to  yourself  the  immensity  of  the  blow 
which  struck  M.  de  Commarin.  Can  you  say  that  on  leaving 
you  he  did  not  give  way  to  despair?  Think  of  the  extremities 
to  which  it  may  have  led  him.  He  may  have  been  for  a  time 
bewildered,  and  have  acted  unconsciously." 

Mademoiselle  d'Arlange's  face  grew  deathly  pale,  and  be- 
trayed the  utmost  terror.  The  magistrate  thought  that  at  last 
doubt  had  begun  to  affect  her  pure  and  noble  belief.  "He  must, 
then,  have  been  mad,"  she  murmured. — "Possibly,"  replied  the 
magistrate ;  "and  yet  the  circumstances  of  the  crime  denote  a 
well-laid  plan.  Believe  me,  then,  mademoiselle,  and  do  not  be 
too  confident.  Pray,  and  wait  patiently  for  the  issue  of  this 
terrible  trial.  You  used  to  have  in  me  the  confidence  a  daugh- 
ter gives  to  her  father ;  do  not,  then,  refuse  my  advice.  Remain 
silent  and  wait.  Hide  your  grief  to  all;  you  might  hereafter 
regret  having  exposed  it.  Young,  inexperienced,  without  a 
guide,  without  a  mother,  alas !  you  sadly  misplaced  your  first 
affections." 

"No,  sir,  no,"  stammered  Claire.  "Ah  !"  she  added,  "you  talk 
like  the  rest  of  the  world,  that  prudent  and  egotistical  world, 
which  I  despise  and  hate." 

"Poor  child,"  continued  M.  Daburon,  pitiless  even  in  his  com- 
passion ;  "unhappy  young  girl !  This  is  your  first  deception ! 
But  you  are  young;  you  are  brave;  your  life  will  not  be  ruined. 
There  is  no  wound,  I  know  by  experience,  which  time  does  not 
heal." 

Claire  tried  to  grasp  what  the  magistrate  was  saying,  but 
his  words  reached  her  only  as  confused  sounds,  their  meaning 
entirely  escaped  her.  "I  do  not  understand  you,  sir,"  she  said. 
"What  advice,  then,  do  you  give  me?" 

"The  only  advice  that  reason  dictates,  and  that  my  affection 


THE   LEROUGE   AFFAIR  857 

for  you  can  suggest,  mademoiselle.  I  say  to  you :  'Courage, 
Claire,  resign  yourself  to  the  saddest,  the  greatest  sacrifice 
which  honor  can  ask  of  a  young  girl.  Weep,  yes,  weep  for 
your  deceived  love ;  but  forget  it.  He  whom  you  have  loved 
is  no  longer  worthy  of  you.'  "  The  magistrate  stopped,  slightly 
frightened.  Mademoiselle  d'Arlange  had  become  livid.  But 
though  the  body  was  weak,  the  soul  still  remained  firm.  "You  said 
just  now,"  she  murmured,  "that  he  could  only  have  committed 
this  crime  in  a  moment  of  distraction,  in  a  fit  of  madness?" 

"Yes,  it  is  possible." 

"Then,  sir,  not  knowing  what  he  did,  he  can  not  be  guilty." — 
"Neither  justice  nor  society,  mademoiselle,"  he  replied,  "can 
take  that  into  account.  God  alone,  who  sees  into  the  depths  of 
our  hearts,  can  judge,  can  decide  those  questions  which  human 
justice  must  pass  by.  In  our  eyes,  M.  de  Commarin  is  a  crim- 
inal. Even  if  he  were  acquitted,  and  I  wish  he  may  be,  but 
without  hope,  he  will  not  be  less  unworthy.  Therefore,  for- 
get him." 

Mademoiselle  d'Arlange  stopped  the  magistrate  with  a  look 
in  which  flashed  the  strongest  resentment.  "That  is  to  say," 
she  exclaimed,  "that  you  counsel  me  to  abandon  him  in  his 
misfortune.  All  the  world  deserts  him;  and  your  prudence 
advises  me  to  act  with  the  world.  Men  behave  thus,  I  have 
heard,  when  one  of  their  friends  is  down ;  but  women  never 
do.  When  the  last  friend  has  boldly  taken  to  flight,  when  the 
last  relation  has  abandoned  him,  woman  remains.  I  may  be 
timid,"  she  continued  with  increasing  energy,  "but  I  am  no 
coward.  I  chose  Albert  voluntarily  from  among  all.  What- 
ever happens,  I  will  never  desert  him.  He  would  have  given 
me  half  of  his  prosperity  and  of  his  glory.  I  will  share, 
whether  he  wishes  it  or  not,  half  of  his  shame  and  of  his  mis- 
fortune. I  love  him.  It  is  no  more  in  my  power  to  cease 
loving  him  than  it  is  to  arrest,  by  the  sole  effort  of  my  will. 
the  beating  of  my  heart.  You  will  send  him  to  a  convict 
prison.  I  will  follow  him ;  and  in  the  prison,  under  the  con- 
vict's dress,  I  will  yet  love  him.  No,  nothing  will  separate  me 
from  him,  nothing  short  of  death !  And,  if  he  must  mount  the 
scaffold,  I  shall  die,  I  know  it,  from  the  blow  which  kills  him." 

M.  Daburon  had  buried  his  face  in  his  hands.  He  did  not 
wish  Claire  to  perceive  a  trace  of  the  emotion  which  affected 
him.  "How  she  loves  him !"  he  thought,  "how  she  loves  him !" 
All  the  stings  of  jealousy  were  rending  him.    What  would  not 

10 — Vol.  Ill— Gab. 


858  THE    LEROUGE   AFFAIR 

be  his  delight  if  he  were  the  object  of  so  irresistible  a  passion 
as  that  which  burst  forth  before  him !  He  had,  too,  a  young 
and  ardent  soul,  a  burning  thirst  for  love.  Why  do  so  many 
men  pass  through  life  dispossessed  of  love,  while  others,  the 
vilest  beings  sometimes,  seem  to  possess  a  mysterious  power, 
which  charms  and  seduces,  and  inspires  those  blind  and  im- 
petuous-feelings which  to  assert  themselves  rush  to  the  sacri- 
fice all  the  while  longing  for  it?  Have  women,  then,  no  reason, 
no  discernment?  Mademoiselle  d'Arlange's  silence  brought  the 
magistrate  back  to  the  reality.  He  raised  his  eyes  to  her.  Over- 
come by  the  violence  of  her  emotion,  she  lay  back  in  her  chair 
and  breathed  with  such  difficulty  that  M.  Daburon  feared  she 
was  about  to  faint.  He  moved  quickly  toward  the  bell,  to  sum- 
mon aid;  but  Claire  noticed  the  movement  and  stopped  him. 
"What  would  you  do?"  she  asked. 

"You  seemed  suffering  so,"  he  stammered,  "that  I — " 

"It  is  nothing,  sir,"  replied  she.  "I  may  seem  weak,  but  I 
am  not  so.  It  is  cruel  for  a  young  girl  to  have  to  do  violence 
to  all  her  feelings.  But  I  do  not  regret  it ;  it  was  for  his  sake. 
That  which  I  do  regret  is  my  having  lowered  myself  so  far  as 
to  defend  him ;  but  he  will  forgive  me  that  one  doubt.  Your 
assurance  took  me  unawares.  A  man  like  him  does  not  need 
defense :  his  innocence  must  be  proved ;  and,  God  helping  me, 
I  will  prove  it."  As  Claire  was  half-rising  to  depart,  M.  Da- 
buron detained  her  by  a  gesture.  In  his  blindness  he  thought 
he  would  be  doing  wrong  to  leave  this  poor  young  girl  in  the 
slightest  way  deceived.  Having  gone  so  far  as  to  begin,  he 
persuaded  himself  that  his  duty  bade  him  go  on  to  the  end. 
He  said  to  himself,  in  all  good  faith,  that  he  would  thus  pre- 
serve Claire  from  herself,  and  spare  her  in  the  future  many 
bitter  regrets.  "It  is  painful,  mademoiselle — "  he  began.  Claire 
did  not  let  him  finish.  "Enough,  sir,"  said  she ;  "all  that  you 
can  say  will  be  of  no  avail.  I  respect  your  unhappy  convic- 
tion. If  you  were  truly  my  friend,  I  would  ask  you  to  aid  me 
in  the  task  of  saving  him,  to  which  I  am  about  to  devote  myself. 
But.  doubtless,  you  would  not  do  so." 

"If  you  knew  the  proofs  which  I  possess,  mademoiselle,"  he 
said  in  a  cold  tone,  "if  I  detailed  them  to  you,  you  would  no 
longer  hope." 

"Speak,  sir,"  cried  Claire  imperiously. 

"You  wish  it,  mademoiselle  ?  Very  well ;  I  will  give  you  in 
detail  all  the  evidence  we  have  collected.     There  is  one  which 


THE    LEROUGE   AFFAIR  859 

alone  is  decisive.  The  murder  was  committed  on  the  evening 
of  Shrove  Tuesday ;  and  the  prisoner  can  not  give  an  account 
of  what  he  did  on  that  evening.  He  went  out,  however,  and 
only  returned  home  about  two  o'clock  in  the  morning,  his 
clothes  soiled  and  torn,  and  his  gloves  frayed." 

"Oh !  enough,  sir,  enough !"  interrupted  Claire,  whose  eyes 
beamed  once  more  with  happiness.  "You  say  it  was  on  Shrove 
Tuesday  evening?" — "Yes.,  mademoiselle." 

"Ah !  I  was  sure,"  she  cried  triumphantly.  "I  told  you  truly 
that  he  could  not  be  guilty."  She  clasped  her  hands,  and  from 
the  movement  of  her  lips  it  was  evident  that  she  was  praying. 
The  magistrate  was  so  disconcerted  that  he  forgot  to  admire 
her.    "Well  ?"  he  asked  impatiently. 

"Sir,"  replied  Claire,  "if  that  is  your  strongest  proof,  it  exists 
no  longer.  Albert  passed  the  entire  evening  you  speak  of  with 
me." — "With  you?"  stammered  the  magistrate. — "Yes,  with  me, 
at  my  home." 

M.  Daburon  was  astounded.  Was  he  dreaming?  He  hardly 
knew.  "What !"  he  exclaimed,  "the  vicomte  was  at  your  house  ? 
Your  grandmother,  your  companion,  your  servants,  they  all  saw 
him  and  spoke  to  him  ?" 

"No,  sir;  he  came  and  left  in  secret.  He  wished  no  one  to 
see  him ;  he  desired  to  be  alone  with  me." 

"Ah !"  said  the  magistrate  with  a  sigh  of  relief.  The  sigh 
signified :  "It's  all  clear — only  too  evident.  She  is  determined  to 
save  him,  at  the  risk  even  of  compromising  her  reputation.  Poor 
girl !  But  has  this  idea  only  just  occurred  to  her?"  The  "Ah  !" 
was  interpreted  very  differently  by  Mademoiselle  d'Arlange. 
She  thought  that  M.  Daburon  was  astonished  at  her  consenting 
to  receive  Albert.     "Your  surprise  is  an  insult,  sir,"  said  she. 

"Mademoiselle  !" — "A  daughter  of  my  family,  sir,  may  receive 
her  betrothed  without  danger  of  anything  occurring  for  which 
she  would  have  to  blush." 

"  "I  had  no  such  insulting  thought  as  you  imagine,  mademoi- 
selle," said  the  magistrate.  "I  was  only  wondering  how  M.  de 
Commarin  went  secretly  to  your  house  when  his  approaching 
marriage  gave  him  the  right  to  present  himself  openly  at  all 
hours.  I  still  wonder  how,  on  such  a  visit,  he  could  get  his 
clothes  in  the  condition  in  which  we  found  them." 

"That  is  to  say,  sir,"  replied  Claire  bitterly,  "that  you  doubt 
my  word  !" — "The  circumstances  are  such,  mademoiselle." — "You 
accuse  me,  then,  of  falsehood,  sir.    Know  that,  were  we  crim- 


860  THE    LEROUGE   AFFAIR 

inals,  we  should  not  descend  to  justifying  ourselves;  we  should 
never  pray  nor  ask  for  pardon." 

Mademoiselle  d'Arlange's  haughty,  contemptuous  tone  could 
only  anger  the  magistrate.  "Above  all,  mademoiselle,"  he  an- 
swered, severely,  "I  am  a  magistrate ;  and  I  have  a  duty  to  per- 
form. A  crime  has  been  committed.  Everything  points  to 
M.  Albert  de  Commarin  as  the  guilty  man.  I  arrest  him;  I 
examine  him ;  and  I  find  overwhelming  proofs  against  him. 
You  come  and  tell  me  that  they  are  false;  that  is  not  enough. 
So  long  as  you  addressed  me  as  a  friend,  you  found  me  kind 
and  gentle.  Now  it  is  the  magistrate  to  whom  you  speak;  and 
it  is  the  magistrate  who  answers,  Trove  it.' " — "My  word,  sir." 
—"Prove  it !" 

Mademoiselle  dArlange  rose  slowly,  casting  upon  the  mag- 
istrate a  look  full  of  astonishment  and  suspicion.  "Would  you, 
then,  be  glad,  sir,"  she  asked,  "to  find  Albert  guilty?  Would  it 
give  you  such  great  pleasure  to  have  him  convicted?  Are  you 
sure  that  you  are  not,  armed  with  the  law,  revenging  yourself 
upon  a  rival?" — "This  is  too  much,"  murmured  the  magistrate, 
"this  is  too  much !" 

"Do  you  know  the  unusual,  the  dangerous,  position  we  are 
in  at  this  moment?  One  day,  I  remember,  you  declared  your 
love  for  me.  It  appeared  to  me  sincere  and  honest ;  it  touched 
me.  I  was  obliged  to  refuse  you  because  I  loved  another;  and 
I  pitied  you.  Now  that  other  is  accused  of  murder,  and  you 
are  his  judge;  and  I  find  myself  between  you  two,  praying  to 
you  for  him.  In  undertaking  the  investigation  you  acquired  an 
opportunity  to  help  him ;  and  yet  you  seem  to  be  against  him." 
Every  word  Claire  uttered  fell  upon  M.  Daburon's  heart  like 
a  slap  on  his  face.  "Mademoiselle,  said  he,  "your  grief  has 
been  too  much  for  you.  From  you  alone  could  I  pardon  what 
you  have  just  said.  If  you  think  that  Albert's  fate  depends  upon 
my  pleasure,  you  are  mistaken.  To  convince  me  is  nothing; 
it  is  necessary  to  convince  others.  That  I  should  believe  you 
is  all  very  natural;  I  know  you.  But  what  weight  will  others 
attach  to  your  testimony  when  you  go  to  them  with  a  true  story 
— most  true,  I  believe,  but  yet  highly  improbable  ?" 

Tears  came  into  Claire's  eyes.  "If  I  have  unjustly  offended 
you,  sir,"  said  she,  "pardon  me:  misfortune  makes  one  wicked." 

"You  can  not  offend  me,  mademoiselle,"  replied  the  magis- 
trate. "I  have  already  told  you  that  I  am  devoted  to  your 
service." 


THE    LEROUGE   AFFAIR  861 

"Then,  sir,  help  me  to  prove  the  truth  of  what  I  have  said. 
I  will  tell  you  everything." 

M.  Daburon  was  fully  convinced  that  Claire  was  seeking  to 
deceive  him;  but  her  confidence  astonished  him. 

"Sir,"  began  Claire,  "you  know  what  obstacles  have  stood 
in  the  way  of  my  marriage  with  Albert.     The  Comte  de  Com- 
marin  would  not  accept  me  for  a  daughter-in-law  because  I  am 
poor,  I  possess  nothing.     It  took  Albert  five  years  to  triumph 
over  his  father's  objections.     At  last,  about  a  month  ago,  he 
gave  his   consent   of  his  own  accord.     But   these   hesitations, 
delays,  refusals,  had  deeply  hurt  my  grandmother.    Though  the 
wedding  day  had  been   fixed,  the   marquise  declared  that  we 
should  not  be  compromised  nor  laughed  at  again  for  any  ap- 
parent haste  to  contract  a  marriage  so  advantageous,  that  we 
had  often  before  been  accused  of  ambition.     She  decided,  there- 
fore, that,  until  the  publication  of  the  banns,  Albert  should  only 
be  admitted  into  the  house  every  other  day,  for  two  hours  in 
the  afternoon,   and  in   her  presence.     Such  was  the   state  of 
affairs   when,  on  Sunday  morning,   a  note  came  to  me   from 
Albert.     He  told  me  that  pressing  business  would  prevent  his 
coming,   although  it  was  his  regular  day.     What  could  have 
happened  to  keep  him  away?     I  feared  some  evil.     The  next 
day  I  awaited  him  impatiently  and  distracted,  when  his  valet 
brought  Schmidt  a  note  for  me.     In  that  letter,  sir,  Albert  en- 
treated me  to  grant  him  an  interview.     It  was  necessary,  he 
wrote,  that  he  should  have  a  long  conversation  with  me,  alone, 
and  without  delay.    Our  whole  future,  he  added,  depended  upon 
this  interview.     He  left  me  to  fix  the  day  and  hour,  urging  me 
to  confide  in  no  one.    I  sent  him  word  to  meet  me  on  the  Tues- 
day evening  at  the  little  garden  gate  which  opens  into  an  un- 
frequented street.     To  inform  me  of  his  presence,  he  was  to 
knock  just  as  nine  o'clock  chimed  at  the  Invalides." — "Excuse 
me,  mademoiselle,"  interrupted  Vi.  Daburon,  "what  day  did  you 
write  to  M.  Albert?"— "On  Tuesday."— "Can  you  fix  the  hour?" 
— "I  must  have  sent  the  letter  between  two  and  three  o'clock." — 
'Thanks,  mademoiselle.     Continue,  I  pray." 

"All  my  anticipations,"  continued  Claire,  "were  realized. 
I  retired  during  the  evening,  and  went  into  the  garden  a  little 
before  the  appointed  time.  I  had  procured  the  key  of  the  little 
door;  and  I  at  once  tried  it.  Unfortunately,  I  could  not  make 
it  turn,  the  lock  was  so  rusty.  I  was  in  despair,  when  nine 
o'clock   struck.     At  the  third   stroke,  Albert  knocked.     I  told 


862  THE   LEROUGE   AFFAIR 

him  of  the  accident;  and  threw  him  the  key,  that  he  might  try 
and  unlock  the  door.  He  tried  but  without  success.  I  then 
begged  him  to  postpone  our  interview.  He  replied  that  it  was 
impossible,  that  what  he  had  to  say  admitted  of  no  delay;  that, 
during  three  days  he  had  hesitated  about  confiding  in  me,  and 
had  suffered  martyrdom,  and  that  he  could  endure  it  no  longer. 
We  were  speaking,  you  must  understand,  through  the  door.  At 
last,  he  declared  that  he  would  climb  over  the  wall.  I  begged 
him  not  to  do  so,  fearing  an  accident.  The  wall  is  very  high, 
as  you  know,  the  top  is  covered  with  pieces  of  broken  glass, 
and  the  acacia  branches  stretch  out  above  like  a  hedge.  But  he 
laughed  at  my  fears,  and  said  that,  unless  I  absolutely  forbade 
him  to  do  so,  he  was  going  to  attempt  to  scale  the  wall.  I 
dared  not  say  no;  and  he  risked  it.  I  was  very  frightened,  and 
trembled  like  a  leaf.  Fortunately,  he  is  very  active,  and  got 
over  without  hurting  himself.  He  had  come,  sir,  to  tell  me  of 
the  misfortune  which  had  befallen  him.  We  first  of  all  sat  down 
upon  the  little  seat  you  know  of,  in  front  of  the  grove;  then, 
as  the  rain  was  falling,  we  took  shelter  in  the  summer  house. 
It  was  past  midnight  when  Albert  left  me,  quieted  and  almost 
gay.  He  went  back  in  the  same  manner,  only  with  less  danger, 
because  I  made  him  use  the  gardener's  ladder,  which  I  laid 
down  alongside  the  wall  when  he  had  reached  the  other  side." 

This  account,  given  in  the  simplest  and  most  natural  manner, 
puzzled  M.  Daburon.  What  was  he  to  think?  "Mademoiselle," 
he  asked,  "had  the  rain  commenced  to  fall  when  M.  Albert 
climbed  over  the   wall?" 

"No,  sir,  the  first  drops  fell  when  we  were  on  the  seat;  I 
recollect  it  very  well,  because  he  opened  his  umbrella,  and  I 
thought  of  Paul  and  Virginia." 

"Excuse  me  a  minute,  mademoiselle,"  said  the  magistrate. 
He  sat  down  at  his  desk,  and. rapidly  wrote  two  letters.  In 
the  first,  he  gave  orders  for  Albert  to  be  brought  at  once  to  his 
office  in  the  Palais  de  Justice.  In  the  second,  he  directed  a 
detective  to  go  immediately  to  the  Faubourg  St.  Germain  to 
the  dArlange  house,  and  examine  the  wall  at  the  bottom  of 
the  garden,  and  make  a  note  of  any  marks  of  its  having  been 
scaled,  if  any  such  existed.  He  explained  that  the  wall  had 
been  climbed  twice,  both  before  and  during  the  rain;  conse- 
quently the  marks  of  the  going  and  returning  would  be  different 
from  each  other.  He  enjoined  upon  the  detective  to  proceed 
with   the    utmost   caution,   and  to   invent   a   plausible  pretext 


THE    LEROUGE   AFFAIR  863 

which  would  explain  his  investigations.  Having  finished 
writing,  the  magistrate  rang  for  his  servant,  who  soon  appeared. 
"Here,"  said  he,  "are  two  letters,  which  you  must  take  to  my 
clerk,  Constant.  Tell  him  to  read  them,  and  to  have  the 
orders  they  contain  executed  at  once — at  once,  you  understand. 
Run,  take  a  cab,  and  be  quick !  Ah  !  one  word.  If  Constant  is 
not  in  my  office,  have  him  sought  for;  he  will  not  be  far  off,  as 
he  is  waiting  for  me.  Go  quickly!"  M.  Daburon  then  turned 
and  said  to  Claire.  "Have  you  kept  the  letter,  mademoiselle,  in 
which  M.  Albert  asked  for  this  interview?" 

"Yes,  sir,  I  even  think  I  have  it  with  me."  She  arose,  felt 
in  her  pocket,  and  drew  out  a  much  crumpled  piece  of  paper. 
"Here  it  is !"  The  investigating  magistrate  took  it.  A  sus- 
picion crossed  his  mind.  At  a  glance,  he  read  the  ten  lines  of 
the  note.    "No  date,"  he  murmured,  "no  stamp,  nothing  at  all." 

Claire  did  not  hear  him ;  she  was  racking  her  brain  to  find 
other  proofs  of  the  interview.  "Sir,"  said  she  suddenly,  "it 
often  happens,  that  when  we  wish  to  be,  and  believe  ourselves 
alone,  we  are  nevertheless  observed.  Summon,  I  beseech  you, 
all  of  my  grandmother's  servants,  and  inquire  if  any  of  them 
saw  Albert  that  night." 

"Inquire  of  your  servants?  Can  you  dream  of  such  a  thing, 
mademoiselle  ?" 

"What,  sir?  You  fear  that  I  shall  be  compromised.  What 
of  that,  if  he  is  only  freed?"  M.  Daburon  could  not  help  ad- 
miring her.  What  sublime  devotion  in  this  young  girl,  whether 
she  spoke  the  truth  or  not ! 

"That  is  not  all,"  she  added;  "the  key  which  I  threw  to 
Albert,  he  did  not  return  it  to  me;  he  must  have  forgotten  to 
do  so.  If  it  is  found  in  his  possession,  it  will  well  prove  that 
he  was  in  the  garden." 

"I  will  give  orders  respecting  it,  mademoiselle." 

"There  is  still  another  thing,"  continued  Claire;  "while  I 
am  here,  send  some  one  to  examine  the  wall."  She  seemed  to 
think   of  everything. 

"That  is  already  done,  mademoiselle,"  replied  M.  Daburon. 
"I  will  not  hide  from  you  that  one  of  the  letters  which  I  have 
just  sent  off  ordered  an  examination  of  your  grandmother's 
wall,  a  secret  examination,  though,  be  assured."  Claire  rose 
joyfully,  and  for  the  second  time  held  out  her  hand  to 
the  magistrate.  "Oh,  thanks  I"  she  said,  "a  thousand  thanks ! 
Now    I    can    well    see    that   you   are   with   me.      But   I    have 


864  THE    LEROUGE   AFFAIR 

still  another  idea;  Albert  ought  to  have  the  note  I  wrote  on 
Tuesday." 

"No,  mademoiselle,  he  burned  it." 

Claire  drew  back.  She  imagined  she  felt  a  touch  of  irony 
in  the  magistrate's  reply.  There  was  none,  however.  M. 
Daburon  remembered  the  letter  thrown  into  the  fire  by  Albert  on 
the  Tuesday  afternoon.  It  could  only  have  been  the  one  Claire 
had  sent  him.  It  was  to  her,  then,  that  the  words,  "She  can 
not  resist  me,"  applied.  He  understood,  now,  the  action  and 
the  remark.  "Can  you  understand,  mademoiselle,"  he  next 
asked,  "how  M.  de  Commarin  could  lead  justice  astray,  and 
expose  me  to  committing  a  most  deplorable  error,  when  it 
would  have  been  so  easy  to  have  told  me  all  this?" 

"It  seems  to  me,  sir,  that  an  honorable  man  can  not  confess 
that  he  has  obtained  a  secret  interview  from  a  lady,  until  he 
has  full  permission  from  her  to  do  so." 

There  was  nothing  to  reply  to  this;  and  the  sentiments  ex- 
pressed by  Mademoiselle  d'Arlange  gave  a  meaning* to  one 
of  Albert's  replies  in  the  examination.  "This  is  not  all  yet, 
mademoiselle,"  continued  the  magistrate;  "all  that  you  have 
told  me  here,  you  must  repeat  in  my  office,  at  the  Palais  de 
Justice.  My  clerk  will  take  down  your  testimony,  and  you 
must  sign  it.  This  proceeding  will  be  painful  to  you;  but  it 
is  a  necessary  formality." 

"Ah,  sir,  I  will  do  so  with  pleasure.  What  can  I  refuse, 
when  I  know  that  he  is  in  prison?"  She  rose  from  her  seat, 
readjusting  her  cloak  and  the  strings  of  her  bonnet.  "Is  it 
necessary,"  she  asked  "that  I  should  await  the  return  of  the 
police  agents  who  are  examining  the  wall?" 

"It   is   needless,   mademoiselle." 

"Then,"  she  continued  in  a  sweet  voice,  "I  can  only  beseech 
you,"  she  clasped  her  hands,  "conjure  you,"  her  eyes  implored, 
"to  let  Albert  out  of  prison." 

"He  shall  be  liberated  as  soon  as  possible;  I  give  my  word." 

"Oh,  to-day,  dear  M.  Daburon,  to-day,  I  beg  of  you,  now, 
at  once !  Since  he  is  innocent,  be  kind,  for  you  are  our  friend. 
Do  you  wish  me  to  go  down  on  my  knees?" 

The  magistrate  had  only  just  time  to  extend  his  arms,  and 
prevent  her.  He  was  choking  with  emotion,  the  unhappy  man ! 
Ah !  how  much  he  envied  the  prisoner's  lot !  "That  which  you 
ask  of  me  is  impossible,  mademoiselle,"  said  he  in  an  almost 
inaudible   voice,    "impracticable,   upon    my   honor.      Ah  1    if   it 


THE   LEROUGE   AFFAIR 


865 


depended  upon  me  alone,  I  could  not,  even  were  he  guilty,  see 
you  weep,  and  resist." 

Mademoiselle  d'Arlange,  hitherto  so  firm,  could  no  longer 
restrain  her  sobs.  "Miserable  girl  that  I  am !"  she  cried; 
"he  is  suffering,  he  is  in  prison;  I  am  free,  and  yet  I  can  do 
nothing  for  him !  Can  I  not  find  one  man  who  will  help  me  ? 
Yes,"  she  said  after  a  moment's  reflection,  "there  is  one  man 
who  owes  himself  to  Albert;  since  he  it  was  who  put  him  in 
this  position — the  Comte  de  Commarin.  He  is  his  father,  and 
yet  he  has  abandoned  him.  Ah,  well !  I  will  remind  him  that 
he  still  has  a  son." 

The  magistrate  rose  to  see  her  to  the  door;  but  she  had 
already  disappeared,  taking  the  kind-hearted  Schmidt  with  her. 

M.  Daburon,  more  dead  than  alive,  sank  back  again  in  his 
chair.  His  eyes  filled  with  tears.  "And  that  is  what  she  is!" 
he  murmured.  "Ah !  I  made  no  vulgar  choice.  I  had  divined 
and  understood  all  her  good  qualities."  In  the  midst  of  his 
meditations,  a  sudden  thought  passed  like  a  flash  across  his 
brain.  Had  Claire  spoken  the  truth  ?  Had  she  not  been  play- 
ing a  part  previously  prepared?  No,  most  decidedly  no!  But 
she  might  have  been  herself  deceived,  might  have  been  the 
dupe  of  some  skilful  trick.  In  that  case  old  Tabaret's  predic- 
tion was  now  realized.  Tabaret  had  said:  "Look  out  for  an 
indisputable  alibi."  How  could  he  show  the  falsity  of  this 
one,  planned  in  advance,  affirmed  by  Claire,  who  was  herself 
deceived?  How  could  he  expose  a  plan,  so  well  laid  that  the 
prisoner  had  been  able  without  danger  to  await  certain  results, 
with  his  arms  folded,  and  without  himself  moving  in  the  matter? 

He  arose.  "Oh !"  he  said  in  a  loud  voice,  as  though  encour- 
aging himself,  "at  the  Palais,  all  will  be  unraveled." 


X/f  DABURON  had  been  surprised  at  Claire's  v,isit.  M. 
*■*«■•  de  Commarin  was  still  more  so,  when  his  valet  whispered 
to  him  that  Mademoiselle  d'Arlange  desired  a  moment's  con- 
versation with  him.     He  hesitated  to  receive  her,  fearing  a 


866  THE   LEROUGE   AFFAIR 

painful  and  disagreeable  scene.  What  could  she  want  with 
him?  To  inquire  about  Albert,  of  course.  And  what  could 
he  reply  ?  He  sent  a  message,  asking  her  to  wait  a  few  minutes 
in  one  of  the  little  drawing-rooms  on  the  ground  floor.  He 
did  not  keep  her  waiting  long,  his  appetite  having  been  de- 
stroyed by  the  mere  announcement  of  her  visit. 

As  soon  as  he  appeared,  Claire  saluted  him  with  one  of 
those  graceful,  yet  highly  dignified  bows,  which  distinguished 
the  Marquise  dArlange.     "Sir — ,"  she  began. 

"You  come,  do  you  not,  my  poor  child,  to  obtain  news  of 
the  unhappy  boy?"  asked  M.  de  Commarin. 

"No,  sir,"  replied  the  young  girl ;  "I  come,  on  the  contrary,  to 
bring  you  news.    Albert  is  innocent." 

The  comte  looked  at  her  most  attentively,  persuaded  that 
grief  had  affected  her  reason;  but  in  that  case  her  madness  was 
very  quiet.  "I  never  doubted  it,"  continued  Claire;  "but  now 
I  have  the  most  positive  proof." 

"Are  you  quite  sure  of  what  you  are  saying?"  inquired  the 
comte,  whose  eyes  betrayed  his  doubt.  Mademoiselle  d'Arlange 
understood  his  thoughts ;  her  interview  with  M.  Daburon  had 
given  her  experience.  "I  state  nothing  which  is  not  of  the 
utmost  accuracy,"  she  replied,  "and  easily  proved.  I  have  just 
come  from  M.  Daburon,  the  investigating  magistrate,  who  is 
one  of  my  grandmother's  friends;  and,  after  what  I  told  him, 
he  is  convinced  that  Albert  is  innocent." 

"He  told  you  that,  Claire !"  exclaimed  the  comte.  "My  child,, 
are  you  sure,  are  you  not  mistaken?" 

"No,  sir.  I  told  him  something,  of  which  every  one  was 
ignorant,  and  of  which  Albert,  who  is  a  gentleman,  could  not 
speak.  I  told  him  that  Albert  passed  with  me,  in  my  grand- 
mother's garden,  all  that  evening  on  which  the  crime  was  com- 
mitted.    He  had  asked  to  see  me — " 

"But  your  word  will  not  be  sufficient." 

"There  are  proofs,  and  justice  has  them  by  this  time." 

"Heavens!  Is  it  really  possible?"  cried  the  comte,  who  was 
beside  himself. 

"Ah,  sir !"  said  Mademoiselle  dArlange  bitterly,  "you  are  his 
father,  and  you  suspected  him !  You  do  not  know  him,  then. 
You  were  abandoning  him,  without  trying  to  defend  him." 

M.  de  Commarin  was  not  difficult  to  convince.  Without  think- 
ing, without  discussion,  he  put  faith  in  Claire's  assertions.  Yes, 
he  had  been  overcome  by  the  magistrate's  certitude,  he  had  told 


THE    LEROUGE   AFFAIR  867 

himself  that  what  was  most  unlikely  was  true ;  and  he  had 
bowed  his  head.  Albert  innocent !  The  thought  descended 
upon  his  heart  like  heavenly  dew.  During  the  last  three  days, 
he  had  discovered  how  great  was  his  affection  for  Albert.  He 
had  loved  him  tenderly,  for  he  had  never  been  able  to  discard 
him,  in  spite  of  his  frightful  suspicions  as  to  his  paternity. 
For  three  days,  the  knowledge  of  the  crime  imputed  to  his  un- 
happy son,  the  thought  of  the  punishment  which  awaited  him, 
had  nearly  killed  the  father.    And  after  all  he  was  innocent ! 

"But,  then,  mademoiselle,"  asked  the  comte,  "are  they  going 
to  release  him?" 

"Alas !  sir,  I  demanded  that  they  should  at  once  set  him  at 
liberty.  It  is  just,  is  it  not,  since  he  is  not  guilty?  But  the 
magistrate  replied  that  it  was  not  possible;  that  he  was  not  the 
master;  that  Albert's  fate  depended  on  many  others.  It  was 
then  that  I  resolved  to  come  to  you  for  aid." 

"Can  I  then  do  something?" 

"I  at  least  hope  so.  I  am  only  a  poor  girl,  very  ignorant; 
and  I  know  no  one  in  the  world.  I  do  not  know  what  can  be 
done  to  get  him  released  from  prison.  There  ought,  however, 
to  be  some  means  for  obtaining  justice.  Will  you  not  try  all 
that  can  be  done,  sir,  you,  who  are  his  father?" 

"Yes,"  replied  M.  de  Commarin  quickly,  "yes,  and  without 
losing  a  minute." 

Since  Albert's  arrest,  the  comte  had  been  plunged  in  a  dull 
stupor.  In  his  profound  grief,  seeing  only  ruin  and  disaster 
about  him,  he  had  done  nothing  to  shake  off  this  mental  paraly- 
sis. The  frightful  darkness  was  dispelled ;  he  saw  a  glimmering 
on  the  horizon ;  he  recovered  the  energy  of  his  youth.  "Let  us 
go,"  he  said.  Suddenly  the  radiance  in  his  face  changed  to 
sadness,  mixed  with  anger.  "But  where?"  he  asked.  "At  what 
door  shall  we  knock  with  any  hope  of  success?  In  the  olden 
times,  I  would  have  sought  the  king.  But  to-day !  Even  the 
emperor  himself  can  not  interfere  with  the  law.  We  shall  cer- 
tainly have  justice ;  but  to  obtain  it  promptly  is  an  art  taught 
in  schools  that  I  have  not  frequented." 

"Let  us  try,  at  least,  sir,"  persisted  Claire.  "Let  us  seek  out 
judges,  generals,  ministers,  any  one.  Only  lead  me  to  them. 
I  will  speak;  and  you  shall  see  if  we  do  not  succeed."  The 
comte  took  Claire's  little  hands  between  his  own,  and  held  them 
a  moment,  pressing  them  with  paternal  tenderness.  "Brave 
girl !"  he  cried,  "you  are  a  noble,  courageous  woman,  Claire  ! 


868  THE   LEROUGE   AFFAIR 

Good  blood  never  fails.  I  did  not  know  you.  Yes,  you  shall 
be  my  daughter ;  and  you  shall  be  happy  together,  Albert  and 
you.  But  we  must  not  rush  about  everywhere,  like  wild  geese. 
We  need  some  one  to  tell  us  whom  we  should  address — some 
guide,  lawyer,  barrister.  Ah  !"  he  cried,  "I  have  it — Noel !" 
Claire  raised  her  eyes  to  the  comte's  in  surprise. 

"He  is  my  son,"  replied  M.  de  Commarin,  evidently  embar- 
rassed, "my  other  son,  Albert's  brother.  The  best  and  worthiest 
of  men,"  he  added,  repeating  quite  appropriately  a  phrase  al- 
ready uttered  by  M.  Daburon.  "He  is  a  barrister ;  he  knows  all 
about  the  Palais;  he  will  tell  us  what  to  do."  Noel's  name, 
thus  thrown  into  the  midst  of  this  conversation  so  full  of  hope, 
oppressed  Claire's  heart.  The  comte  perceived  her  affright. 
"Do  not  feel  anxious,  dear  child,"  he  said.  "Noel  is  good ;  and 
I  will  tell  you  more,  he  loves  Albert.  Do  not  shake  your  head 
so ;  Noel  told  me  himself,  on  this  very  spot,  that  he  did  not 
believe  Albert  guilty.  He  declared  that  he  intended  doing  every- 
thing to  dispel  the  fatal  mistake,  and  that  he  would  be  his  bar- 
rister. I  will  send  for  him,"  continued  M.  de  Commarin ;  "he 
is  now  with  Albert's  mother,  who  brought  him  up,  and  who 
is  now  on  her  deathbed." — "Albert's  mother !" 

"Yes,  my  child.  Albert  will  explain  to  you  what  may  perhaps 
seem  to  you  an  enigma.  Now  time  presses.  But  I  think — " 
He  stopped  suddenly.  He  thought  that,  instead  of  sending  for 
Noel  at  Madame  Gerdy's,  he  might  go  there  himself.  He  would 
thus  see  Valerie !  and  he  had  longed  to  see  her  again  so  much  ! 
It  was  one  of  those  actions  which  the  heart  urges,  but  which 
one  does  not  dare  risk,  because  a  thousand  subtle  reasons  and 
interests  are  against  it. 

"It  will  be  quicker,  perhaps,"  observed  the  comte,  "to  go  to 
Noel." 

"Let  us  start  then,  sir." 

"I  hardly  know  though,  my  child,"  said  the  old  gentleman, 
hesitating,  "whether  I  may,  whether  I  ought  to  take  you  with 
me.     Propriety — " 

"Ah,  sir,  propriety  has  nothing  to  do  with  it !"  replied  Claire 
impetuously.  "With  you,  and  for  his  sake,  I  can  go  anywhere. 
I  am  ready,  sir." 

"Very  well,  then,"  said  the  comte.  Then,  ringing  the  bell 
violently,  he  called  to  the  servant :  "My  carriage."  In  descend- 
ing the  steps,  he  insisted  upon  Claire's  taking  his  arm.  The 
gallant  and  elegant  politeness  of  the  friend  of  the  Comte  d' Artois 


THE    LEROUGE   AFFAIR  869 

reappeared.  "You  have  taken  twenty  years  from  my  age,"  he 
said ;  "it  is  but  right  that  I  should  devote  to  you  the  youth  you 
have  restored  to  me." 

As  soon  as  Claire  had  entered  the  carriage,  he  said  to  the 
footman:  "Rue  St.  Lazare,  quick!"  Aided  by  the  concierge's 
directions,  the  comte  and  the  young  girl  went  toward  Madame 
Gerdy's  apartments.  He  was,  then,  about  to  see  her  again ! 
His  emotion  pressed  his  heart  like  a  vise.  "M.  Noel  Gerdy?" 
he  asked  of  the  servant.  The  barrister  had  just  that  moment 
gone  out.  She  did  not  know  where  he  had  gone ;  but  he  had 
said  he  should  not  be  out  more  than  half  an  hour.  "We  will 
wait  for  him,  then,"  said  the  comte. 

He  advanced ;  and  the  servant  drew  back  to  let  them  pass. 
Noel  had  strictly  forbidden  her  to  admit  any  visitors;  but  the 
Comte  de  Commarin  was  one  of  those  whose  appearance  makes 
servants  forget  all  their  orders.  Three  persons  were  in  the 
room  into  which  the  servant  introduced  the  comte  and  Made- 
moiselle d'Arlange.  They  were  the  parish  priest,  the  doctor, 
and  a  tall  man,  an  officer  of  the  Legion  of  Honor,  whose  figure 
and  bearing  indicated  the  old  soldier.  They  were  conversing 
near  the  fireplace,  and  the  arrival  of  strangers  appeared  to 
astonish  them  exceedingly.  In  bowing,  in  response  to  M.  de 
Commarin's  and  Claire's  salutations,  they  seemed  to  inquire 
their  business ;  but  this  hesitation  was  brief,  for  the  soldier 
almost  immediately  offered  Mademoiselle  d'Arlange  a  chair. 

The  comte  considered  that  his  presence  was  inopportune ; 
and  he  thought  that  he  was  called  upon  to  introduce  himself 
and  explain  his  visit.  "You  will  excuse  me,  gentlemen,"  said 
he,  "if  I  am  indiscreet.  I  did  not  think  so  when  I  asked  to 
wait  for  Noel,  whom  I  have  the  most  pressing  need  of  seeing. 
I  am  the  Comte  de  Commarin." 

At  this  name  the  old  soldier  let  go  the  back  of  the  chair 
which  he  was  still  holding  and  haughtily  raised  his  head.  An 
angry  light  flashed  in  his  eyes,  and  he  made  a  threatening  ges- 
ture. His  lips  moved,  as  if  he  were  about  to  speak ;  but  he 
restrained  himself  and  retired,  bowing  his  head,  to  the  window. 
Neither  the  comte  nor  the  two  other  men  noticed  his  strange 
behavior;  but  it  did  not  escape  Claire.  While  Mademoiselle 
d'Arlange  sat  down  rather  surprised,  the  comte,  much  embar- 
rassed at  his  position,  went  up  to  the  priest,  and  asked  in  a 
low  voice:  "What  is,  I  pray,  M.  l'Abbe,  Madame  Gerdy's 
condition  ?" 


870  THE    LEROUGE   AFFAIR 

The  doctor,  who  had  a  sharp  ear,  heard  the  question,  and 
approached  quickly.  "I  fear,  sir,"  he  said,  "that  she  can  not 
live  throughout  the  day." 

The  comte  pressed  his  hand  against  his  forehead,  as  though 
he  had  felt  a  sudden  pain  there.  "Does  she  recognize  her 
friends?"  he  murmured. 

"No,  sir.  Since  last  evening,  however,  there  has  been  a 
great  change.  She  was  very  uneasy  all  last  night:  she  had 
moments  of  fierce  delirium.  About  an  hour  ago  we  thought  she 
was  recovering  her  senses,  and  we  sent  for  M.  l'Abbe." 

"Very  needlessly,  though,"  put  in  the  priest,  "and  it  is  a  sad 
misfortune.  Her  reason  is  quite  gone.  Poor  woman !  I  have 
known  her  ten  years ;  I  have  been  to  see  her  nearly  every  week ; 
I  never  knew  a  more  worthy  person." 

"She  must  suffer  dreadfully,"  said  the  doc'ir.  Almost  at  the 
same  instant,  and  as  if  to  bear  out  the  doctor's  words,  they 
heard  stifled  cries  from  the  next  room,  the  door  of  which  was 
slightly  open.  "Do  you  hear?"  exclaimed  the  comte,  trembling 
from  head  to  foot.  Claire  understood  nothing  of  this  strange 
scene.  Dark  presentiments  oppressed  her ;  she  felt  as  though 
she  were  enveloped  in  an  atmosphere  of  evil.  She  grew  fright- 
ened, rose  from  her  chair,  and  drew  near  the  comte. 

"She  is,  I  presume,  in  there?"  asked  M.  de  Commarin. 

"Yes,  sir,"  harshly  answered  the  old  soldier,  who  had  also 
drawn  near. 

At  any  other  time  the  comte  would  have  noticed  the  soldier's 
tone  and  have  resented  it.  Now  he  did  not  even  raise  his  eyes. 
He  remained  insensible  to  everything.  Was  she  not  there,  close 
to  him  ?  His  thoughts  were  in  the  past ;  it  seemed  to  him  but 
yesterday  that  he  had  quitted  her  for  the  last  time.  "I  should 
very  much  like  to  see  her,"  he  said  timidly. — "That  is  impossi- 
ble," replied  the  old  soldier. — "Why?"  stammered  the  comte. — 
"At  least,  M.  de  Commarin,"  replied  the  soldier,  "let  her  die 
in  peace." 

The  comte  started,  as  if  he  had  been  struck.  His  eyes  en- 
countered the  officer's;  he  lowered  them  like  a  criminal  before 
his  judge. 

"Nothing  need  prevent  the  comte's  entering  Madame  Gerdy's 
room,"  put  in  the  doctor,  who  purposely  saw  nothing  of  all  this. 
"She  would  probably  not  notice  his  presence ;  and  if — " 

"Oh,  she  would  perceive  nothing !"  said  the  priest.  "I  have 
just  spoken  to  her,  taken  her  hand;  she  remained  quite  insen- 


THE    LEROUGE   AFFAIR  871 

sible."  The  old  soldier  reflected  deeply.  "Enter,"  said  he  at 
last  to  the  comte ;  "perhaps  it  is  God's  will." 

The  comte  tottered,  so  that  the  doctor  offered  to  assist  him. 
He  gently  motioned  him  away.  The  doctor  and  the  priest  en- 
tered with  him ;  Claire  and  the  old  soldier  remained  at  the 
threshold  of  the  door,  facing  the  bed.  The  comte  took  three 
or  four  steps,  and  was  obliged  to  stop.  He  wished  to,  but  could 
not  go  farther.  Could  this  dying  wonlan  really  be  Valerie?  He 
did  not  recognize  her.  But  she  knew  him,  or  rather  divined  his 
presence.  With  supernatural  strength,  she  raised  herself,  ex- 
posing her  shoulders  and  emaciated  arms ;  then  pushing  away 
the  ice  from  her  forehead,  and  throwing  back  her  still  plenti- 
ful hair,  bathed  with  water  and  perspiration,  she  cried :  "Guy ! 
Guy !"  The  comte  trembled  all  over.  He  did  not  perceive  that 
which  immediately  struck  all  the  other  persons  present — the 
transformation  in  the  sick  woman.  Her  contracted  features 
relaxed,  a  celestial  joy  spread  over  her  face,  and  her  eyes, 
sunken  by  disease,  assumed  an  expression  of  infinite  tenderness. 

"Guy,"  said  she  in  a  voice  heartrending  by  its  sweetness, 
"you  have  come  at  last !  How  long,  O  my  God !  I  have  waited 
for  you !  You  can  not  think  what  I  have  suffered  by  your 
absence.  I  should  have  died  of  grief  had  it  not  been  for  the 
hope  of  seeing  you  again.  Who  kept  you  from  me?  Your 
parents  again  ?  How  cruel  of  them  !  Did  you  not  tell  them 
that  no  one  could  love  you  here  below  as  I  do?  No,  that  is 
not  it ;  I  remember.  You  were  angry  when  you  left  me.  Your 
friends  wished  to  separate  us ;  they  said  that  I  was  deceiving 
you  with  another.  But  you  did  not  believe  the  wicked  calumny, 
you  scorned  it,  for  you  are  here?  I  deceive  you?"  continued 
the  dying  woman ;  "only  a  madman  would  believe  it.  Am  I  not 
yours,  your  very  own,  heart  and  soul?  Was  I  not  yours,  alone, 
from  the  very  first?  I  never  hesitated  to  give  myself  entirely 
to  you ;  I  felt  that  I  was  born  for  you,  Guy,  do  you  remember  ? 
I  was  working  for  a  lace-maker,  and  was  barely  earning  a  liv- 
ing. You  told  me  you  were  a  poor  student ;  I  thought  you  were 
depriving  yourself  for  me.  You  insisted  on  having  our  little 
apartment  on  the  Quai  St.  Michel  done  up.  It  was  lovely,  with 
the  new  paper  all  covered  with  flowers,  which  we  hung  our- 
selves. From  the  window  we  could  see  the  great  trees  of  the 
Tuileries  gardens :  and  by  leaning  out  a  little  we  could  see 
the  sun  set  through  the  arches  of  the  bridges.  Oh,  those  happy 
days !     But  you  deceived  me !     You  were  not  a  poor  student. 


872  THE    LEROUGE   AFFAIR 

One  day,  when  taking  my  work  home,  I  met  you  in  an  elegant 
carriage,  with  tall  footmen,  dressed  in  liveries  covered  with  gold 
lace,  behind.  I  could  not  believe  my  eyes.  That  evening  you 
told  me  the  truth,  that  you  were  a  nobleman  and  immensely 
rich.     Oh,  my  darling,  why  did  you  tell  me?" 

Had  she  her  reason,  or  was  this  a  mere  delirium?  Great 
tears  rolled  down  the  Comte  de  Commarin's  wrinkled  face,  and 
the  doctor  and  the  priest  were  touched  by  the  sad  spectacle  of 
an  old  man  weeping  like  a  child. 

"After  that,"  continued  Madame  Gerdy,  "we  left  the  Quai 
Saint-Michel.  You  wished  it;  and  I  obeyed  in  spite  of  my 
apprehensions.  You  told  me  that,  to  please  you,  I  ought  to 
look  like  a  great  lady.  You  provided  teachers  for  me,  for  I 
was  so  ignorant  that  I  scarcely  knew  how  to  sign  my  name. 
Do  you  remember  the  queer  spelling  in  my  first  letter?  Ah, 
Guy,  if  you  had  really  only  been  a  poor  student !  When  I 
knew  that  you  were  so  rich,  I  lost  my  simplicity,  my  thoughtf ul- 
ness,  my  gaiety.  I  feared  that  you  would  think  me  covetous, 
that  you  would  imagine  that  your  fortune  influenced  my  love. 
Men  who,  like  you,  have  millions,  must  be  unhappy !  They 
must  be  always  doubting  and  full  of  suspicions ;  they  can  never 
be  sure  whether  it  is  themselves  or  their  gold  which  is  loved, 
and  this  awful  doubt  makes  them  mistrustful,  jealous,  and 
cruel.  Oh,  my  dearest,  why  did  we  leave  our  dear  little  room? 
There  we  were  happy.  You  thought  to  raise  me,  but  you  only 
sunk  me  lower.  You  were  proud  of  our  love ;  you  published  it 
abroad.  Vainly  I  asked  you  in  mercy  to  leave  me  in  obscurity 
and  unknown.  Soon  the  whole  town  knew  that  I  was  your 
mistress.  Every  one  was  talking  of  the  money  you  spent  on 
me.  How  I  blushed  at  the  flaunting  luxury  you  thrust  upon 
me!  You  were  satisfied,  because  my  beauty  became  celebrated; 
I  wept,  because  my  shame  became  so  too.  Was  not  my  name 
in  the  papers?  And  it  was  through  the  same  papers  that  I 
heard  of  your  approaching  marriage.  Unhappy  woman !  I 
should  have  fled  from  you,  but  I  had  not  the  courage.  I  re- 
signed myself,  without  an  effort,  to  the  most  humiliating,  the 
most  shameful  of  positions.  You  were  married,  and  T  remained 
your  mistress.  Oh,  what  anguish  I  suffered  during  that  ter- 
rible evening.  I  was  alone  in  my  own  home,  in  that  room  so 
associated  with  you ;  and  you  were  marrying  another !  I  said 
to  myself:  'At  this  moment  a  pure,  noble  young  girl  is  giving 
herself  to  him.'    I  said  again :  'What  oaths  is  that  mouth,  which 


THE    LEROUGE   AFFAIR  873 

has  so  often  pressed  my  lips,  now  taking?'  Often  since  that 
dreadful  misfortune  I  have  asked  heaven  what  crime  I  had 
committed  that  I  should  he  so  terribly  punished?  This  was 
the  crime:  I  remained  your  mistress,  and  your  wife  died.  I 
only  saw  her  once,  and  then  scarcely  for  a  minute,  but  she 
looked  at  you,  and  I  knew  that  she  loved  you  as  only  I  could. 
Ah,  Guy,  it  was  our  love  that  killed  her !" 

She  stopped  exhausted,  but  none  of  the  bystanders  moved. 
They  listened  breathlessly,  and  waited  with  feverish  emotion 
for  her  to  resume. 

"Who,"  continued  the  sick  woman,  unconscious  of  all  that 
was  passing  about  her,  "who  told  you  I  was  deceiving  you  ? 
Oh,  the  wretches!  They  set  spies  upon  me;  they  discovered 
that  an  officer  came  frequently  to  see  me.  But  that  officer  was 
my  brother,  my  dear  Louis !  When  he  was  eighteen  years  old, 
and  being  unable  to  obtain  work,  he  enlisted,  saying  to  my 
mother  that  there  would  then  be  one  mouth  the  less  in  the  fam- 
ily. He  was  a  good  soldier,  and  his  officers  always  liked  him. 
He  was  promoted  a  lieutenant,  then  captain,  and  finally  became 
major.  Louis  always  loved  me;  had  he  remained  in  Paris  I 
should  not  have  fallen.  But  our  mother  died,  and  I  was  left  all 
alone  in  this  great  city.  He  was  a  non-commissioned  officer 
when  he  first  knew  that  I  had  a  lover ;  and  he  was  so  enraged 
that  I  feared  he  would  never  forgive  me.  But  he  did  forgive 
me.  saying  that  my  constancy  in  my  error  was  its  only  excuse. 
Ah.  my  friend,  he  was  more  jealous  of  your  honor  than  you 
yourself !  He  came  to  see  me  in  secret,  because  I  placed  him 
in  the  unhappy  position  of  blushing  for  his  sister.  Could  a 
brave  soldier  confess  that  his  sister  was  the  mistress  of  a 
comte  ?  That  it  might  not  be  known,  I  took  the  utmost  pre- 
cautions, but  alas !  only  to  make  you  doubt  me.  When  Louis 
knew  what  was  said  he  wished  in  his  blind  rage  to  challenge 
you ;  and  then  I  was  obliged  to  make  him  think  that  he  had  nc 
right  to  defend  me.  What  misery !  Ah.  I  have  paid  dearly 
for  my  years  of  stolen  happiness !  But  you  are  here,  and  all 
is  forgotten.  For  you  do  believe  me.  do  you  not.  Guy?  I  will 
write  to  Louis:  he  will  come,  he  will  tell  you  that  I  do  not 
lie,  and  you  can  not  doubt  his.  a  soldier's  word." 

"Yes,  on  my  honor."  said  the  old  soldier,  "what  my  sister 
says  is  the  truth." 

The  dying  woman  did  not  hear  him ;  she  continued  in  a  voice 
panting  from  weariness:  "How  your  presence  revives  me.     I 


874  THE    LEROUGE   AFFAIR 

feel  that  I  am  growing  stronger.  I  have  nearly  been  very  ill. 
I  am  afraid  I  am  not  very  pretty  to-day ;  but  never  mind,  kiss 
me !"  She  opened  her  arms,  and  thrust  out  her  lips  as  if  to 
kiss  him.  "But  it  is  one  condition,  Guy,  that  you  will  leave 
me  my  child?  Oh !  I  beg  of  you,  I  entreat  you,  not  to  take  him 
from  me ;  leave  him  to  me.  What  is  a  mother  without  her 
child  ?  You  are  anxious  to  give  him  an  illustrious  name,  an 
immense  fortune.  No !  You  tell  me  that  this  sacrifice  will  be 
for  his  good.  No !  My  child  is  mine :  I  will  keep  him.  The 
world  has  no  honors,  no  riches,  which  can  replace  a  mother's 
love.  You  wish  to  give  me  in  exchange  that  other  woman's 
child.  Never !  What !  you  would  have  that  woman  embrace 
my  boy !  It  is  impossible.  Take  away  this  strange  child  from 
me ;  he  fills  me  with  horror ;  I  want  my  own !  Ah,  do  not 
insist,  do  not  threaten  me  with  anger,  do  not  leave  me.  I 
should  give  in,  and  then  I  should  die.  Guy,  forget  this  fatal 
project,  the  thought  of  it  alone  is  a  crime.  Can  not  my  prayers, 
my  tears,  can  nothing  move  you?  Ah,  well  God  will  punish 
us.  All  will  be  discovered.  The  day  will  come  when  these 
children  will  demand  a  fearful  reckoning.  Guy,  I  foresee  the 
future;  I  see  my  son  coming  toward  me,  justly  angered.  What 
does  he  say,  great  heaven !  Oh,  those  letters,  those  letters, 
sweet  memories  of  our  love !  My  son,  he  threatens  me !  He 
strikes  me!  Ah,  help!  A  son  strike  his  mother.  Tell  no  one 
of  it,  though.  Oh,  my  God,  what  torture !  Yet  he  knows  well 
that  I  am  his  mother.  He  pretends  not  to  believe  me.  Lord, 
this  is  too  much  !  Guy !  pardon  !  oh,  my  only  friend !  I  have 
neither  the  power  to  resist  nor  the  courage  to  obey  you." 

At  this  moment  the  door  opening  on  to  the  landing  opened, 
and  Noel  appeared,  pale  as  usual,  but  calm  and  composed.  The 
dying  woman  saw  him,  and  the  sight  affected  her  like  an  elec- 
tric shock.  A  terrible  shudder  shook  her  frame ;  her  eyes  grew 
inordinately  large ;  her  hair  seemed  to  stand  on  end.  She  raised 
herself  on  her  pillows,  stretched  out  her  arm  in  the  direction 
where  Noel  stood,  and  in  a  loud  voice  exclaimed :  "Assassin !" 

She  fell  back  convulsively  on  the  bed.  Some  one  hastened 
forward :  she  was  dead.  A  deep  silence  prevailed.  All  the  by- 
standers were  deeply  moved  by  this  painful  scene,  this  last  con- 
fession, wrested  so  to  say  from  the  delirium.  And  the  last  word 
uttered  by  Madame  Gerdy,  "assassin,"  surprised  no  one.  All, 
excepting  the  nun,  knew  of  the  awful  accusation  which  had 
been  made  against  Albert.     To  him  they  applied  the  unfortu- 


THE    LEROUGE   AFFAIR  875 

nate  mother's  malediction.  Noel  seemed  quite  broken-hearted. 
Kneeling  by  the  bedside  of  her  who  had  been  as  a  mother  to 
him,  he  took  one  of  her  hands,  and  pressed  it  close  to  his  lips. 
"Dead!"  he  groaned;  "she  is  dead." 

Fallen  into  a  chair,  his  head  thrown  back,  the  Comte  de  Com- 
marin  was  more  overwhelmed  and  more  livid  than  this  dead 
woman,  his  old  love,  once  so  beautiful.  Claire  and  the  doctor 
hastened  to  assist  him.  They  undid  his  cravat,  and  took  off 
his  collar,  for  he  was  suffocating.  With  the  help  of  the  old 
soldier,  whose  red,  tearful  eyes  told  of  suppressed  grief,  they 
moved  the  comte's  chair  to  the  half-opened  window  to  give  him 
a  little  air.  Three  days  before  this  scene  would  have  killed 
him.  But  the  heart  hardens  by  misfortune,  like  hands  by  labor. 
"His  tears  have  saved  him,"  whispered  the  doctor  to  Claire. 

M.  de  Commarin  gradually  recovered,  and.  as  his  thoughts 
became  clearer,  his  sufferings  returned.  The  comte's  gaze  was 
fixed  upon  the  bed  where  lay  Valerie's  body.  The  soul,  that 
soul  so  devoted  and  so  tender,  had  flown.  What  would  he  not 
have  given  if  God  would  have  restored  that  unfortunate  woman 
to  life  for  a  day,  or  even  for  an  hour?  Upon  a  mere  suspicion, 
without  deigning  to  inquire,  without  giving  her  a  hearing,  he 
had  treated  her  with  the  coldest  contempt.  Why  had  he  not 
seen  her  again  ?  He  would  have  spared  himself  twenty  years 
of  doubt  as  to  Albert's  birth.  Then  he  remembered  the  comtesse's 
death.  She  also  had  loved  him,  and  had  died  of  her  love.  He 
had  not  understood  them ;  he  had  killed  them  both.  The  hour 
of  expiation  had  come;  and  he  could  not  say:  "Lord,  the  pun- 
ishment is  too  great,"  and  yet,  what  punishment,  what  misfor- 
tunes, during  the  last  five  days  ! 

"Yes."  he  stammered,  "she  predicted  it.  Why  did  I  not  listen 
to  her?"  Madame  Gerdy's  brother  pitied  the  old  man,  so  se- 
verely tried.  He  held  out  his  hand.  "M.  de  Commarin,"  he 
said,  in  a  grave,  sad  voice,  "my  sister  forgave  you  long  ago, 
even  if  she  ever  had  any  ill  feeling  against  you.  It  is  my  turn 
to-day ;  I  forgive  you  sincerely." 

"Thank  you,  sir,"  murmured  the  comte,  "thank  you."  And 
then  he  added :  "What  a  death  !" 

"Yes,"  murmured  Claire,  "she  breathed  her  last  in  the  idea 
that  her  son  was  guilty  of  a  crime.  And  we  were  not  able  to 
undeceive  her." 

"At  least,"  cried  the  comte,  "her  son  should  be  free  to  render 
her  his  last  duties ;  yes,  he  must  be.    Noel !"    The  barrister  had 


876 


THE    LEROUGE   AFFAIR 


approached  his  father,  and  heard  all.  "I  have  promised,  father," 
he  replied,  "to  save  him." 

For  the  first  time,  Mademoiselle  d'Arlange  was  face  to  face 
with  Noel.  Their  eyes  met,  and  she  could  not  restrain  a  move- 
ment of  repugnance,  which  the  barrister  perceived.  "Albert  is 
already  saved,"  she  said  proudly.  "What  we  ask  is  that  prompt 
justice  shall  be  done  him ;  that  he  shall  be  immediately  set  at 
liberty.    The  magistrate  now  knows  the  truth." 

"How  the  truth?"  exclaimed  the  barrister. 

"Yes;  Albert  passed  at  my  house,  with  me,  the  evening  the 
crime  was  committed."  Noel  looked  at  her  surprised;  so  sin- 
gular a  confession  from  such  a  mouth,  without  explanation, 
might  well  surprise  him.  She  drew  herself  up  haughtily.  "I 
am  Mademoiselle  Claire  d'Arlange,  sir,"  said  she. 

M.  de  Commarin  now  quickly  ran  over  all  the  incidents  re- 
ported by  Claire.  When  he  had  finished,  Noel  replied:  "You 
see,  sir,  my  position  at  this  moment,  to-morrow — " 

"To-morrow?"  interrupted  the  comte,  "you  said,  I  believe, 
to-morrow !  Honor  demands,  sir,  that  we  act  to-day,  at  this 
moment.  You  can  show  your  love  for  this  poor  woman  much 
better  by  delivering  her  son  than  by  praying  for  her."  Noel 
bowed  low.  "To  hear  your  wish,  sir,  is  to  obey  it,"  he  said; 
"I  go.  This  evening,  at  your  house,  I  shall  have  the  honor  of 
giving  you  an  account  of  my  proceedings.  Perhaps  I  shall  be 
able  to  bring  Albert  with  me." 

He  spoke,  and,  again  embracing  the  dead  woman,  went  out. 
Soon  the  comte  and  Mademoiselle  d'Arlange  also  retired.  The 
old  soldier  went  to  the  Mairie,  to  give  notice  of  the  death,  and 
to  fulfil  the  necessary  formalities.  The  nun  alone  remained  to 
watch  the  corpse. 


\/l  DABURON  was  ascending  the  stairs  that  led  to  the 
•*-'-l»  offices  of  the  investigating  magistrates,  when  he  saw 
old  Tabaret  coming  toward  him.  The  sight  pleased  him,  and 
he  at  once  called  out:  "M.  Tabaret!" 


THE    LEROUGE   AFFAIR  877 

"You  must  excuse  me,  sir,"  he  said,  bowing,  "but  I  am  ex- 
pected at  home." 

"I  hope,  however — " 

"Oh,  he  is  innocent,"  interrupted  old  Tabaret.  "I  have  al- 
ready some  proofs ;  and  before  three  days —  But  you  are  going 
to  see  Gevrol's  man  with  the  earrings.  He  is  very  cunning, 
Gevrol :  1  misjudged  him."  And  without  listening  to  another 
word,  he  hurried  away.  M.  Daburon,  greatly  disappointed,  also 
hastened  on.  In  the  passage,  on  a  bench  of  rough  wood  before 
his  office  door,  Albert  sat  awaiting  him,  under  the  charge  of  a 
Garde  de  Paris.  "You  will  be  summoned  immediately,  sir," 
said  the  magistrate  to  the  prisoner,  as  he  opened  his  door. 

In  the  office,  Constant  was  talking  with  a  skinny  little  man. 
"You  received  my  letters?"  asked  M.  Daburon  of  his  clerk. — 
"Your  orders  have  been  executed,  sir :  the  prisoner  is  without, 
and  here  is  M.  Martin,  who  this  moment  arrived  from  the 
neighborhood  of  the  Invalides." 

"That  is  well,"  said  the  magistrate  in  a  satisfied  tone.  And, 
turning  toward  the  detective  :  "Well,  M.  Martin,"  he  asked,  "what 
did  you  see?" — "The  walls  have  been  scaled,  sir." — "Lately?" 
— "Five  or  six  days  ago." — "You  are  sure  of  this?" — "As  sure 
as  I  am  that  I  see  M.  Constant  at  this  moment  mending  his 
pen." — "The  marks  are  plain?" — "As  plain  as  the  nose  on  my 
face,  sir.  The  thief  entered  the  garden  before  the  rain,  and 
went  away  after  it,  as  you  had  conjectured.  This  circumstance 
is  easy  to  establish  by  examining  the  marks  on  the  wall  of  the 
ascent  and  the  descent  on  the  side  toward  the  street.  These 
marks  are  several  abrasions,  evidently  made  by  the  feet  of  some 
one  climbing.  The  first  are  clean ;  the  others,  muddy.  The 
scamp  in  getting  in  pulled  himself  up  by  the  strength  of  his 
wrists:  but  when  going  away,  he  enjoyed  the  luxury  of  a  ladder, 
which  he  threw  down  as  soon  as  he  was  on  the  top  of  the  wall. 
One  can  see  where  he  placed  it,  by  holes  made  in  the  ground 
by  the  fellow's  weight;  and  also  by  the  mortar  which  has  been 
knocked  away  from  the  top  of  the  wall." 

"Is  that  all?"  asked  the  magistrate. 

"Not  yet,  sir.  Three  of  the  pieces  of  glass  which  cover  the 
top  of  the  wall  have  been  removed.  Several  of  the  acacia 
branches,  which  extend  over  the  wall  have  been  twisted  or 
broken.  Adhering  to  the  thorns  of  one  of  these  branches,  I 
found  this  little  piece  of  lavender  kid,  which  appears  to  me 
to  belong  to  a  glove." 


878  THE    LEROUGE    AFFAIR 

The  magistrate  eagerly  seized  the  piece  of  kid.  It  had  evi- 
dently come  from  a  glove.  "You  took  care,  I  hope,  M.  Martin," 
said  M.  Daburon,  "not  to  attract  attention  at  the  house  where 
you  made  this  investigation?" 

"Certainly,  sir.  I  first  of  all  examined  the  exterior  of  the 
wall  at  my  leisure.  After  that,  leaving  my  hat  at  a  wine-shop 
round  the  corner,  I  called  at  the  Marquise  d'Arlange's  house, 
pretending  to  be  the  servant  of  a  neighboring  duchess,  who  was 
in  despair  at  having  lost  a  favorite  parrot.  I  was  very  kindly 
given  permission  to  explore  the  garden ;  and,  as  I  spoke  as  dis- 
respectfully as  possible  of  my  pretended  mistress,  they,  no 
doubt,  took  me  for  a  genuine  servant." 

"You  are  an  adroit  and  prompt  fellow,  M.  Martin,"  inter- 
rupted ihe  magistrate.  "I  am  well  satisfied  with  you ;  and  I 
will  report  you  favorably  at  headquarters."  He  rang  his  bell, 
while  the  detective,  delighted  at  the  praise  he  had  received, 
moved  backward  to  the  door,  bowing  the  while. 

Albert  was  then  brought  in.  "Have  you  decided,  sir,"  asked 
the  investigating  magistrate  without  preamble,  "to  give  me  a 
true  account  of  how  you  spent  last  Tuesday  evening?" — "I 
have  already  told  you,  sir." — "No,  sir,  you  have  not ;  and  I 
regret  to  say  that  you  lied  to  me."  Albert,  at  this  apparent  in- 
sult, turned  red,  and  his  eyes  flashed. 

"I  know  all  that  you  did  on  that  evening,"  continued  the 
magistrate,  "because  justice,  as  I  have  already  told  you,  is 
ignorant  of  nothing  that  it  is  important  for  it  to  know."  Then, 
looking  straight  into  Albert's  eyes,  he  continued  slowly :  "I 
have  seen  Mademoiselle  Claire  d'Arlange." 

On  hearing  that  name,  the  prisoner's  features,  contracted  by 
a  firm  resolve  not  to  give  way,  relaxed.  However,  he  made  no 
reply. 

"Mademoiselle  d'Arlange,"  continued  the  magistrate,  "has 
told  me  where  you  were  on  Tuesday  evening."  Albert  still 
hesitated.  "I  am  not  setting  a  trap  for  you,"  added  M.  Dabu- 
ron ;  "I  give  you  my  word  of  honor.  She  has  told  me  all.  you 
understand  ?" 

This  time  Albert  decided  to  speak.  His  explanations  corre- 
sponded exactly  with  Claire's ;  not  one  detail  more.  Hence- 
forth, doubt  was  impossible.  Mademoiselle  d'Arlange  had  not 
been  imposed  upon.  Either  Albert  was  innocent,  or  she  was 
his  accomplice.  Could  she  knowingly  be  the  accomplice  of  such 
an  odious  crime?     No;  she  could  not  even  be  suspected  of  it. 


THE    LEROUGE    AFFAIR  879 

But  who  then  was  the  assassin  ?     For,  when  a  crime  has  been 
committed,  justice  demands  a  culprit. 

"You  see,  sir,"  said  the  magistrate  severely  to  Albert,  "you 
did  deceive  me.  You  risked  your  life,  sir,  and,  what  is  also 
very  serious,  you  exposed  me,  you  exposed  justice,  to  the  chance 
of  committing  a  most  deplorable  mistake.  Why  did  you  not 
tell  me  the  truth  at  once?" 

"Mademoiselle  dArlange,  sir,"  replied  Albert,  "in  according 
me  a  meeting,  trusted  in  my  honor." 

"And  you  would  have  died  sooner  than  mention  that  inter- 
view?" interrupted  M.  Daburon  with  a  touch  of  irony.  "That 
is  all  very  fine,  sir,  and  worthy  of  the  days  of  chivalry !" 

"I  am  not  the  hero  that  you  suppose,  sir,"  replied  the  pris- 
oner simply.  "If  I  told  you  that  I  did  not  count  on  Claire,  I 
should  be  telling  a  falsehood.  I  was  waiting  for  her.  I  knew 
that,  on  learning  of  my  arrest,  she  would  brave  everything  to 
save  me.  But  her  friends  might  have  hid  it  from  her ;  and  that 
was  what  I  feared.  In  that  event,  I  do  not  think,  so  far  as  one 
can  answer  for  one's  self,  that  I  should  have  mentioned  her 
name." 

There  was  no  appearance  of  bravado.  What  Albert  said, 
he  thought  and  felt.  M.  Daburon  regretted  his  irony.  "Sir," 
he  said  kindly,  "you  must  return  to  your  prison.  I  can  not  re- 
lease you  yet ;  but  you  will  be  no  longer  in  solitary  confinement. 
You  will  be  treated  with  every  attention  due  to  a  prisoner 
whose  innocence  appears  probable."  Albert  bowed,  and  thanked 
him;  and  was  then  removed. 

"We  are  now  ready  for  Gevrol  "  said  the  magistrate  to  his 
clerk.  The  chief  of  detectives  was  absent:  he  had  been  sent 
for  from  the  Prefecture  of  Police ;  but  his  witness,  the  man  with 
the  earrings,  was  waiting  in  the  passage.  He  was  told  to  enter. 
He  was  one  of  those  short,  thick-set  men,  powerful  as  oaks, 
who  can  carry  almost  any  weight  on  their  broad  shoulders.  His 
white  hair  and  whiskers  set  off  his  features,  hardened  and 
tanned  by  the  inclemency  of  the  weather,  the  sea  winds  and 
the  heat  of  the  tropics.  He  had  large  callous  black  hands,  with 
big  sinewy  fingers  which  must  have  possessed  the  strength  of 
a  vise.  Great  earrings  in  the  form  of  anchors  hung  from  his 
ears.  He  was  dressed  in  the  costume  of  a  well-to-do  Normandy 
fisherman  out  for  a  holiday.  The  clerk  was  obliged  to  push 
him  into  the  office,  for  this  son  of  the  ocean  was  timid  and 
abashed  when  on  shore.    M.  Daburon  examined  him,  and  esti- 


880  THE    LEROUGE   AFFAIR 

mated  him  at  a  glance.  There  was  no  doubt  but  that  he  was 
the  sunburnt  man  described  by  one  of  the  witnesses  at  La 
Tonchere.    It  was  also  impossible  to  doubt  his  honesty. 

"Your  name  ?"  demanded  the  investigating  magistrate. — 
"Marie  Pierre  Lerouge." — "Are  you,  then,  related  to  Claudine 
Lerouge?" — "I  am  her  husband,  sir." 

"Every  one  believed  her  a  widow.  She  herself  pretended  to 
be  one." — "Yes,  for  in  that  way  she  partly  excused  her  conduct. 
Besides,  it  was  an  arrangement  between  ourselves.  I  had  told 
her  that  I  would  have  nothing  more  to  do  with  her." — "In- 
deed? Well,  you  know  that  she  is  dead,  victim  of  an  odious 
crime?" — "The  detective  who  brought  me  here  told  me  of  it, 
sir,"  replied  the  sailor,  his  face  darkening.  "She  was  a  wretch !" 
he  added  in  a  hollow  voice. — "How  ?  You,  her  husband,  accuse 
her  ?" — "I  have  but  too  good  reason  to  do  so,  sir.  Ah,  my  dead 
father,  who  foresaw  it  all  at  the  time,  warned  me !  I  laughed, 
when  he  said :  'Take  care,  or  she  will  dishonor  us  all.'  He  was 
right.  Through  her,  I  have  been  hunted  down  by  the  police, 
just  like  some  skulking  thief.  Everywhere  that  they  inquired 
after  me  with  their  warrant,  people  must  have  said :  'Ah,  ha, 
he  has  then  committed  some  crime !'  And  here  I  am  before  a 
magistrate !  Ah,  sir,  what  a  disgrace !  The  Lerouges  have 
been  honest  people,  from  father  to  son,  ever  since  the  world 
began.  Yes,  she  was  a  wicked  woman;  and  I  have  often  told 
her  that  she  would  come  to  a  bad  end." — "You  told  her  that?" 
— "More  than  a  hundred  times,  sir." — "When  did  you  warn  her 
so  wisely?" 

"Ah,  a  long  time  ago,  sir,"  replied  the  sailor,  "the  first  time 
was  more  than  thirty  years  back.  She  had  ambition  even  in 
her  blood ;  she  wished  to  mix  herself  up  in  the  intrigues  of  the 
great.  It  was  that  that  ruined  her.  She  said  that  one  got 
money  for  keeping  secrets;  and  I  said  that  one  got  disgraced 
and  that  was  all.    But  she  had  a  will  of  her  own." 

"You  were  her  husband,  though,"  objected  M.  Daburon,  "you 
had  the  right  to  command  her  obedience."  The  sailor  shook 
his  head,  and  heaved  a  deep  sigh.  "Alas,  sir !  it  was  I  who 
obeyed." 

"In  what  intrigues  did  your  wife  mingle?"  asked  he.  "Go 
on,  my  friend,  tell  me  everything  exactly;  here,  you  know,  we 
must  have  not  only  the  truth,  but  the  whole  truth." 

Lerouge  placed  his  hat  on  a  chair.  Then  he  began  alter- 
nately to  pull  his  fingers,  making  them  crack  almost  sufficiently 


THE   LEROUGE    AFFAIR  881 

to  break  them,  and  ultimately  scratched  his  head  violently.  It 
was  his  way  of  arranging  his  ideas.  "I  must  tell  you,"  he  be- 
gan, "that  it  will  be  thirty-five  years  on  St.  John's  day  since  I 
fell  in  love  with  Claudine.  She  was  a  pretty,  neat,  fascinating 
girl,  with  a  voice  sweeter  than  honey.  She  was  the  most  beau- 
tiful girl  in  our  part  of  the  country,  straight  as  a  mast,  supple 
as  a  willow,  graceful  and  strong  as  a  racing  boat.  Her  eyes 
sparkled  like  old  cider;  her  hair  was  black,  her  teeth  as  white 
as  pearls,  and  her  breath  was  as  fresh  as  the  sea  breeze.  The 
misfortune  was  that  she  hadn't  a  sou,  while  we  were  in  easy 
circumstances.  Her  mother,  who  was  the  widow  of  I  can'r 
say  how  many  husbands,  was,  saving  your  presence,  a  bad 
woman,  and  my  father  was  the  worthiest  man  alive.  When 
I  spoke  to  the  old  fellow  of  marrying  Claudine  he  swore  fiercely, 
and  eight  days  after,  he  sent  me  to  Oporto  on  a  schooner  be- 
longing to  one  of  our  neighbors,  just  to  give  me  a  change  of 
air.  I  came  back,  at  the  end  of  six  months,  thinner  than  a 
thole,  but  more  in  love  than  ever.  Recollections  of  Claudine 
scorched  me  like  a  fire.  I  could  scarcely  eat  or  drink ;  but  I 
felt  that  she  loved  me  a  little  in  return,  for  I  was  a  fine  young 
fellow,  and  more  than  one  girl  had  set  her  cap  at  me.  Then 
my  father,  seeing  that  he  could  do  nothing,  that  I  was  wasting 
away,  and  was  on  the  road  to  join  my  mother  in  the  cemetery, 
decided  to  let  me  complete  my  folly.  So  one  evening,  after  we 
had  returned  from  fishing  and  I  got  up  from  supper  without 
tasting  it,  he  said  to  me:  'Marry  the  hag's  daughter,  and  let's 
have  no  more  of  this.'  The  evening  after  the  wedding,  and 
when  the  relatives  and  guests  had  departed,  I  was  about  to  join 
my  wife,  when  I  perceived  my  father  all  alone  in  a  corner 
weeping.  The  sight  touched  my  heart,  and  I  had  a  foreboding 
of  evil ;  but  it  quickly  passed  away.  For  two  years,  in  spite 
of  a  few  little  quarrels,  everything  went  on  nicely.  Claudine 
managed  me  like  a  child.  Ah,  she  was  cunning!  She  might 
have  seized  and  bound  me,  and  carried  me  to  market  and  sold 
me,  without  my  noticing  it.  Her  great  fault  was  her  love  of 
finery.  All  that  I  earned,  and  my  business  was  very  prosper- 
ous, she  put  on  her  back.  At  the  baptism  of  our  son.  who  was 
called  Jacques  after  my  father,  to  please  her,  I  squandered  all 
I  had  economized  during  my  youth,  more  than  three  hundred 
pistoles,  with  which  I  had  intended  purchasing  a  meadow  that- 
lay  in  the  midst  of  our  property.  I  was  well  enough  pleased, 
until  one  morning  I  saw  one  of  the  Comte  de  Commarin's  ser- 

11 — Vol   III — Gab. 


882  THE   LEROUGE   AFFAIR 

vants  entering  our  house;  the  comte's  chateau  is  only  about  a 
mile  from  where  I  lived  on  the  other  side  of  the  town.  It  was 
a  fellow  named  Germain,  whom  I  didn't  like  at  all.  I  asked 
my  wife  what  the  fellow  wanted ;  she  replied  that  he  had  come 
to  ask  her  to  take  a  child  to  nurse.  I  would  not  hear  of  it  at 
first,  for  our  means  were  sufficient  to  allow  Claudine  to  keep  all 
her  milk  for  our  own  child.  But  she  gave  me  the  very  best  of 
reasons.  She  said  she  regretted  her  past  flirtations  and  her  ex- 
travagance. She  wished  to  earn  a  little  money,  being  ashamed 
of  doing  nothing  while  I  was  killing  myself  with  work.  She 
was  to  get  a  very  good  price,  that  we  could  save  up  to  go 
toward  the  three  hundred  pistoles.  That  confounded  meadow, 
to  which  she  alluded,  decided  me." 

"Did  she  not  tell  you  of  the  commission  with  which  she  was 
charged?"  asked  the  magistrate. 

This  question  astonished  Lerouge.  He  thought  that  there 
was  good  reason  to  say  that  justice  sees  and  knows  everything. 
"Not  then,"  he  answered;  "but  you  will  see.  Eight  days  after, 
the  postman  brought  a  letter,  asking  her  to  go  to  Paris  to  fetch 
the  child.  It  arrived  in  the  evening.  'Very  well,'  said  she,  'I 
will  start  to-morrow  by  the  diligence.'  I  didn't  say  a  word 
then ;  but  next  morning,  when  she  about  to  take  her  seat  in 
the  diligence,  I  declared  that  I  was  going  with  her.  She  didn't 
seem  at  all  angry,  on  the  contrary.  She  kissed  me,  and  I  was 
delighted.  At  Paris  she  was  to  call  for  the  little  one  at  a 
Madame  Gerdy's,  who  lived  on  the  Boulevard.  We  arranged 
that  she  should  go  alone,  while  I  waited  for  her  at  our  inn. 
After  she  had  gone,  I  grew  uneasy.  I  went  out  soon  after  and 
prowled  about  near  Madame  Gerdy's  house,  making  inquiries 
of  the  servants  and  others:  I  soon  discovered  that  she  was  the 
Comte  de  Commarin's  mistress.  I  felt  so  annoyed  that,  if  I  had 
been  master,  my  wife  should  have  come  away  without  the  little 
bastard.  Claudine,  sir,  was  more  obstinate  than  a  mule.  After 
three  days  of  violent  discussion,  she  obtained  from  me  a  reluc- 
tant consent,  between  two  kisses.  Then  she  told  me  that  we 
were  going  to  return  home  by  the  diligence.  The  lady,  who 
feared  the  fatigue  of  the  journey  for  her  child,  had  arranged 
that  we  should  travel  back  by  short  stages,  in  her  carriage,  and 
drawn  by  her  horses.  For  she  was  kept  in  grand  style.  We 
were,  therefore,  installed  with  the  children,  mine  and  the  other, 
in  an  elegant  carriage,  drawn  by  magnificent  animals,  and  driven 
by  a  coachman  in   livery.     My  wife   was  mad  with  joy;  she 


THE    LEROUGE   AFFAIR  8*3 

kissed  me  over  and  over  again,  and  chinked  handfuls  of  gold 
in  my  face.  I  felt  as  foolish  as  an  honest  husband  who  finds 
money  in  his  house  which  he  didn't  earn  himself.  Seeing  how 
I  felt,  Claudine,  hoping  to  pacify  me,  resolved  to  tell  me  the 
whole  truth.  'See  here,'  she  said  to  me — "  Lerouge  stopped, 
and,  changing  his  tone,  said:  "You  understand  that  it  is  my 
wife  who  is  speaking?" 

"Yes,  yes.  Go  on." — "She  said  to  me,  shaking  her  pocket 
full  of  money,  'See  here,  my  man,  we  shall  always  have 
as  much  of  this  as  ever  we  may  want,  and  this  is  why :  The 
comte,  who  also  had  a  legitimate  child  at  the  same  time 
as  this  bastard,  wishes  that  this  one  shall  bear  his  name  in- 
stead of  the  other ;  and  this  can  be  accomplished,  thanks  to 
me.  On  the  road  we  shall  meet  at  the  inn,  where  we  are  to 
sleep,  M.  Germain  and  the  nurse  to  whom  they  have  entrusted 
the  legitimate  son.  We  shall  be  put  in  the  room,  and  during 
the  night  I  am  to  change  the  little  ones,  who  have  been  pur- 
posely dressed  alike.  For  this  the  comte  gives  me  eight  thou- 
sand francs  down  and  a  life  annuity  of  a  thousand  francs.' 
I  could  say  nothing  at  first,  I  was  so  choked  with  rage.  But 
she,  who  was  generally  afraid  of  me  when  I  was  in  a  passion, 
burst  out  laughing,  and  said:  'What  a  fool  you  are!  Listen, 
before  turning  sour  like  a  bowl  of  milk.  The  comte  is  the 
only  one  who  wants  this  change  made ;  and  he  is  the  one  that's 
to  pay  for  it.  His  mistress,  this  little  one's  mother,  doesn't 
want  it  at  all ;  she  merely  pretended  to  consent,  so  as  not  to 
quarrel  with  her  lover,  and  because  she  has  got  a  plan  of  her 
own.  She  took  me  aside  during  my  visit  in  her  room,  and, 
after  having  made  me  swear  secrecy  on  a  crucifix,  she  told  me 
that  she  couldn't  bear  the  idea  of  separating  herself  from  her 
babe  forever,  and  of  bringing  up  another's  child.  She  added 
that,  if  I  would  agree  not  to  change  the  children,  and  not  to 
tell  the  comte,  she  would  give  me  ten  thousand  francs  down, 
and  guarantee  me  an  annuity  equal  to  the  one  the  comte  had 
promised  me.  She  declared,  also,  that  she  could  easily  find  out 
whether  I  kept  my  word,  as  she  had  made  a  mark  of  recognition 
on  her  little  one.  She  didn't  show  me  the  mark,  and  I  have  ex- 
amined him  carefully,  but  can't  find  it.  Do  you  understand 
now.  I  merely  take  care  of  this  little  fellow  here;  I  tell  the 
comte  that  I  have  changed  the  children ;  we  receive  from  both 
sides,  and  Jacques  will  be  rich.  Now  kiss  your  little  wife  who 
has  more  sense  than  you,  you  old  dear !'    That,  sir,  is  word  for 


884  THE    LEROUGE   AFFAIR 

word  what  Claudine  said  to  me."    M.  Daburon  was  confounded. 
He  felt  himself  utterly  routed. 

"What  Claudine  proposed  to  me,"  continued  the  sailor,  "was 
villainous;  and  I  am  an  honest  man.  She  proved  to  me  that 
we  were  wronging  no  one,  that  we  were  making  little  Jacques's 
fortune,  and  I  was  silenced.  At  evening  we  arrived  at  some 
village ;  and  the  coachman,  stopping  the  carriage  before  an  inn, 
told  us  we  were  to  sleep  there.  We  entered,  and  who  do  you 
think  we  saw?  That  scamp,  Germain,  with  a  nurse  carrying  a 
child  dressed  so  exactly  like  the  one  we  had  that  I  was  startled. 
They  had  journeyed  there,  like  ourselves,  in  one  of  the  comte's 
carriages.  A  suspicion  crossed  my  mind.  How  could  I  be  sure 
that  Claudine  had  not  invented  the  second  story  to  pacify  me? 
I  resolved  not  to  lose  sight  of  the  little  bastard,  swearing  that 
they  shouldn't  change  it;  so  I  kept  him  all  the  evening  on  my 
knees,  and,  to  be  all  the  more  sure,  I  tied  my  handkerchief 
about  his  waist.  Ah !  the  plan  had  been  well  laid.  After  sup- 
per some  one  spoke  of  retiring,  and  then  it  turned  out  that 
there  were  only  two  double-bedded  rooms  in  the  house.  It 
seemed  as  though  it  had  been  built  expressly  for  the  scheme. 
The  innkeeper  said  that  the  two  nurses  might  sleep  in  one 
room,  and  Germain  and  myself  in  the  other.  Do  you  under- 
stand, sir?  Add  to  this  that  during  the  evening  I  had  surprised 
looks  of  intelligence  passing  between  my  wife  and  that  rascally 
servant,  and  you  can  imagine  how  furious  I  was.  It  was  con- 
science that  spoke,  and  I  was  trying  to  silence  it.  As  for  me, 
1  upset  that  arrangement,  pretending  to  be  too  jealous  to  leave 
my  wife  a  minute.  They  were  obliged  to  give  way  to  me.  The 
other  nurse  went  up  to  bed  first.  Claudine  and  I  followed  soon 
afterward.  My  wife  undressed  and  got  into  bed  with  our  son 
and  the  little  bastard.  I  did  not  undress.  Under  the  pretext 
that  I  should  be  in  the  way  of  the  children,  I  installed  myself 
in  a  chair  near  the  bed,  determined  not  to  shut  my  eyes,  and  to 
keep  close  watch.  I  put  out  the  candle,  in  order  to  let  the 
women  sleep.  Toward  midnight  I  heard  Claudine  moving.  I 
held  my  breath.  Was  she  going  to  change  the  children  ?  I  was 
beside  myself,  and  seizing  her  by  the  arm,  I  commenced  to  beat 
her  roughly,  giving  free  vent  to  all  that  I  had  on  my  heart. 
The  other  nurse  cried  out  as  though  she  were  being  murdered. 
At  this  uproar  Germain  rushed  in  with  a  lighted  candle.  Not 
knowing  what  I  was  doing,  I  drew  from  my  pocket  a  long 
Spanish  knife,  which  I  always  carried,  and,  seizing  the  cursed 


THE   LEROUGE   AFFAIR  885 

bastard,  I  thrust  the  blade  through  his  arm,  crying,  'This  way, 
at  least,  he  can't  be  changed  without  my  knowing  it;  he  is 
marked  for  life  !'  " 

The  magistrate's  stern  glance  harassed  Lerouge,  and  urged 
him  on,  like  the  whip  which  flogs  the  negro  slave  overcome  with 
fatigue. 

"The  little  fellow's  wound,"  he  resumed,  "bled  dreadfully, 
and  he  might  have  died ;  but  I  didn't  think  of  that.  I  was  only 
troubled  about  the  future.  I  declared  that  I  would  write  out 
all  that  had  occurred,  and  that  every  one  should  sign  it.  This 
was  done ;  we  could,  all  four,  write.  Germain  didn't  dare  resist, 
for  I  spoke  with  knife  in  hand.  He  wrote  his  name  first,  beg- 
ging me  to  say  nothing  about  it  to  the  comte,  swearing  that, 
for  his  part,  he  would  never  breathe  a  word  of  it,  and  pledging 
the  other  nurse  to  a  like  secrecy." 

"And  have  you  kept  this  paper  ?"  asked  M.  Daburon. 

"Yes,  sir,  and  as  the  detective  to  whom  I  confessed  all  ad- 
vised me  to  bring  it  with  me,  I  went  to  take  it  from  the  place 
where  I  always  kept  it.  and  I  have  it  here." — "Give  it  to  me." 

Lerouge  took  from  his  coat  pocket  an  old  parchment  pocket- 
book,  fastened  with  a  leather  thong,  and  withdrew  from  it  a 
paper  yellowed  by  age  and  carefully  sealed.  "Here  it  is,"  said 
he.  "The  paper  hasn't  been  opened  since  that  accursed  night." 
It  was  really  a  brief  description  of  the  scene,  described  by  the 
old  sailor.  The  four  signatures  were  there.  "What  has  become 
of  the  witnesses  who  signed  this  declaration?"  murmured  the 
magistrate,  speaking  to  himself.  Lerouge  replied :  "Germain  is 
dead.  I  have  been  told  that  he  was  drowned  while  out  rowing. 
Claudine  has  just  been  assassinated;  but  the  other  nurse  still 
lives.  I  even  know  that  she  spoke  of  the  affair  to  her  husband, 
for  he  hinted  as  much  to  me.  His  name  is  Brossette,  and  he 
lives  in  the  village  of  Commarin  itself." 

"And  what  next?"  asked  the  magistrate  after  having  taking 
down  the  name  and  address. 

"The  next  day,  sir,  Claudine  managed  to  pacify  me.  and  ex- 
torted a  promise  of  secrecy.  The  child  was  scarcely  ill  at  all: 
but  he  retained  an  enormous  scar  on  his  arm." — "Was  Madame 
Gerdy  informed  of  what  took  place?" — "I  do  not  think  so,  sir. 
But  I  would  rather  say  that  I  do  not  know." — "What !  you  do 
not  know  ?" — "Yes,  sir,  I  swear  it.  You  see  my  ignorance  comes 
from  what  happened  afterward." — "What  happened,  then?" — 
The  sailor  hesitated.     "That,  sir,  concerns  only  myself,  and — ' 


886  THE   LEROUGE   AFFAIR 

"My  friend,"  interrupted  the  magistrate,  "you  are  an  honest 
man,  I  believe;  in  fact,  I  am  sure  of  it.  All  that  is  said  here, 
and  which  is  not  directly  connected  with  the  crime,  will  remain 
secret ;  even  I  will  forget  it  immediately." 

"Alas,  sir,"  answered  the  sailor,  "I  have  been  already  greatly 

punished;  and  it  is  a  long  time  since  my  troubles  began.    Clau- 

dine  was  a  coquette ;  but  she  had  a  great  many  other  vices. 

When  she  realized  how  much  money  we  had  these  vices  showed 

themselves,  just  like  a  fire,  smoldering  at  the  bottom  of  the 

hold,  bursts  forth  when  you  open  the  hatches.     In  our  house 

there  was  feasting  without  end.     Whenever  I  went  to  sea  she 

would  entertain  the  worst  Women  in  the  place;  and  there  was 

nothing  too  good  or  too  expensive  for  them.    Well,  one  night, 

when  she  thought  me  at  Rouen,  I  returned  unexpectedly.     I 

entered,  and  found  her  with  a  man.    A  miserable-looking  wretch 

— the  bailiff's  clerk.    I  should  have  killed  him,  like  the  vermin 

that   he   was;    it   was    my    right,    but   he   was    such    a   pitiful 

object.     I  took  him  by  the  neck  and  pitched  him  out  of  the 

window,  without  opening  it.     It  didn't  kill  him.     Then  I  fell 

upon  my  wife  and  beat  her  until  she  couldn't  stir.     I  pardoned 

her,  but  the  man  who  beats  his  wife  and  then  pardons  her  is 

lost.    In  the  future  she  took  better  precautions,  became  a  greater 

hypocrite,  and  that  was  all.    In  the  mean  while  Madame  Gerdy 

took  back  her  child,  and  Claudine  had  nothing  more  to  restrain 

her.     My  house  became  the  resort  of  all  the  good-for-nothing 

rogues  in  the  country,  for  whom  my  wife  brought  out  bottles 

of  wine  and  brandy  whenever  I  was  away  at  sea,  and  they  got 

drunk  promiscuously.     When  money  failed,  she  wrote  to  the 

comte   or  his  mistress,   and  the   orgies   continued.     It   was   a 

cursed  life.     My  neighbors  despised  me,  and  turned  their  backs 

on    me ;   they  believed   me   an   accomplice   or   a  willing  dupe. 

People  wondered   where   all   the  money   came  from   that  was 

spent  in  my  house.     Fortunately,  though,  my  poor  father  was 

dead." 

M.  Daburon  pitied  the  speaker  sincerely.  "Rest  a  while, 
my  friend,"  he  said;  "compose  yourself." 

"No,"  replied  the  sailor,  "I  would  rather  get  through  with 
it  quickly.  One  man,  the  priest,  had  the  charity  to  tell  me  of  it. 
Without  losing  a  minute,  I  went  and  saw  a  lawyer.  He  said 
that  nothing  could  be  done.  When  once  a  man  has  given  his 
name  to  a  woman,  he  told  me,  he  can  not  take  it  back;  it  be- 
longs to  her  for  the  rest  of  her  days,  and  she  has  a  right  to 


THE    LEROUGE   AFFAIR  887 

dispose  of  it.  She  may  sully  it,  cover  it  with  mire,  drag  it 
from  wine-shop  to  wine-shop,  and  her  husband  can  do  nothing. 
That  same  day,  I  sold  the  fatal  meadow,  and  sent  the  proceeds 
of  it  to  Claudine,  wishing  to  keep  nothing  of  the  price  of 
shame.  I  then  had  a  document  drawn  up,  authorizing  her  to 
administer  our  property,  but  not  allowing  her  either  to  sell  or 
mortgage  it.  Then  I  wrote  her  a  letter  in  which  I  told  her 
that  she  need  never  expect  to  hear  of  me  again,  that  I  was 
nothing  more  to  her,  and  that  she  might  look  upon  herself  as 
a  widow.     That  same  night  I  went  away  with  my  son." 

"And  what  became  of  your  wife  after  your  departure?" — "I 
can  not  say,  sir ;  I  only  know  that  she  quitted  the  neighborhood 
a  year  after  I  did." — "You  have  never  lived  with  her  since?" — 
"Never." — "But  you  were  at  her  house  three  days  before  the 
crime  was  committed." — "That  is  true,  but  it  was  absolutely 
necessary.  I  had  had  much  trouble  to  find  her,  no  one  knew 
what  had  become  of  her.  Fortunately  my  notary  was  able  to 
procure  Madame  Gerdy's  address ;  he  wrote  to  her,  and  that  is 
how  I  learned  that  Claudine  was  living  at  La  Jonchere.  I  was 
then  at  Rouen.  Captain  Gervais,  who  is  a  friend  of  mine, 
offered  to  take  me  to  Paris  on  his  boat,  and  I  accepted.  Ah, 
sir,  what  a  shock  I  experienced  when  I  entered  her  house !  My 
wife  did  not  know  me !  By  constantly  telling  every  one  that 
I  was  dead,  she  had  without  a  doubt  ended  by  believing  it  her- 
self. When  I  told  her  my  name,  she  fell  back  in  her  chair. 
The  wretched  woman  had  not  changed  in  the  least ;  she  had  by 
her  side  a  glass  and  a  bottle  of  brandy." — "All  this  doesn't  ex- 
plain why  you  went  to  seek  your  wife." — "It  was  on  Jacques's 
account,  sir,  that  I  went.  The  youngster  has  grown  to  be  a 
man ;  and  he  wants  to  marry.  For  that,  his  mother's  consent 
was  necessary ;  and  I  was  taking  to  Claudine  a  document  which 
the  notary  had  drawn  up,  and  which  she  signed.     This  is  it." 

M.  Daburon  took  the  paper,  and  appeared  to  read  it  atten- 
tively. After  a  moment  he  asked :  "Have  you  thought  who 
could  have  assassinated  your  wife?"  Lerouge  made  no  reply. 
"Do  you  suspect  any  one?"  persisted  the  magistrate. — "Well, 
sir,"  replied  the  sailor,  "what  can  I  say?  I  thought  that  Clau- 
dine had  wearied  out  the  people  from  whom  she  drew  money, 
like  water  from  a  well ;  or  else  getting  drunk  one  day,  she  had 
blabbed  too  freely." 

The  testimony  being  as  complete  as  possible,  M.  Daburon  dis- 
missed Lerouge,  at  the  same  time  telling  him  to  wait  for  Gevrol, 


888  THE    LEROUGE   AFFAIR 

who  would  take  him  to  a  hotel,  where  he  might  wait,  at  the 
disposal  of  justice,  until  further  orders.  "All  your  expenses 
will  be  paid  you,"  added  the  magistrate. 

M.  Daburon,  usually  the  most  prudent  of  men,  had  consid- 
ered as  simple  one  of  the  most  complex  of  cases.  He  had  acted 
in  a  mysterious  crime,  which  demanded  the  utmost  caution,  as 
carelessly  as  though  it  were  a  case  of  simple  misdemeanor. 
Why?  Because  his  memory  had  not  left  him  his  free  delibera- 
tion, judgment,  and  discernment.  Thinking  himself  sure  of  his 
facts,  he  had  been  carried  away  by  his  animosity.  The  singular 
part  of  it  all  was  that  the  magistrate's  faults  sprang  from  his 
very  honesty.  The  scruples  which  troubled  him  had  filled  his 
mind  with  fantoms,  and  had  prompted  in  him  the  passionate 
animosity  he  had  displayed  at  a  certain  moment.  Calmer  now, 
he  examined  the  case  more  soundly.  As  a  whole,  thank  heaven ! 
there  was  nothing  done  which  could  not  be  repaired.  At  that 
moment  he  resolved  that  he  would  never  undertake  another 
investigation.  His  profession  henceforth  inspired  him  with  an 
unconquerable  loathing.  Too  pious  a  man  to  think  of  suicide, 
he  asked  himself  with  anguish  what  would  become  of  him 
when  he  threw  aside  his  magistrate's  robes.  Then  he  turned 
again  to  the  business  in  hand.  In  any  case,  innocent  or  guilty, 
Albert  was  really  the  Vicomte  de  Commarin,  the  comte's  legiti- 
mate son.  But  was  he  guilty?  Evidently  he  was  not.  "I 
think,"  exclaimed  M.  Daburon  suddenly,  "I  must  speak  to  the 
Comte  de  Commarin.  Constant,  send  to  his  house  a  message 
for  him  to  come  here  at  once;  if  he  is  not  at  home,  he  must 
be  sought  for." 

M.  Daburon  felt  that  an  unpleasant  duty  was  before  him.  He 
would  be  obliged  to  say  to  the  old  nobleman:  "Sir,  your  legiti- 
mate son  is  not  Noel,  but  Albert."  As  a  compensation,  though, 
he  could  tell  him  that  Albert  was  innocent.  To  Noel  he  would 
also  have  to  tell  the  truth:  hurl  him  to  earth,  after  having 
raised  him  among  the  clouds.  What  a  blow  it  would  be !  But, 
without  doubt,  the  comte  would  make  him  some  compensation; 
at  least,  he  ought  to. 

"Now,"  murmured  the  magistrate,  "who  can  be  the  criminal  ?" 


THE    LEROUGE    AFFAIR 


389 


f}LD  TABARET  talked,  but  he  acted  also.  Lavish  with  his 
^~^  money,  the  old  fellow  had  gathered  together  a  dozen  detec- 
tives on  leave  or  rogues  out  of  work;  and  at  the  head  of  these 
worthy  assistants,  seconded  by  his  friend  Lecoq,  he  had  gone 
to  Bougival.  He  had  actually  searched  the  country,  house  by 
house,  with  the  obstinacy  and  the  patience  of  a  maniac  hunting 
for  a  needle  in  a  haystack. 

After  three  days'  investigation,  he  felt  comparatively  certain 
that  the  assassin  had  not  left  the  train  at  Rueil,  as  all  the 
people  of  Bougival,  La  Jonchere,  and  Marly  do,  but  had  gone 
on  as  far  as  Chatou.  Tabaret  thought  he  recognized  him  in 
a  man  described  to  him  by  the  porters  at  that  station  as  rather 
young,  dark,  and  with  black  whiskers,  carrying  an  overcoat 
and  an  umbrella.  This  person,  who  arrived  by  the  train  which 
left  Paris  for  St.  Germain  at  thirty-five  minutes  past  eight  in 
the  evening,  had  appeared  to  be  in  a  very  great  hurry.  On 
quitting  the  station,  he  had  started  off  at  a  rapid  pace  on  the 
road  which  led  to  Bougival.  Upon  the  way,  two  men  from 
Marly  and  a  woman  from  La  Malmaison  had  noticed  him  on 
account  of  his  rapid  pace.  He  smoked  as  he  hurried  along. 
On  crossing  the  bridge  which  joins  the  two  banks  of  the  Seine 
at  Bougival,  he  had  been  still  more  noticed.  It  is  usual  to  pay 
a  toll  on  crossing  this  bridge ;  and  the  supposed  assassin  had 
apparently  forgotten  this  circumstance.  He  passed  without 
paying,  keeping  up  his  rapid  pace,  pressing  his  elbows  to  his 
side,  husbanding  his  breath,  and  the  gatekeeper  was  obliged 
to  run  after  him  for  his  toll.  He  seemed  greatly  annoyed,  threw 
the  man  a  ten-sou  piece,  and  hurried  on,  without  waiting  for 
the  nine  sous  change.  Nor  was  that  all.  The  station-master 
at  Rueil  remembered  that,  two  minutes  before  the  quarter-past 
ten  train  came  up,  a  passenger  arrived  very  agitated,  and  so 
out  of  breath  that  he  could  scarcely  ask  for  a  second-class 
ticket  for  Paris.  The  appearance  of  this  man  corresponded 
exactly  with  the  description  given  of  him  by  the  porters   at 


890  THE    LEROUGE   AFFAIR 

Chatou,  and  by  the  gatekeeper  at  the  bridge.  Finally,  the  old 
man  thought  he  was  on  the  track  of  some  one  who  entered 
the  same  carriage  as  the  breathless  passenger.  He  had  been 
told  of  a  baker  iiving  at  Asnieres,  and  he  had  written  to  him, 
asking  him  to  call  at  his  house. 

Such  was  old  Tabaret's  information,  when  on  the  Monday 
morning  he  called  at  the  Palais  de  Justice,  in  order  to  find  out 
if  the  record  of  Widow  Lerouge's  past  life  had  been  received. 
He  found  that  nothing  had  arrived,  but  in  the  passage  he  met 
Gevrol  and  his  man.  The  chief  of  detectives  was  triumphant, 
and  showed  it  too.  As  soon  as  he  saw  Tabaret,  he  called  out: 
"Well,  my  illustrious  mare's-nest  hunter,  what  news?  Have 
you  had  any  more  scoundrels  guillotined  since  the  other  day?" 

Instead  of  retaliating,  he  bowed  his  head  in  such  a  penitent 
manner  that  Gevrol  was  astonished.  "Jeer  at  me,  my  good 
M.  Gevrol,"  he  replied,  "mock  me  without  pity;  you  are  right, 
I  deserve  it  all." 

"Ah,  come  now,"  said  the  chief,  "have  you  then  performed 
some  new  masterpiece,  you  impetuous  old  fellow?"  Old  Taba- 
ret shook  his  head  sadly.  "I  have  delivered  up  an  innocent 
man,"  he  said,  "and  justice  will  not  restore  him  his  freedom." 

Gevrol  was  delighted,  and  rubbed  his  hands  until  he  almost 
wore  away  the  skin.  "This  is  fine,"  he  sang  out,  "this  is  capital. 
To  bring  criminals  to  justice  is  of  no  account  at  all.  But  to 
free  the  innocent,  by  Jove !  that  is  the  last  touch  of  art.  Tirau- 
clair,  you  are  a  great  wonder;  and  I  bow  before  you."  And 
at  the  same  time,  he  raised  his  hat  ironically. 

"Don't  crush  me."  replied  the  old  fellow.  "Because  chance 
served  me  three  or  four  times,  I  became  foolishly  proud!  In- 
stead of  laughing,  pray  help  me,  aid  me  with  your  advice  and 
your  experience.  Alone,  I  can  do  nothing,  while  with  your 
assistance — !"  Gevrol  was  vain  in  the  highest  degree.  Ta- 
baret's submission  tickled  his  pretensions  as  a  detective  im- 
mensely ;  for  in  reality  he  thought  the  old  man  very  clever.  He 
was  softened.  "I  suppose,"  he  said  patronizingly,  "you  refer 
to  the  La  Jonchere  affair?" 

"Alas !  yes,  my  dear  M.  Gevrol,  I  wished  to  work  without 
you,  and  I  got  myself  into  a  pretty  mess."  Cunning  old 
Tabaret  kept  his  countenance  as  penitent  as  that  of  a  sacristan 
caught  eating  meat  on  a  Friday;  but  he  was  inwardly  laughing 
and  rejoicing  all  the  while.  "Conceited  fool !"  he  thought,  "I 
will  flatter  you  so  much  that  you  will  end  by  doing  everything 


THE   LEROUGE   AFFAIR  891 

I  want."  M.  Gevrol  rubbed  his  nose,  put  out  his  lower  lip,  and 
said,  "Ah, — hem  I"  He  pretended  to  hesitate ;  but  it  was  only 
because  he  enjoyed  prolonging  the  old  amateur's  discomfiture. 
"Come,"  said  he  at  last,  "cheer  up,  old  Tirauclair.  I'm  a  good 
fellow  at  heart,  and  I'll  give  you  a  lift.  But,  to-day,  I'm  too 
busy,  I've  an  appointment  to  keep.  Come  to  me  to-morrow 
morning,  and  we'll  talk  it  over.  Do  you  know  who  that  wit- 
ness is  that  I've  brought?" — "No;  but  tell  me,  my  good  M. 
Gevrol." — "Well,  that  fellow  on  the  bench  there,  who  is  waiting 
for  M.  Daburon,  is  the  husband  of  the  victim  of  the  La  Jonchere 
tragedy!" — "Is  it  possible?"  exclaimed  old  Tabaret,  perfectly 
astounded.  Then,  after  reflecting  a  moment,  he  added;  "You 
are  joking  with  me." — "No,  upon  my  word.  Go  and  ask  him 
his  name;  he  will  tell  you  that  it  is  Pierre  Lerouge." — "She 
wasn't  a  widow  then?" — "It  appears  not,"  replied  Gevrol 
sarcastically,  "since  there  is  her  happy  spouse." — "Whew !" 
muttered  the  old  fellow.  "And  does  he  know  anything?"  In 
a  few  sentences,  the  chief  of  detectives  related  to  his  amateur 
colleague  the  story  that  Lerouge  was  about  to  tell  the  in- 
vestigating magistrate.  "What  do  you  say  to  that?"  he  asked 
when  he  came  to  the  end. — "What  do  I  say?"  stammered  M. 
Tabaret.  "I  don't  say  anything.  But  I  think — no,  I  don't  even 
think." — "A  slight  surprise,  eh?"  said  Gevrol,  beaming. — "Say 
rather  an  immense  one,"  replied  Tabaret.  But  suddenly  he 
started,  and  gave  his  forehead  a  hard  blow  with  his  fist. 
"And  my  baker!"  he  cried,  "I  will  see  you  to-morrow,  then, 
M.  Gevrol." — "He  is  crazed,"  thought  the  head  detective.  The 
old  fellow  was  sane  enough,  but  he  had  suddenly  recollected 
the  Asnieres  baker,  whom  he  had  asked  to  call  at  his  house. 
Would  he  still  find  him  there?  Going  down  stairs  he  met  M. 
Daburon;  but,  as  one  has  already  seen,  he  hardly  deigned  to 
reply  to  him.  He  was  soon  outside,  and  trotted  off  along  the 
quays.  "Now,"  said  he  to  himself,  "let  us  consider.  Noel  is 
once  more  plain  Noel  Gerdy.  He  won't  feel  very  pleased,  for 
he  thought  so  much  of  having  a  great  name.  Pshaw !  if  he 
likes,  I'll  adopt  him.  Tabaret  doesn't  sound  so  well  as  Com- 
marin,  but  it's  at  least  a  name.  Anyhow,  Gevrol's  story  in  no 
way  affected  Albert's  situation  or  my  convictions.  He  is  the 
legitimate  son,  so  much  the  better  for  him !  That,  however, 
would  not  prove  his  innocence  to  me,  if  I  doubted  it.  He 
evidently  knew  nothing  of  these  surprising  circumstances,  any 
more  than  his  father.     He  must  have  believed  as  well  as  the 


892  THE   LEROUGE   AFFAIR 

comte  in  the  substitution  having  taken  place.  Madame  Gerdy, 
too,  must  have  been  ignorant  of  these  facts ;  they  probably 
invented  some  story  to  explain  the  scar.  Yes,  but  Madame 
Gerdy  certainly  knew  that  Noel  was  really  her  son,  for  when 
he  was  returned  to  her,  she  no  doubt  looked  for  the  mark  she 
had  made  on  him.  Then,  when  Noel  discovered  the  comte's 
letters,  she  must  have  hastened  to  explain  to  him — "  Old 
Tabaret  stopped  as  suddenly  as  if  further  progress  were  ob- 
structed by  some  dangerous  reptile.  He  was  terrified  at  the 
conclusion  he  had  reached.  "Noel,  then,  must  have  assassi- 
nated Widow  Lerouge,  to  prevent  her  confessing  that  the  sub- 
stitution had  never  taken  place,  and  have  burned  the  letters  and 
papers  which  proved  it !"  But  he  repelled  this  supposition 
with  horror,  as  every  honest  man  drives  away  a  detestable 
thought  which  by  accident  enters  his  mind.  "Suspect  Noel, 
my  boy,  my  sole  heir,  the  personification  of  virtue  and  honor ! 
Men  of  his  class  must  indeed  be  moved  by  terrible  passions  to 
cause  them  to  shed  blood ;  and  I  have  always  known  Noel  to 
have  but  two  passions,  his  mother  and  his  profession.  And  I 
dare  even  to  breathe  a  suspicion  against  this  noble  soul?  I 
ought   to  be  whipped !" 

He  at  length  reached  the  Rue  St.  Lazare.  Before  the  door  of 
his  house  stood  a  magnificent  horse  harnessed  to  an  elegant 
blue  brougham.  At  the  sight  of  these  he  stopped.  "A  hand- 
some animal !"  he  said  to  himself ;  "my  tenants  receive  some 
swell  people." 

They  apparently  received  visitors  of  an  opposite  class  also, 
for,  at  that  moment,  he  saw  M.  Clergot  come  out;  worthy  M. 
Clergot,  whose  presence  in  a  house  betrayed  ruin  just  as  surely 
as  the  presence  of  the  undertakers  announce  a  death.  He 
stopped  him  and  said.  "Halloa !  you  old  crocodile,  you  have 
clients,  then,  in  my  house  ?" 

"So  it  seems,"  replied  Clergot  dryly. 

"Who  the  deuce  are  you  ruining  now?" 

"I  am  ruining  no  one,"  replied  M.  Clergot  with  an  air  of 
offended  dignity.  "Have  you  ever  had  reason  to  complain  of 
me  whenever  we  have  done  business  together?  I  think  not. 
Mention  me  to  the  young  barrister  up  there  if  you  like ;  he  will 
tell  you  whether  he  has  reason  to  regret  knowing  me." 

These  words  produced  a  painful  impression  on  Tabaret. 
What,  Noel,  the  prudent  Noel,  one  of  Clergot's  customers ! 
What  did  it  mean?     Perhaps  there  was  no  harm  in  it;   but 


THE    LEROUGE   AFFAIR  893 

then  he  remembered  the  fifteen  thousand  francs  he  had  lent 
Xoel  on  the  Thursday.  "Yes,"  said  he,  wishing  to  obtain  some 
more  information,  "I  know  that  M.  Gerdy  spends  a  pretty 
round  sum." 

"It  isn't  he  personally,"  Clergot  objected,  "who  makes  the 
money  dance;  it's  that  charming  little  woman  of  his.  Ah,  she's 
no  bigger  than  your  thumb,  but  she'd  eat  the  devil,  hoofs,  horns, 
and  all !" 

What !  Noel  had  a  mistress,  a  woman  whom  Clergot  himself, 
the  friend  of  such  creatures,  considered  expensive !  The  reve- 
lation, at  such  a  moment,  pierced  the  old  man's  heart.  A  ges- 
ture, a  look,  might  awaken  the  usurer's  mistrust,  and  close  his 
mouth.  "That's  well  known,"  replied  Tabaret  in  a  careless 
tone.    "But  what  do  you  suppose  the  wench  costs  him  a  year?" 

"Oh.  I  don't  know !  According  to  my  calculation,  she  must 
have,  during  the  four  years  that  she  has  been  under  his  protec- 
tion, cost  him  close  upon  five  hundred  thousand  francs." 

Four  years !  Five  hundred  thousand  francs  !  These  words, 
these  figures,  burst  like  bombshells  on  old  Tabaret's  brain !  Half 
a  million !  In  that  case.  Noel  was  utterly  ruined.  But  then — 
"It  is  a  great  deal,"  said  he,  succeeding  by  desperate  efforts  in 
hiding  his  emotion;  "it  is  enormous.  M.  Gerdy,  however,  has 
resources." 

"He !"  interrupted  the  usurer,  shrugging  his  shoulders.  "Not 
even  that !"  he  added,  snapping  his  fingers ;  "he  is  utterly  cleared 
out.  But,  if  he  owes  you  money,  do  not  be  anxious.  He  is  a 
sly  dog.  He  is  going  to  be  married ;  and  I  have  just  renewed 
bills  of  his  for  twenty-six  thousand  francs.  Good-by.  ML 
Tabaret." 

The  usurer  hurried  away,  leaving  the  poor  old  fellow  stand- 
ing like  a  milestone  in  the  middle  of  the  pavement.  And  yet 
such  was  his  confidence  in  Noel  that  he  again  struggled  with 
his  reason  to  resist  the  suspicions  which  tormented  him.  And 
supposing  it  were  true?  Have  not  many  men  done  just  such 
insane  things  for  women  without  ceasing  to  be  honest? 

As  he  was  about  to  enter  his  house  a  pretty  young  brunette 
came  out  and  jumped  as  lightly  as  a  bird  into  the  blue  brougham. 
Old  Tabaret  was  a  gallant  man,  and  the  young  woman  was 
most  charming,  but  he  never  even  looked  at  her.  He  passed  in, 
and  found  his  concierge  standing,  cap  in  hand,  and  tenderly 
examining  a  twenty-franc  piece. 

"Ah,  sir,"  said  the  man,  "such  a  pretty  young  person,  and 


894  THE   LEROUGE   AFFAIR 

so  lady-Kke !  If  you  had  only  been  here  five  minutes  sooner." — 
"What  lady?  why?" — "That  elegant  lady  who  just  went  out,  sir; 
she  came  to  make  some  inquiries  about  M.  Gerdy.  She  gave 
me  twenty  francs  for  answering  her  questions.  It  seems  that 
the  gentleman  is  going  to  be  married ;  and  she  was  evidently 
much  annoyed  about  it.  Superb  creature !  I  have  an  idea  that 
she  is  his  mistress.  I  know  now  why  he  goes  out  every  night." 
— "M.  Gerdy?" — "Yes,  sir,  but  I  never  mentioned  it  to  you  be- 
cause he  seemed  to  wish  to  hide  it.  He  never  asks  me  to  open 
the  door  for  him,  no,  not  he.  He  slips  out  by  the  little  stable 
door.  I  have  often  said  to  myself:  'Perhaps  he  doesn't  want  to 
disturb  me ;  it  is  very  thoughtful  on  his  part.' " 

The  concierge  spoke  with  his  eyes  fixed  on  the  gold  piece. 
When  he  raised  his  head  to  examine  the  countenance  of  his  lord 
and  master,  old  Tabaret  had  disappeared. 

Old  Tabaret  was  running  after  the  lady  in  the  blue  brougham. 
"She  will  tell  me  all,"  he  thought,  and  with  a  bound  he 
was  in  the  street.  He  reached  it  just  in  time  to  see  the  blue 
brougham  turn  the  corner  of  the  Rue  St.  Lazare.  "Heavens !" 
he  murmured.  "I  shall  lose  sight  of  her,  and  yet  she  can  tell 
me  the  truth."  He  ran  to  the  end  of  the  Rue  St.  Lazare  as 
rapidly  as  if  he  had  been  a  young  man  of  twenty.  Joy !  He 
saw  the  blue  brougham  a  short  distance  from  him  in  the  Rue 
du  Havre,  stopped  in  the  midst  of  a  block  of  carriages.  "I 
have  her,"  he  said  to  himself.  He  looked  all  about  him,  but 
there  was  not  an  empty  cab  to  be  seen.  The  brougham  got  out 
of  the  entanglement  and  started  off  rapidly  toward  the  Rue 
Tronchet.  The  old  fellow  followed.  While  running  in  the 
middle  of  the  street,  at  the  same  time  looking  out  for  a  cab, 
he  kept  saying  to  himself:  "Hurry  on,  old  fellow,  hurry  on." 

But  he  was  plainly  losing  ground.  He  was  only  half-way 
down  the  Rue  Tronchet,  and  the  brougham  had  almost  reached 
the  Madeleine.  At  last  an  open  cab,  going  in  the  same  direc- 
tion as  himself,  passed  by.  He  made  a  supreme  effort,  and 
with  a  bound  jumped  into  the  vehicle  without  touching  the 
step.    "There,"  he  gasped,  "that  blue  brougham,  twenty  francs !" 

"All  right !"  replied  the  coachman,  nodding. 

As  for  old  Tabaret,  he  was  a  long  time  recovering  himself, 
his  strength  was  almost  exhausted.  They  were  soon  on  the 
Boulevards.  He  stood  up  in  the  cab  leaning  against  the  driver's 
seat.  "I  don't  see  the  brougham  anywhere,"  he  said. — "Oh,  I 
see  it  all  right,  sir.     But  it  is  drawn  by  a  splendid  horse!" — 


THE   LEROUGE    AFFAIR  895 

"Yours  ought  to  be  a  better  one.  I  said  twenty  francs;  I'll 
make  it  forty."  The  driver  whipped  up  his  horse  most  merci- 
lessly, and  growled.  "It's  no  use,  I  must  catch  her.  Forty 
francs !     I  wonder  how  such  an  ugly  man  can  be  so  jealous." 

Old  Tabaret  tried  in  every  way  to  occupy  his  mind  with 
other  matters.  He  wished  to  reflect  befoie  seeing  the  woman, 
speaking  with  her,  and  carefully  questioning  her.  He  was  sure 
that  by  one  word  she  would  either  condemn  or  save  her  lover. 
The  idea  that  Noel  was  the  assassin  harassed  and  tormented 
him,  and  buzzed  in  his  brain,  like  the  moth  which  flies  again 
and  again  against  the  window  where  it  sees  a  light.  As  they 
passed  the  Chaussee  d'Antin,  the  brougham  was  scarcely  thirty 
paces  in  advance.  The  cab  driver  turned  and  said:  "The 
brougham  is  stopping." — "Then  stop  also.  Don't  lose  sight 
of  it;  but  be  ready  to  follow  it  again  as  soon  as  it  goes 
off." 

Old  Tabaret  leaned  as  far  as  he  could  out  of  the  cab.  The 
young  woman  alighted,  crossed  the  pavement,  and  entered  a 
shop  where  cashmeres  and  laces  were  sold.  "There,"  thought 
the  old  fellow,  "is  where  the  thousand-franc  notes  go!  Half 
a  million  in  four  years ! 

The  cab  moved  on  once  more,  but  soon  stopped  again.  The 
brougham  had  made  a  fresh  pause,  this  time  in  front  of  a  curi- 
osity shop.  "The  woman  wants  to  buy  all  Paris !"  said  old 
Tabaret  to  himself  in  a  passion.  "Yes,  if  Noel  committed  the 
crime,  it  was  she  who  forced  him  to  it.  These  are  my  fifteen 
thousand  francs  that  she  is  frittering  away  now.  It  must  have 
been  for  money,  then,  that  Noel  murdered  Widow  Lerouge. 
If  so,  he  is  the  lowest,  the  most  infamous  of  men !  And  to 
think  that  he  would  be  my  heir  if  I  should  die  here  of  rage ! 
For  it  is  written  in  my  will  in  so  many  words,  T  bequeath  to 
my  son,  Noel  Gerdy!'  But  is  this  woman  never  going  home?" 
The  woman  was  in  no  hurry.  She  visited  three  or  four  more 
shops,  and  at  last  stopped  at  a  confectioner's,  where  she  re- 
mained for  more  than  a  quarter  of  an  hour.  The  old  fellow, 
devoured  by  anxiety,  moved  about  and  stamped  in  his  cab. 
He  was  dying  to  rush  after  her,  to  seize  her  by  the  arm,  and 
cry  out  to  her:  "Don't  you  know  that  at  this  moment  your 
lover,  he  whom  you  have  ruined,  is  suspected  of  an 
assassination?" 

She  returned  to  her  carriage.  It  started  off  once  more,  passed 
up  the  Rue  de  Faubourg  Montmartre,  turned  into  the  Rue  de 


896  THE    LEROUGE   AFFAIR 

Provence,  deposited  its  fair  freight  at  her  own  door,  and  drove 
away. 

Tabaret,  with  a  sigh  of  relief,  got  out  of  the  cab,  gave  the 
driver  his  forty  francs,  bade  him  wait,  and  followed  in  the 
young  woman's  footsteps.  "The  old  fellow  is  patient,"  thought 
the  driver;  "and  the  little  brunette  is  caught." 

The  detective  opened  the  door  of  the  concierge's  lodge. 
"What  is  the  name  of  the  lady  who  just  came  in?"  he  de- 
manded. The  concierge  did  not  seem  disposed  to  reply.  "Her 
name !"  insisted  the  old  man.  The  tone  was  so  sharp,  so  im- 
perative, that  the  concierge  was  upset.  "Madame  Juliette  Chaf- 
four,"  he  answered. 

"On  what  floor  does  she  reside?" — "On  the  second,  the  door 
opposite  the  stairs." 

A  minute  later  the  old  man  was  waiting  in  Madame  Juliette's 
drawing-room.  Madame  was  dressing,  the  maid  informed  him, 
and  would  be  down  directly.  Tabaret  was  astonished  at  the 
luxury  of  the  room.  There  was  nothing  flaring  or  coarse, 
or  in  bad  taste.  The  old  fellow,  who  knew  a  good  deal  about 
such  things,  saw  that  everything  was  of  great  value.  The  orna- 
ments on  the  mantelpiece  alone  must  have  cost,  at  the  lowest 
estimate,  twenty  thousand  francs.  "Clergot,"  thought  he,  "didn't 
exaggerate  a  bit." 

Juliette's  entrance  disturbed  his  reflections.  She  had  taken 
off  her  dress  and  had  hastily  thrown  about  her  a  loose  black 
dressing-gown,  trimmed  with  cherry-colored  satin. 

"You  wished,  sir,  to  speak  with  me?"  she  inquired,  bowing 
gracefully. — "Madame,"  replied  M.  Tabaret,  "I  am  a  friend  of 
Noel  Gerdy's;  I  may  say,  his  best  friend,  and — " 

"Pray  sit  down,  sir,"  interrupted  the  young  woman. 

She  placed  herself  on  a  sofa,  just  showing  the  tips  of  her 
little  feet  encased  in  slippers  matching  her  dressing-gown,  while 
the  old  man  sat  down  in  a  chair.  "I  come,  madame,"  he 
resumed,  "on  very  serious  business.  Your  presence  at  M. 
Gerdy's." — "Ah,"  cried  Juliette,  "he  already  knows  of  my 
visit?     Then  he  must  employ  a  detective." 

"My  dear  child — "  began  Tabaret,  paternally. — "Oh !  I  know, 
sir,  what  your  errand  is.  Noel  has  sent  you  here  to  scold  me. 
He  forbade  my  going  to  his  house,  but  I  couldn't  help  it.  It's 
annoying  to  have  a  puzzle  for  a  lover,  a  man  whom  one  knows 
nothing  whatever  about,  a  riddle  in  a  black  coat  and  a  white 
cravat." 


THE    LEROUGE   AFFAIR  897 

"You  have  been  imprudent." — "Why?  Because  he  is  going  to 
get  married?  Why  does  he  not  admit  it  then?" — "Suppose 
that  it  is  not  true." — "Oh,  but  it  is!  He  told  that  old  shark 
Clergot  so,  who  repeated  it  to  me.  For  the  last  month  he 
has  been  so  peculiar;  he  has  changed  so  that  I  hardly  recog- 
nize him." 

Old  Tabaret  was  especially  anxious  to  know  whether  Noel 
had  prepared  an  alibi  for  the  evening  of  the  crime.  For  him 
that  was  the  grand  question.  If  he  had,  he  was  certainly 
guilty;  if  not,  he  might  still  be  innocent.  Madame  Juliette, 
he  had  no  doubt,  could  enlighten  him  on  that  point.  Conse- 
quently he  had  presented  himself  with  his  lesson  all  prepared, 
his  little  trap  all  set.  The  young  woman's  outburst  discon- 
certed him  a  little ;  but  trusting  to  the  chances  of  conversation, 
he  resumed.  "Will  you  oppose  Noel's  marriage,  then?" — "His 
marriage !"  cried  Juliette,  bursting  out  into  a  laugh ;  "ah,  the 
poor  boy !  If  he  meets  no  worse  obstacle  than  myself,  his  path 
will  be  smooth.  Let  him  marry  by  all  means,  the  sooner  the 
better,  and  let  me  hear  no  more  of  him." — "You  don't  love 
him,  then?"  asked  the  old  fellow,  surprised  at  this  amiable 
frankness. 

"Listen,  sir.  I  have  loved  him  a  great  deal,  but  everything 
has  an  end.  For  four  years,  I,  who  am  so  fond  of  pleasure, 
have  passed  an  intolerable  existence.  If  Noel  doesn't  leave  me, 
I  shall  be  obliged  to  leave  him.  I  am  tired  of  having  a  lover 
who  is  ashamed  of  me  and  who  despises  me." 

"If  he  despises  you,  my  pretty  lady,  he  scarcely  shows  it 
here,"  replied  old  Tabaret,  casting  a  significant  glance  about  the 
room. 

"You  mean,"  she  said,  rising,  "that  he  spends  a  great 
deal  of  money  on  me.  It's  true.  He  pretends  that  he  has  ruined 
himself  on  my  account ;  it's  very  possible.  But  what's  that  to 
me !  I  would  much  have  preferred  less  money  and  more  regard. 
My  extravagance  has  been  inspired  by  anger  and  want  of  occu- 
pation. M.  Gerdy  treats  me  like  a  mercenary  woman;  and  so 
I  act  like  one.    We  are  quits." 

"You  know  very  well  that  he  worships  you." — "He?  I  tell 
you  he  is  ashamed  of  me.  He  hides  me  as  though  I  were 
some  horrible  disease.  You  are  the  first  of  his  friends  to  whom 
I  have  ever  spoken.  Why,  no  longer  ago  than  last  Tuesday, 
we  went  to  the  theatre !  He  hired  an  entire  box.  But  do 
you  think  that  he  sat  in  it  with  me?     Not  at  all.     He  slipped 


898  THE    LEROUGE   AFFAIR 

away  and  I  saw  no  more  of  him  the  whole  evening." — "How 
so  ?    Were  you  obliged  to  return  home  alone  ?" 

"No.  At  the  end  of  the  play,  toward  midnight,  he  deigned 
to  reappear.  We  had  arranged  to  go  to  the  masked  ball  at  the 
Opera  and  then  to  have  some  supper.  At  the  ball,  he  didn't 
dare  to  let  down  his  hood,  or  take  off  his  mask.  At  supper,  I 
had  to  treat  him  like  a  perfect  stranger,  because  some  of  his 
friends  were  present."  This,  then,  was  the  alibi  prepared  in 
case  of  trouble.  Juliette,  had  she  been  less  carried  away  by  her 
own  feelings,  would  have  noticed  old  Tabaret's  emotion,  and 
would  certainly  have  held  her  tongue.  He  was  perfectly  livid, 
and  trembled  like  a  leaf.  "Well,"  he  said,  making  a  great 
effort  to  utter  the  words,  "the  supper,  I  suppose,  was  none  the 
less  gay  for  that." 

"Gay !"  echoed  the  young  woman,  shrugging  her  shoulders ; 
"you  do  not  seem  to  know  much  of  your  friend.  If  you  ever 
ask  him  to  dinner,  take  good  care  not  to  give  him  anything  to 
drink.  Wine  makes  him  as  merry  as  a  funeral  procession.  At 
the  second  bottle,  he  was  more  tipsy  than  a  cork;  so  much  so 
that  he  lost  nearly  everything  he  had  with  him :  his  overcoat, 
purse,  umbrella,  cigar-case — " 

Old  Tabaret  couldn't  sit  and  listen  any  longer;  he  jumped 
to  his  feet  like  a  raving  madman.  "Miserable  wretch !"  he 
cried,  "infamous  scoundrel !  It  is  he ;  but  I  have  him !"  And 
he  rushed  out,  leaving  Juliette  so  terrified  that  she  called  her 
maid.  "Child,"  said  she,  "I  have  just  made  some  awful  blunder, 
have  let  some  secret  out.  The  old  rogue  was  no  friend  of 
Noel's,  he  came  to  circumvent  me,  to  lead  me  by  the  nose ;  and 
he  succeeded.  Without  knowing  it,  I  must  have  snoken  against 
Noel.  I  have  thought  carefully,  and  can  remember  nothing; 
but  he  must  be  warned  though.  I  will  write  him  a  line,  while 
you  find  a  messenger  to  take  it." 

Old  Tabaret  was  soon  in  his  cab  and  hurrying  toward  the 
Prefecture  of  Police.  Noel  an  assassin  !  He  thirsted  for  venge- 
ance ;  he  asked  himself  what  punishment  would  be  great  enough 
for  the  crime.  "For  he  not  only  assassinated  Claudine,"  thought 
he,  "but  he  so  arranged  the  whole  thing  as  to  have  an  innocent 
man  accused  and  condemned.  And  who  can  say  that  he  did  not 
kill  his  poor  mother?  It  is  clear  that  the  wretch  forgot  his 
things  at  the  railway  station,  in  his  haste  to  rejoin  his  mistress. 
If  he  has  had  the  prudence  to  go  boldly,  and  ask  for  them 
under  a  false  name,  I  can  see  no  further  proofs  against  him. 


THE    LEROUGE   AFFAIR  899 

The  hussy,  seeing  her  lover  in  danger,  will  deny  what  she  has 
just  told  me:  she  will  assert  that  Noel  left  her  long  after  ten 
o'clock.  But  I  can  not  think  he  has  dared  to  go  to  the  railway 
station  again." 

About  half-way  down  the  Rue  Richelieu,  M.  Tabaret  was 
seized  with  a  sudden  giddiness.  "I  am  going  to  have  an  attack", 
I  fear,"  thought  he.  "If  I  die,  Noel  will  escape,  and  will  be 
my  heir.  A  man  should  always  keep  his  will  constantly  with 
him,  to  be  able  to  destroy  it,  if  necessary." 

A  few  steps  further  on,  he  saw  a  doctor's  plate  on  a  door; 
he  stopped  the  cab,  and  rushed  into  the  house.  He  was  so 
excited,  so  beside  himself,  his  eyes  had  such  a  wild  expression, 
that  the  doctor  was  almost  afraid  of  his  peculiar  patient,  who 
said  to  him  hoarsely:  "Bleed  me!"  The  doctor  ventured  an 
objection ;  but  already  the  old  fellow  had  taken  off  his  coat, 
and  drawn  up  one  of  his  shirt-sleeves.  "Bleed  me !"  he  re- 
peated. "Do  you  want  me  to  die  ?"  The  doctor  finally  obeyed, 
and  old  Tabaret  came  out  quieted  and  relieved. 

An  hour  later,  armed  with"  the  necessary  power,  and  accom- 
panied by  a  policeman,  he  proceeded  to  the  lost  property  office 
at  the  St.  Lazare  railway  station,  to  make  the  necessary  search. 
He  learned  that,  on  the  evening  of  Shrove  Tuesday  there  had 
been  found  in  one  of  the  second-class  carriages,  of  train  No.  45, 
an  overcoat  and  an  umbrella.  In  one  of  the  pockets  of  the 
overcoat  he  found  a  pair  of  lavender  kid  gloves,  frayed  and 
soited,  as  well  as  a  return  ticket  from  Chatou,  which  had  not 
been  used.  "Onward,"  he  cried  at  last.  "Now  to  arrest  him." 
And,  without  losing  an  instant,  he  hastened  to  the  Palais  de 
Justice,  where  he  hoped  to  find  the  investigating  magistrate. 
Notwithstanding  the  lateness  of  the  hour,  M.  Daburon  was  stil! 
in  his  office.    He  was  conversing  with  the  Comte  de  Commarin. 

Old  Tabaret  entered  like  a  whirlwind.  "Sir,"  he  cried,  stut- 
tering with  suppressed  rage,  "we  have  discovered  the  real  assas- 
sin !  It  is  my  adopted  son,  my  heir,  Noel !  A  warrant  is  nec- 
essary at  once.  If  we  lose  a  minute,  he  will  slip  through  our 
fingers.  He  will  know  that  he  is  discovered,  if  his  mistress  has 
time  to  warn  him  of  my  visit.  Hasten,  sir,  hasten !"  M.  Da- 
buron opened  his  lips  to  ask  an  explanation  ;  but  the  old  defec- 
tive continued :  "That  is  not  all.  An  innocent  man,  Albert,  is 
still  in  prison." 

"He  will  not  be  so  an  hour  longer,"  replied  the  magistrate: 
"a  moment  before  your  arrival,  I  had  made  arrangements  to 


900 


THE   LEROUGE   AFFAIR 


have  him  released.  We  must  now  occupy  ourselves  with  the 
other  one."  Neither  old  Tabaret  nor  M.  Daburon  had  noticed 
the  disappearance  of  the  Comte  de  Commarin.  On  hearing 
Noel's  name  mentioned,  he  gained  the  door  quietly,  and  rushed 
out  into  the  passage. 


NOEL  had  promised  to  use  every  effort,  to  attempt  even  the 
impossible,  to  obtain  Albert's  release.  He  in  fact  did  in- 
terview the  Public  Prosecutor  and  some  members  of  the  bar, 
but  managed  to  be  repulsed  everywhere.  At  four  o'clock,  he 
called  at  the  Comte  de  Commarin's  house,  to  inform  his  father 
of  the  ill  success  of  his  efforts.  "The  comte  has  gone  out," 
said  Denis ;  "but  if  you  will  take  the  trouble  to  wait."— "I  will 
wait,"  answered  Noel.— "Then,"  replied  the  valet,  "will  you 
please  follow  me?  I  have  the  comte's  orders  to  show  you  into 
his  private  room." 

This  confidence  gave  Noel  an  idea  of  his  new  power.  He 
was  at  home,  henceforth,  in  that  magnificent  house,  he  was  the 
master,  the  heir !  His  glance,  which  wandered  over  the  entire 
room,  noticed  the  genealogical  tree,  hanging  on  the  wall.  He 
approached  it,  and  read.  It  was  like  a  page,  and  one  of  the 
most  illustrious,  taken  from  the  golden  book  of  French  no- 
bility. A  warm  glow  of  pride  filled  the  barrister's  heart,  his 
pulse  beat  quicker,  he  raised  his  head  haughtily,  as  he  murmured : 
"Vicomte  de  Commarin!"  The  door  opened.  He  turned,  and 
saw  the  comte  entering.  As  Noel  was  about  to  bow  respect- 
fully, he  was  petrified  by  the  look  of  hatred,  anger,  and  con- 
tempt on  his  father's  face,  A  shiver  ran  through  his  veins; 
his  teeth  chattered;  he  felt  that  he  was  lost. 

"Wretch !"  cried  the  comte.  And,  dreading  his  own  vio- 
'ence,  the  old  nobleman  threw  his  cane  into  a  corner.  He  was 
unwilling  to  strike  his  son ;  he  considered  him  unworthy  of 
being  struck  by  his  hand.  Then  there  was  a  moment  of  mortal 
silence,  which  seemed  to  both  of  them  a  century.  Noel  had  the 
courage  to  speak  first.     "Sir,"  he  began.— "Silence !"  exclaimed 


THE    LEROUGE   AFFAIR  901 

the  comte  hoarsely.  "Can  it  be  that  you  are  my  son  ?  Alas,  I 
can  not  doubt  it  now !  Wretch  !  you  .knew  well  that  you  were 
Madame  Gerdy's  son.  Infamous  villain !  you  not  only  com- 
mitted this  murder,  but  you  did  everything  to  cause  an  innocent 
man  to  be  charged  with  your  crime  !  Parricide !  you  have  also 
killed  your  mother."  The  barrister  attempted  to  stammer  forth 
a  protest.  "You  killed  her,"  continued  the  comte  with  in- 
creased energy,  "if  not  by  poison,  at  least  by  your  crime.  I 
understand  all  now :  she  was  not  delirious  this  morning.  But 
you  know  as  well  as  I  do  what  she  was  saying.  You  were 
listening,  and,  if  you  dared  to  enter  at  that  moment  when  one 
word  more  would  have  betrayed  you,  it  was  because  you  had 
calculated  the  effect  of  your  presence.  It  was  to  you  that  she 
addressed  her  last  word  :  'Assassin  !'  " 

Little  by  little,  Noel  had  retired  to  the  end  of  the  room,  and 
he  stood  leaning  against  the  wall,  his  head  thrown  back,  his 
hair  on  end,  his  look  haggard.  His  face  betrayed  a  terror  most 
horrible  to  see,  the  terror  of  the  criminal  found  out. 

"I  know  all,  you  see,"  continued  the  comte ;  "and  I  am  not 
alone  in  my  knowledge.  At  this  moment,  a  warrant  of  arrest  is 
issued  against  you."  A  cry  of  rage  like  a  hollow  rattle  burst 
from  the  barrister's  breast.  His  lips,  which  were  hanging 
through  terror,  now  grew  firm.  Overwhelmed  in  the  very 
midst  of  his  triumph,  he  struggled  against  this  fright.  He  drew 
himself  up  with  a  look  of  defiance.  M.  de  Commarin,  without 
seeming  to  pay  any  attention  to  Noel,  approached  his  writing- 
table,  and  opened  a  drawer.  "My  duty,"  said  he,  "would  be 
to  leave  you  to  the  executioner  who  awaits  you;  but  I  remem- 
ber that  I  have  the  misfortune  to  be  your  father.  Sit  down ; 
write  and  sign  a  confession  of  your  crime.  You  will  then  find 
firearms  in  this  drawer.     May  heaven  forgive  you !" 

The  old  nobleman  moved  toward  the  door.  Noel  with  a  sign 
stopped  him,  and  drawing  at  the  same  time  a  revolver  from  his 
pocket,  he  said:  "Your  firearms  are  needless,  sir;  my  precau- 
tions, as  you  see,  are  already  taken;  they  will  never  catch  me 
alive.  Only — " — "Only?"  repeated  the  comte  harshly. — "I  must 
tell  you,  sir,"  continued  the  barrister  coldly,  "that  I  do  not 
choose  to  kill  myself — at  least  not  at  present." — "Ah  !"  cried  M. 
de  Commarin  in  disgust,  "you  are  a  coward!" — "No,  sir,  not  a 
coward ;  but  I  will  not  kill  myself  until  I  am  sure  that  every 
opening  is  closed  against  me,  that  I  can  not  save  myself." 

"Miserable  wretch  !"  said  the  comte,  threateningly,  "must  I 


902  THE    LEROUGE   AFFAIR 

then  do  it  myself?"  He  moved  toward  the  drawer,  but  Noel 
closed  it  with  a  kick.  "Listen  to  me,  sir,"  said  he,  in  that 
hoarse,  quick  tone,  which  men  use  in  moments  of  imminent 
danger,  "do  not  let  us  waste  in  vain  words  the  few  moments' 
respite  left  me.  I  have  committed  a  crime,  it  is  true,  and  I  do 
not  attempt  to  justify  it;  but  who  laid  the  foundation  of  it,  if 
not  yourself?  Now,  you  do  me  the  favor  of  offering  me  a  pistol. 
Thanks.  I  must  decline  it.  This  generosity  is  not  through  any 
regard  for  me.  You  only  wish  to  avoid  the  scandal  of  my  trial, 
and  the  disgrace  which  can  not  fail  to  reflect  upon  your  name." 
The  comte  was  about  to  reply.  "Permit  me,"  interrupted  Noel 
imperiously.  "I  do  not  choose  to  kill  myself;  I  wish  to  save 
my  life,  if  possible.  Supply  me  with  the  means  of  escape;  and 
I  promise  you  that  I  will  sooner  die  than  be  captured.  My  last 
thousand-franc  note  was  nearly  all  gone  the  day  when — you 
understand  me.     Therefore,  I  say,  give  me  some  money." 

"Never !" 

"Then  I  will  deliver  myself  up  to  justice,  and  you  will  see 
what  will  happen  to  the  name  you  hold  so  dear !"  The  comte, 
mad  with  rage,  rushed  to  his  table  for  a  pistol.  Noel  placed 
himself  before  him.  "Oh,  do  not  let  us  have  any  struggle," 
said  he  coolly;  "I  am  the  strongest."  M.  de  Commarin  re- 
coiled. "Let  us  end  this,"  he  said  in  a  tremulous  voice,  filled 
with  the  utmost  contempt ;  "let  us  end  this  disgraceful  scene. 
What  do  you  demand  of  me?" 

"I  have  already  told  you,  money,  all  that  you  have  here.  But 
make  up  your  mind  quickly." — "I  have  eighty  thousand  francs 
here,"  he  replied. — "That's  very  little,"  said  the  barrister;  "but 
give  them  to  me.  I  will  tell  you  though  that  I  had  counted 
on  you  for  five  hundred  thousand  francs.  If  I  succeed  in  es- 
caping my  pursuers,  you  must  hold  at  my  disposal  the  balance, 
four  hundred  and  twenty  thousand  francs.  Will  you  pledge 
yourself  to  give  them  to  me  at  the  first  demand?  At  that  price, 
you  need  never  fear  hearing  of  me  again." 

By  way  of  reply,  the  comte  opened  a  little  iron  chest  im- 
bedded in  the  wall,  and  took  out  a  roll  of  bank-notes,  which  he 
threw  at  Noel's  feet.  "Will  you  give  me  your  word,"  Noel  con- 
tinued, "to  let  me  have  the  rest  whenever  I  ask  for  them?" — 
"Yes." — "Then  I  am  going.  Do  not  fear,  they  shall  not  take 
me  alive.  Adieu,  my  father  !  in  all  this  you  are  the  true  criminal, 
but  you  alone  will  go  unpunished.  Ah,  heaven  is  not  just.  I 
curse  you !" 


THE    LEROUGE    AFFAIR  903 

When,  an  hour  later,  the  servants  entered  the  comte's  room, 
they  found  him  stretched  on  the  floor  with  his  face  against 
the  carpet,  and  showing  scarcely  a  sign  of  life. 

On  leaving  the  Commarin  house,  Noel  staggered  up  the  Rue 
de  l'Universite.  It  seemed  to  him  that  the  pavement  oscillated 
beneath  his  feet,  and  that  everything  about  him  was  turning 
round.  His  mouth  was  parched,  his  eyes  were  burning,  and 
every  now  and  then  a  sudden  fit  of  sickness  overcame  him. 
But,  at  the  same  time,  strange  to  relate,  he  felt  an  incredible 
relief,  almost  delight.  It  was  ended  then,  all  was  over;  the 
game  was  lost.  The  fever  which  for  the  last  few  days  had 
kept  him  up  failed  him  now;  and,  with  the  weariness,  he  felt 
an  imperative  need  of  rest.  For  a  moment  he  had  serious 
thoughts  of  giving  himself  up,  in  order  to  secure  peace,  to 
gain  quiet,  to  free  himself  from  the  anxiety  about  his  safety. 
But  he  struggled  against  this  dull  stupor,  and  at  last  the  re- 
action came,  shaking  off  this  weakness  of  mind  and  body. 
The  consciousness  of  his  position,  and  of  his  danger,  returned 
to  him.  He  foresaw,  with  horror,  the  scaffold,  as  one  sees  the 
depth  of  the  abyss  by  the  lightning  flashes.  "I  must  save  my 
life,"  he  thought;  "but  how?"  That  mortal  terror  which  de- 
prives the  assassin  of  even  ordinary  common  sense  seized  him. 
He  began  running  in  the  direction  of  the  Latin  Quarter  with- 
out purpose,  without  aim,  running  for  the  sake  of  running,  to 
get  away,  like  Crime,  as  represented  in  paintings,  fleeing  under 
the  lashes  of  the  Furies.  He  very  soon  stopped,  however,  for  it 
occurred  to  him  that  this  extraordinary  behavior  would  attract 
attention.  He  walked  along,  instinctively  repeating  to  himself: 
"I  must  do  something."  But  he  was  so  agitated  that  he  was 
incapable  of  thinking  or  of  planning  anything.  The  police  were 
seeking  him,  and  he  could  think  of  no  place  in  the  whole  world 
where  he  would  feel  perfectly  safe.  He  was  near  the  Odeon 
theatre,  when  a  thought  quicker  than  a  flash  of  lightning  lit 
up  the  darkness  of  his  brain.  It  occurred  to  him  that  as  the 
police  were  doubtless  already  in  pursuit  of  him,  his  description 
would  soon  be  known  to  every  one,  his  white  cravat  and  well- 
trimmed  whiskers  would  betray  him  as  surely  as  though  he 
carried  a  placard  stating  who  he  was.  Seeing  a  barber's  shop, 
he  hurried  to  the  door ;  but,  when  on  the  point  of  turning  the 
handle,  he  grew  frightened.  The  barber  might  think  it  strange 
that  he  wanted  his  whiskers  shaved  off,  and  supposing  he 
should  question  him !     He  passed  on.     He  soon  saw  another 


904  THE    LEROUGE   AFFAIR 

barber's   shop,  but  the  same  fears  as  before  again  prevented 
his  entering. 

Gradually  night  had  fallen,  and,  with  the  darkness,  Noel 
seemed  to  recover  his  confidence  and  boldness.  Why  should 
he  not  save  himself  ?  He  could  go  to  a  foreign  country,  change 
his  name,  begin  his  life  over  again,  become  a  new  man  en- 
tirely. He  had  money,  and  that  was  the  main  thing.  And, 
besides,  as  soon  as  his  eighty  thousand  francs  were  spent,  he 
had  the  certainty  of  receiving,  on  his  first  request,  five  or 
six  times  as  much  more.  He  was  already  thinking  of  the  dis- 
guise he  should  assume,  and  of  the  frontier  to  which  he  should 
proceed,  when  the  recollection  of  Juliette  pierced  his  heart  like 
a  red-hot  iron.  Was  he  going  to  leave  without  her,  going  away 
with  the  certainty  of  never  seeing  her  again?  Was  it  possi- 
ble? For  whom  then  had  he  committed  this  crime?  For  her. 
Who  would  have  reaped  the  benefits  of  it?  She.  Was  it  not 
just,  then,  that  she  should  bear  her  share  of  the  punishment? 
"She  does  not  love  me,"  thought  the  barrister  bitterly;  "she 
never  loved  me.  She  would  be  delighted  to  be  forever  free  of 
me.  Juliette  is  prudent ;  she  has  managed  to  save  a  nice  little 
fortune.  Grown  rich  at  my  expense,  she  will  take  some  other 
lover.  The  voice  of  prudence  cried  out  to  him:  "Unhappy 
man  !  to  drag  a  woman  along  with  you,  and  a  pretty  woman 
too,  is  but  to  stupidly  attract  attention  upon  you,  to  render 
flight  impossible,  to  give  yourself  up  like  a  fool."— "What  of 
that?"  replied  passion.  "We  will  be  saved,  or  we  will  perish 
together.  If  she  does  not  love  me,  I  love  her;  I  must  have 
her  !     She  will  come,  otherwise — " 

But  how  to  see  Juliette,  to  speak  with  her,  to  persuade  her. 
To  go  to  her  house  was  a  great  risk  for  him  to  run.  The  police 
were  perhaps  there  already.  "No,"  thought  Noel;  "no  one 
knows  that  she  is  my  mistress.  It  will  not  be  found  out  for 
two  or  three  days;  and,  besides,  it  would  be  more  dangerous 
still  to  write." 

He  took  a  cab,  and  told  the  driver  the  number  of  the  house 
in  the  Rue  de  Provence.  Stretched  on  the  cushions  of  the  cab, 
Mled  by  its  monotonous  jolts,  Noel  passed  involuntarily  in  re- 
view the  events  which  had  brought  on  and  hastened  the  catas- 
trophe. Just  one  month  before,  ruined,  at  the  end  of  his  ex- 
pedients, and  absolutely  without  resources,  he  had  determined, 
cost  what  it  might,  to  procure  money,  so  as  to  be  able  to  con- 
tinue  to   keep   Madame   Juliette,   when   chance   placed    in    his 


THE    LEROUGE   AFFAIR  905 

hands  Comte  de  Commarin's  correspondence.  Not  only  the 
letters  read  to  old  Tabaret,  and  shown  to  Albert,  but  also  those 
which,  written  by  the  comte  when  he  believed  the  substitution 
an  accomplished  fact,  plainly  established  it.  He  believed  him- 
self the  legitimate  son,  but  his  mother  soon  undeceived  him, 
told  him  the  truth,  proved  it  to  him  by  several  letters  she  had 
received  from  Widow  Lerouge,  called  on  Claudine  to  bear  wit- 
ness to  it,  and  demonstrated  it  to  him  by  the  scar  he  bore. 
Noel  resolved  to  make  use  of  the  letters  all  the  same.  He 
attempted  to  induce  his  mother  to  leave  the  comte  in  his  ig- 
norance, so  that  he  might  thus  blackmail  him.  But  Madame 
Gerdy  spurned  the  proposition  with  horror.  Then  the  barrister 
made  a  confession  of  all  his  follies,  showed  himself  in  his  true 
light,  sunk  in  debt ;  and  finally  begged  his  mother  to  have 
recourse  to  M.  de  Commarin.  This  also  she  refused.  It  was 
then  that  the  idea  of  murdering  Claudine  occurred  to  him. 
The  unhappy  woman  had  not  been  more  frank  with  Madame 
Gerdy  than  with  others,  so  that  Noel  really  thought  her  a 
widow.  Therefore,  her  testimony  suppressed,  who  else  stood 
in  his  way  ?  Madame  Gerdy,  and  perhaps  the  comte.  He  feared 
them  but  little.  If  Madame  Gerdy  spoke,  he  could  always  reply: 
"After  stealing  my  name  for  your  son,  you  will  do  everything 
in  the  world  to  enable  him  to  keep  it."  But  how  do  away  with 
Claudine  without  danger  to  himself? 

After  long  reflection,  the  barrister  thought  of  a  diabolical 
strategem.  He  burned  all  the  comte's  letters  establishing  the 
substitution,  and  he  preserved  only  those  which  made  it  probable. 
These  last  he  went  and  showed  to  Albert,  feeling  sure,  that, 
should  justice  ever  discover  the  reason  of  Claudine's  death,  it 
would  naturally  suspect  him  who  appeared  to  have  most  interest 
in  it.  Not  that  he  really  wished  Albert  to  be  suspected  of  the 
crime;  it  was  simply  a  precaution.  His  plan  was  simply  this: 
the  crime  once  committed,  he  would  wait ;  things  would  take 
their  own  course,  there  would  be  negotiations,  and  ultimately 
he  would  compromise  the  matter  at  the  price  of  a  fortune.  His 
plan  settled,  he  decided  to  strike  the  fatal  blow  on  the  Shrove 
Tuesday.  To  neglect  no  precaution,  he  that  very  same  evening 
took  Juliette  to  the  theatre,  and  afterward  to  the  masked  ball 
at  the  opera.  In  case  things  went  against  him,  he  thus  secured 
an  unanswerable  alibi.  The  loss  of  his  overcoat  only  troubled 
him  for  a  moment.  On  reflection,  he  reassured  himself,  saying: 
"Pshaw!  who  will  ever  know?"     Everything  had  resulted  in 


906  THE    LEROUGE    AFFAIR 

accordance  with  his  calculations ;  it  was,  in  his  opinion,  a  matter 
of  patience. 

But  when  Madame  Gerdy  read  the  account  of  the  murder,  the 
unhappy  woman  divined  her  son's  work,  and,  in  the  first 
paroxysms  of  her  grief,  she  declared  that  she  would  denounce 
him.  He  was  terrified.  A  frightful  delirium  had  taken  posses- 
sion of  his  mother.  One  word  from  her  might  destroy  him. 
Putting  a  bold  face  on  it,  however,  he  acted  at  once  and  staked 
his  all. 

To  put  the  police  on  Albert's  track  was  to  guarantee 
his  own  safety,  to  insure  to  himself,  in  the  event  of  a  probable 
success,  Count  de  Commarin's  name  and  fortune.  Circum- 
stances, as  well  as  his  own  terror,  increased  his  boldness  and 
his  ingenuity.  Old  Tabaret's  visit  occurred  just  at  the  right 
moment.  Noel  knew  of  his  connection  with  the  police,  and 
guessed  that  the  old  fellow  would  make  a  most  valuable  con- 
fidant. So  long  as  Madame  Gerdy  lived,  Noel  trembled.  In 
her  delirium  she  might  betray  him  at  any  moment.  But  when 
she  had  breathed  her  last,  he  believed  himself  safe.  He  thought 
it  all  over,  he  could  see  no  further  obstacle  in  his  way ;  he  made 
sure  he  had  triumphed. 

And  now  all  was  discovered,  just  as  he  was  about  to  reach 
the  goal  of  his  ambition.  But  how?  By  whom?  What  fatality 
had  resuscitated  a  secret  which  he  had  believed  buried  with 
Madame  Gerdy  ?  But  where  is  the  use,  when  one  is  at  the  bot- 
tom of  an  abyss,  of  knowing  which  stone  gave  way,  or  of  asking 
down  what  side  one  fell ? 

The  cab  stopped  in  the  Rue  de  Provence.  Noel  leaned  out 
of  the  door,  his  eyes  exploring  the  neighborhood  and  throwing 
a  searching  glance  into  the  depths  of  the  hall  of  the  house. 
Seeing  no  one,  he  paid  the  fare  through  the  front  window,  be- 
fore getting  out  of  the  cab,  and,  crossing  the  pavement  with  a 
bound,  he  rushed  upstairs.  Charlotte,  at  sight  of  him,  gave 
a  shout  of  joy. 

"At  last  it  is  you,  sir !"  she  cried.  "Ah,  madame  has  been 
expecting  you  with  the  greatest  impatience !  She  has  been  very 
anxious." 

Juliette  expecting  him  !     Juliette  anxious ! 

The  barrister  did  not  stop  to  ask  questions.  On  reaching 
this  spot,  he  seemed  suddenly  to  recover  all  his  composure.  He 
understood  his  imprudence;  he  knew  the  exact  value  of  every 
minute  he  delayed  there.    "If  any  one  rings,"  said  he  to  Char- 


THE    LEROUGE   AFFAIR  907 

lotte,  "don't  open  the  door.  No  matter  what  may  be  said  or 
done,  don't  open  the  door  !" 

On  hearing  Noel's  voice,  Juliette  ran  to  meet  him.  He 
sharply  pushed  her  back  into  the  drawing-room,  and  followed, 
closing  the  door.  Only  then  did  she  notice  her  lover's  face.  He 
was  so  changed,  his  look  was  so  haggard  that  she  could  not 
help  crying  out:  "What  is  the  matter  with  you?" 

Noel  made  no  reply ;  he  advanced  toward  her  and  took  her 
hand.  "Juliette,"  he  demanded  in  a  hollow  voice,  fixing  his 
burning  glance  upon  her,  "Juliette,  be  sincere,  do  you  love  me?" 

She  guessed,  she  instinctively  felt  that  something  extraordi- 
nary was  happening;  she  seemed  to  breathe  an  atmosphere  of 
evil,  yet  she  playfully  replied,  pouting  her  lips  most  provokingly : 
"'You  naughty  boy,  you  deserve — " 

"Oh,  enough  !"  interrupted  Noel,  stamping  his  feet  fiercely. 
^'Answer  me,"  he  continued,  squeezing  her  pretty  hands  almost 
sufficiently  to  crush  them,  "yes,  or  no,  do  you  love  me?" 

A  hundred  times  had  she  played  with  her  lover's  anger,  de- 
lighting to  excite  him  into  a  fury,  to  enjoy  the  pleasure  of 
appeasing  him  with  a  word,  but  she  had  never  seen  him  thus 
before.  He  had  hurt  her  very  much,  and  yet  she  dared  not 
complain  of  this  his  first  harshness. 

"Yes,  I  love  you,"  she  stammered,  "do  you  not  know  it? 
Why  do  you  ask  me?" 

"Why?"  replied  the  barrister,  releasing  her  hands;  "why? 
Because,  if  you  love  me  you  have  an  opportunity  of  proving  it. 
If  you  love  me,  you  must  follow  me  at  once,  abandon  every- 
thing.    Come,  fly  with  me.     Time  presses — " 

The  young  woman  was  decidedly  frightened.  "Great  heav- 
ens !"  she  asked,  "what  has  happened  ?" 

"Nothing,  except  that  I  have  loved  you  too  much,  Juliette. 
When  I  found  I  had  no  more  money  left  to  give  you  for  your 
luxury,  your  caprices,  I  went  mad.  To  procure  money,  I — I 
committed  a  crime — a  crime;  do  you  understand?  The  police 
are  after  me,  I  must  fly,  will  you  come  with  me?" 

Juliette's  eyes  grew  wide  with  astonishment;  but  she  doubted 
Noel.     "A  crime?    You?"  she  began. 

"Yes,  I !  Would  you  know  the  truth  ?  I  have  committed 
murder,  I  have  assassinated  !    But  it  was  all  for  you." 

The  barrister  felt  that  at  these  words  Juliette  would  certainly 
recoil  from  him  in  horror.  He  expected  her  to  be  seized  by 
that  terror  which  a  murderer  inspires.     He  was  already  fully 


908  THE   LEROUGE   AFFAIR 

resigned  to  it.  He  thought  that  she  would  fly  from  him;  per- 
haps there  would  be  a  scene.  She  might  go  into  hysterics,  cry 
out,  call  for  help,  for  the  police.  He  was  mistaken.  With  a 
bound,  Juliette  threw  herself  upon  him,  entwining  her  arms 
about  his  neck,  and  embracing  him  as  she  had  never  done 
before. 

"Yes,  I  love  you !"  she  cried.  "You  have  committed  a  crime 
for  my  sake,  you  ?  Then  you  must  have  loved  me.  You  have 
a  heart.    I  did  not  know  you !" 

It  cost  dear  to  inspire  passion  in  Madame  Juliette;  but  Noel 
did  not  think  of  that.  He  experienced  a  moment  of  intense 
delight;  it  seemed  to  him  that  nothing  was  hopeless.  But  he 
had  the  presence  of  mind  to  free  himself  from  her  embrace. 
"Let  us  go,"  he  said;  "the  one  great  misfortune  is  that  I  do  not 
know  from  whence  the  attack  may  come.  How  the  truth  has 
been  discovered  is  still  a  mystery  to  me." 

Juliette  suddenly  recollected  the  strange  visit  she  had  re- 
ceived in  the  afternoon;  she  understood  it  all.  "Oh,  wretched 
woman  that  I  am!"  she  cried,  wringing  her  hands  in  despair; 
"it  is  I  who  have  betraved  you !  It  occurred  on  Tuesday,  did 
it  not?" 

"Yes,  Tuesday." 

"Ah,  then  I  have  told  all,  without  suspecting  it,  to  your 
friend,  that  old  fellow  I  thought  you  had  sent,  M.  Tabaret  I" 

"What,  Tabaret  has  been  here?" 

"Yes,  this  afternoon." 

"Come,  then,"  cried  Noel,  "come  quickly;  it's  a  miracle  that 
he  has  not  yet  come  to  arrest  me !" 

He  took  her  by  the  arm,  to  hurry  her  away;  but  she  quickly 
released  herself.  "Wait,"  said  she.  "I  have  some  money,  some 
jewels.     I  must  take  them." 

"It  is  useless.  Leave  everything  behind.  I  have  a  fortune, 
Juliette ;  let  us  fly  !" 

She  had  already  opened  her  jewel-box,  and  was  throwing 
everything  of  value  that  she  possessed  pell-mell  into  a  little 
traveling  bag. 

"Ah,  through  your  delay  I  shall  be  caught,"  cried  Noel,  "I 
shall  be  caught !" 

He  spoke  thus ;  but  his  heart  was  overflowing  with  joy : 
"What  sublime  devotion  !  She  loves  me  truly,"  he  said  to  him- 
self;  "for  my  sake,  she  renounces  her  happy  life  without  hesita- 
tion ;  for  my  sake,  she  sacrifices  all !" 


THE   LEROUGE   AFFAIR  909 

Juliette  had  finished  her  preparations  and  was  hastily  tying 
on  her  bonnet,  when  the  door-bell  rang. 

"It  is  the  police !"  cried  Noel,  becoming,  if  possible,  even 
more  livid. 

The  young  woman  and  her  lover  stood  as  immovable  as  two 
statues,  with  great  drops  of  perspiration  on  their  foreheads, 
their  eyes  dilated,  and  their  ears  listening  intently.  A  second 
ring  was  heard,  then  a  third. 

Charlotte  appeared,  walking  on  tiptoe.  "There  are  several," 
she  whispered ;  "I  heard  them  talking  together." 

Grown  tired  of  ringing,  they  knocked  loudly  on  the  door.  The 
sound  of  a  voice  reached  the  drawing-room,  and  the  word  "law" 
was  plainly  heard. 

"No  more  hope !"  murmured  Noel. 

''Don't  despair,"  cried  Juliette ;  "try  the  servants'  staircase  !" 

"You  may  be  sure  they  have  not  forgotten  it." 

Juliette  went  to  see,  and  returned  dejected  and  terrified.  She 
had  distinguished  heavy  footsteps  on  the  landing,  made  by  some 
one  endeavoring  to  walk  softly.  "There  must  be  some  way  of 
escape  !"  she  cried  fiercely. 

"Yes,"  replied  Noel,  "one  way.  I  have  given  my  word. 
They  are  picking  the  lock.  Fasten  all  the  doors,  and  let  them 
break  them  down ;  it  will  give  me  time." 

Tuliette  and  Charlotte  ran  to  carry  out  his  directions.  Then 
Noel,  leaning  against  the  mantelpiece,  seized  his  revolver  and 
pointed  it  at  his  breast.  But  Juliette,  who  had  returned,  per- 
ceiving the  movement,  threw  herself  upon  her  lover,  but  so 
violently  that  the  revolver  turned  aside  and  went  off.  The 
shot  took  effect,  the  bullet  entered  Noel's  stomach.  He  uttered 
a  frightful  cry.  Juliette  had  made  his  death  a  terrible  punish- 
ment; she  had  prolonged  his  agony.  He  staggered,  but  re- 
mained standing,  supporting  himself  by  the  mantelpiece,  while 
the  blood  flowed  copiously  from  his  wound. 

Juliette  clung  to  him,  trying  to  wrest  the  revolver  from  his 
grasp.  "You  shall  not  kill  yourself,"  she  cried,  "I  will  not 
let  you.  You  are  mine ;  I  love  you !  Let  them  come.  What 
can  they  do  to  you?  If  they  put  you  in  prison,  you  can  escape. 
I  will  help  you,  we  will  bribe  the  jailers.  Ah,  we  will  live  so 
happily  together,  no  matter  where,  far  away  in  America  where 
no  one  knows  us  !" 

The  outer  door  had  yielded ;  the  police  were  now  picking  the 
lock  of  the  door  of  the  antechamber. 


910  THE   LEROUGE   AFFAIR 

"Let  me  finish!"  murmured  Noel;  "they  must  not  take  me 
alive !" 

And,  with  a  supreme  effort,  triumphing  over  his  dreadful 
agony,  he  released  himself,  and  roughly  pushed  Juliette  away. 
She  fell  down  near  the  sofa.  Then  he  once  more  aimed  his  re- 
volver at  the  place  where  he  felt  his  heart  beating,  pulled  the 
trigger  and  rolled  to  the  floor.  It  was  full  time,  for  the  police 
at  that  moment  entered  the  room.  Their  first  thought  was  that 
before  shooting  himself,  Noel  had  shot  his  mistress.  They 
knew  of  cases  where  people  had  romantically  desired  to  quit 
this  world  in  company;  and,  moreover,  had  they  not  heard  two 
reports  ?    But  Juliette  was  already  on  her  feet  again. 

"A  doctor,"  she  cried,  "a  doctor !    He  can  not  be  dead !" 

One  man  ran  out,  while  the  others,  under  old  Tabaret's  direc- 
tion, raised  the  body  and  carried  it  to  Madame  Juliette's  bed- 
room, where  they  laid  it  on  the  bed.  "For  his  sake,  I  trust  his 
wounds  are  mortal !"  murmured  the  old  detective,  whose  anger 
left  him  at  the  sight.  "After  all,  I  loved  him  as  though  he 
were  my  own  child ;  his  name  is  still  in  my  will !" 

Old  Tabaret  stopped.  Noel  just  then  uttered  a  groan  and 
opened  his  eyes.  "You  see  that  he  will  live !"  cried  Juliette. 
The  barrister  shook  his  head  feebly,  and  for  a  moment  he 
tossed  about  painfully  on  the  bed,  passing  his  right  hand  first 
under  his  coat  and  then  under  his  pillow.  He  even  scucceeded 
in  turning  himself  half-way  toward  the  wall  and  back  again. 
Upon  a  sign,  which  was  at  once  understood,  some  one  placed 
another  pillow  under  his  head.  Then,  in  a  broken,  hissing  voice, 
he  uttered  a  few  words:  "I  am  the  assassin,"  he  said.  "Write 
it  down,  I  will  sign  it:  it  will  please  Albert.  I  owe  him  that 
at  least." 

While  they  were  writing,  he  drew  Juliette's  head  close  to 
his  lips.  "My  fortune  is  beneath  the  pillow,"  he  whispered. 
"I  give  it  all  to  you."  A  flow  of  blood  rose  to  his  mouth;  and 
they  all  thought  him  dead.  But  he  still  had  strength  enough 
to  sign  his  confession  and  to  say  jestingly  to  M.  Tabaret:  "Ah, 
ha,  my  friend,  so  you  go  in  for  the  detective  business,  do  you ! 
It  must  be  great  fun  to  trap  one's  friends  in  person!  Ah,  I 
have  had  a  fine  game ;  but  with  three  women  in  the  play  I  was 
sure  to  lose." 

The  death  struggle  commenced,  and,  when  the  doctor  ar- 
rived, he  could  only  announce  the  decease  of  M.  Noel  Gerdy, 
barrister. 


THE    LEROUGE    AFFAIR 


911 


COME  months  later,  one  evening,  at  old  Mademoiselle  de 
"  Goello's  house,  the  Marquise  d'Arlange,  looking  ten  years 
younger  than  when  we  saw  her  last,  was  giving  her  dowager 
friends  an  account  of  the  wedding  of  her  granddaughter  Claire, 
who  had  just  married  the  Vicomte  Albert  de  Commarin.  "The 
wedding,"  said  she,  "took  place  on  our  estate  in  Normandy, 
without  any  flourish  of  trumpets.  My  son-in-law  wished  it; 
for  which  I  think  he  is  greatly  to  blame.  The  scandal  raised 
by  the  mistake  of  which  he  had  been  the  victim,  called  for  a 
brilliant  wedding.  That  was  my  opinion,  and  I  did  not  con- 
ceal it.  But  the  boy  is  as  stubborn  as  his  father,  which  is 
saying  a  good  deal ;  he  persisted  in  his  obstinacy.  And  my  im- 
pudent granddaughter,  obeying  beforehand  her  future  husband, 
also  sided  against  me.  It  is,  however,  of  no  consequence;  I 
defy  any  one  to  find  to-day  a  single  individual  with  courage 
enough  to  confess  that  he  ever  for  an  instant  doubted  Albert's 
innocence.  I  have  left  the  young  people  in  all  the  bliss  of  the 
honeymoon,  billing  and  cooing  like  a  pair  of  turtle-doves.  It 
must  be  admitted  that  they  have  paid  dearly  for  their  happiness. 
May  they  be  happy  then,  and  may  they  have  lots  of  children, 
for  they  will  have  no  difficulty  in  bringing  them  up  and  in  pro- 
viding for  them.  I  must  tell  you  that,  for  the  first  time  in  his 
life,  and  probably  for  the  last,  the  Comte  de  Commarin  has 
behaved  like  an  angel!  He  has  settled  all  his  fortune  on  his 
son,  absolutely  all.  He  intends  living  alone  on  one  of  his 
•states.  I  am  afraid  the  poor  dear  old  man  will  not  live  long. 
I  am  not  sure  that  he  has  entirely  recovered  from  that  last 
attack.  Anyhow,  my  grandchild  is  settled,  and  grandly  too.  I 
know  what  it  has  cost  me,  and  how  economical  I  shall  have  to 
be.  But  I  do  not  think  much  of  those  parents  who  hesitate  at 
any  pecuniary  sacrifice  when  their  children's  happiness  is  at 
stake."  The  marquise  forgot,  however,  to  state  that,  a  week 
before  the  wedding,  Albert  freed  her  from  a  very  embarrassing 
position,  and  had  discharged  a  considerable  amount  of  her  debts. 


912  THE    LEROUGE   AFFAIR 

Since  then  she  had  not  borrowed  more  than  nine  thousand 
francs  of  him ;  but  she  intends  confessing  to  him  some  day  how 
greatly  she  is  annoyed  by  her  upholsterer,  by  her  dressmaker, 
by  three  linen  drapers,  and  by  five  or  six  other  tradesmen.  Ah, 
well,  she  is  all  the  same  a  worthy  woman:  she  never  says  any- 
thing against  her  son-in-law. 

Retiring  to  his  father's  home  in  Poitou  after  sending  in  his 
resignation,  M.  Daburon  has  at  length  found  rest;  forgetful- 
ness  will  come  later  on.  His  friends  do  not  yet  despair  of  in- 
ducing him  to  marry. 

Madame  Juliette  is  quite  consoled  for  the  loss  of  Noel.  The 
eighty  thousand  francs  hidden  by  him  under  the  pillow  were 
not  taken  from  her.  They  are  nearly  all  gone  now  though. 
Before  long  the  sale  of  a  handsome  suite  of  furniture  will  be 
announced. 

Old  Tabaret,  alone,  is  indelibly  impressed.  After  having 
believed  in  the  infallibility  of  justice,  he  now  sees  everywhere 
nothing  but  judicial  errors.  The  ex-amateur  detective  doubts 
the  very  existence  of  crime,  and  maintains  that  the  evidence 
of  one's  senses  proves  nothing.  He  circulates  petitions  for 
the  abolition  of  capital  punishment,  and  has  organized  a  society 
for  the  defense  of  poor  and  innocent  prisoners. 


THE  END 


FILE   NUMBER   113 


- 


FILE    NUMBER    113 

IN  the  Paris  journals  of  February  28,  186—,  there  appeared 
the  following  intelligence : 
"A  daring  robbery,  committed  during  the  night  at  one 
of  our  principal  banker's,  M.  Andre  Fauvel,  has  created  great 
excitement  this  morning  ir  the  neighborhood  of  the  Rue  de 
Provence.  The  thieves,  who  were  aS  skilful  as  they  were 
daring,  succeeded  in  effecting  an  entrance  to  the  bank,  in 
forcing  the  lock  of  a  safe  that  has  heretofore  been  considered 
impregnable,  and  in  possessing  themselves  of  bank-notes  of  the 
value  of  three  hundred  and  fifty  thousand  francs.  The  police, 
immediately  informed  of  the  robbery,  displayed  their  accus- 
tomed zeal,  and  their  efforts  have  been  crowned  with  success. 
Already,  it  is  said,  P.  B.,  a  clerk  in  the  bank,  has  been  arrested, 
and  there  is  every  reason  to  hope  that  his  accomplices  will  be 
speedily  overtaken  by  the  hand  of  justice." 

For  four  days  this  robbery  was  the  talk  of  Paris.  Then 
public  attention  was  engrossed  by  later  and  equally  interesting 
events :  an  acrobat  broke  his  leg  at  the  circus ;  an  actress  made 
her  debut  at  a  minor  theatre ;  and  news  of  the  28th  was  soon 
forgotten. 

But  for  once  the  newspapers  were — perhaps  designedly — 
wrong,  or  at  least  inaccurate  in  their  information.  The  sum 
of  three  hundred  and  fifty  thousand  francs  had  certainly  been 
stolen  from  M.  Andre  Fauvel's  bank,  but  not  in  the  manner 
described.  A  clerk  had  also  been  arrested  on  suspicion,  but 
no  conclusive  proof  had  been  forthcoming  against  him.  This 
robbery  of  unusual  importance  remained,  if  not  inexplicable,  at 
least  unexplained. 

The  following  are  the  facts  of  the  case  as  related  with 
scrupulous  exactitude  in  the  official  police  report. 


Gab.— Vol.  IV 


913 


914 


FILE   NUMBER   113 


HP  HE  banking-house  of  M.  Andre  Fauvel,  No.  87  Rue  de 
■*■  Provence,  is  a  noted  establishment,  and,  owing  to  its  large 
staff  of  clerks,  presents  very  much  the  appearance  of  a  govern- 
ment department.  On  the  ground-floor  are  the  offices,  with 
windows  opening  on  the  street,  protected  by  iron  bars  suffi- 
ciently strong  and  close  together  to  discourage  all  attempts  at 
effecting  an  entrance.  A  large  glass  door  opens  into  a  spacious 
vestibule,  where  three  or  four  messengers  are  always  in  wait- 
ing. On  the  right  are  the  rooms  to  which  the  public  is  ad- 
mitted, and  from  which  a  narrow  passageway  leads  to  the  head 
cashier's  office.  The  offices  of  the  corresponding  clerks,  the 
ledger-keeper,  and  general  accounts  are  on  the  left.  At  the 
farther  end  is  a  small  glazed  court  with  which  seven  or  eight 
small  wickets  communicate.  These  are  kept  closed,  except  only 
on  particular  days  when  a  considerable  number  of  payments 
have  to  be  made,  and  then  they  are  indispensable.  M.  Fauvel's 
private  office  is  on  the  first  floor  over  the  general  offices,  and 
leads  into  his  handsome  private  apartments.  This  office  com- 
municates directly  with  the  bank  by  means  of  a  dark,  narrow 
staircase,  which  opens  into  the  room  occupied  by  the  head 
cashier.  This  latter  room  is  completely  proof  against  all  bur- 
glarious attacks,  no  matter  how  ingeniously  planned ;  indeed,  it 
could  almost  withstand  a  regular  siege,  sheeted  as  it  is  like  a 
monitor.  The  doors  and  the  partition  in  which  the  wicket  is 
where  payments  are  made  are  covered  with  thick  iron  plates; 
and  a  heavy  grating  protects  the  fireplace.  Fastened  in  the 
wall  by  enormous  iron  clamps  is  a  safe,  a  formidable  and  fan- 
tastic piece  of  furniture,  calculated  to  fill  with  envy  the  poor 
devil  who  carries  his  fortune  easily  enough  in  a  pocket-book. 
This  safe,  considered  the  masterpiece  of  the  well-known  house 
of  Becquet,  is  six  feet  in  height  and  four  and  a  half  in  width, 
and  is  made  entirely  of  wrought  iron,  with  triple  sides,  and 
divided  into  isolated  compartments  in  case  of  fire. 

The  safe  is  opened  by  a  curious  little  key,  which  is,  however, 


FILE   NUMBER    113  915 

the  least  important  part  of  the  mechanism.  Five  movable  steel 
buttons,  upon  which  are  engraved  all  the  letters  of  the  alphabet, 
constitute  the  real  power  of  the  ingenious  lock.  To  open  the 
safe  it  is  requisite,  before  inserting  the  key,  to  replace  the  let- 
ters on  the  buttons  in  the  same  order  in  which  they  were  when 
the  door  was  locked.  In  M.  Fauvel's  bank,  as  elsewhere,  it  was 
always  closed  with  a  word  that  was  changed  from  time  to  time. 
This  word  was  known  only  to  the  head  of  the  bank  and  the 
chief  cashier,  each  of  whom  had  a  key  to  the  safe.  In  such  a 
stronghold,  a  person  might  deposit  more  diamonds  than  the 
Duke  of  Brunswick  possessed,  and  sleep  well  assured,  as  he 
would  be,  of  their  safety.  But  one  danger  seemed  to  threaten 
— that  of  forgetting  the  secret  word  which  was  the  "Open, 
sesame"  of  the  iron  barrier. 

About  half-past  nine  o'clock  on  the  morning  of  the  28th 
of  February,  the  bank  clerks  were  all  busy  at  their  various 
desks,  when  a  middle-aged  man  of  dark  complexion  and 
military  air,  clad  in  deep  mourning,  appeared  in  the  office 
adjoining  that  of  the  head  cashier,  and  expressed  a  desire  to 
see    him. 

He  was  told  that  the  cashier  had  not  arrived,  and  his  atten- 
tion was  called  to  a  placard  in  the  entry,  which  stated  that  the 
cashier's  office  opened  at  ten  o'clock. 

This  reply  seemed  to  disconcert  the  newcomer.  "I  expected," 
he  said,  in  a  tone  of  cool  impertinence,  "to  find  some  one  here 
ready  to  attend  to  my  business.  I  explained  the  matter  to  M. 
Fauvel  yesterday.  I  am  Comte  Louis  de  Clameran,  owner  of 
iron-works  at  Oloron,  and  have  come  to  receive  three  hundred 
thousand  francs  deposited  in  this  bank  by'  my  late  brother, 
whose  heir  I  am.  It  is  surprising  that  no  instructions  have 
been  given  about  it." 

Neither  the  title  of  the  noble  manufacturer  nor  his  remarks 
appeared  to  have  the  slightest  effect  upon  the  clerks.  "The 
head  cashier  has  not  yet  arrived,"  they  repeated,  "and  we  can 
do  nothing  for  you." 

"Then  conduct  me  to  M.  Fauvel." 

There  was  a  moment's  hesitancy ;  then  a  clerk,  named  Cavail- 
lon,  who  was  writing  by  the  window,  said :  "The  chief  is  always 
out  at  this  hour." 

"I  will  call  again,  then,"  replied  M.  de  Clameran.  And  he 
walked  out,  as  he  had  entered,  without  saying  "Good  morning," 
or  even  raising  his  hat. 


916  FILE   NUMBER   113 

"Not  overpolite,  that  customer,"  said  little  Cavaillon;  "but 
he  is  unlucky,  for  here  comes  Prosper." 

Prosper  Bertomy,  head  cashier  of  Fauvel's  banking-house, 
was  a  tall,  handsome  man,  of  about  thirty,  with  fair  hair  and 
large  dark  blue  eyes,  fastidiously  neat  in  appearance,  and  dressed 
in  the  height  of  fashion.  He  would  have  been  very  prepos- 
sessing but  for  a  cold,  reserved  English-like  manner,  and  a 
certain  air  of  self-sufficiency,  which  spoiled  his  naturally  bright 
and  open  countenance. 

"Ah,  here  you  are  !"  cried  Cavaillon.  "Some  one  has  just 
been  inquiring  for  you." 

"Who?    An  ironmaster,  was  it  not?" 

"Precisely." 

"Well,  he  will  come  again.  Knowing  that  I  should  be  late 
this  morning,  I  made  all  my  arrangements  yesterday."  Prosper 
had  unlocked  his  office  door,  and,  as  he  finished  speaking, 
entered,  and  closed  it  behind  him. 

"Good !"  exclaimed  one  of  the  clerks ;  "there  is  a  man  who 
never  lets  anything  disturb  him.  The  chief  has  quarreled  with 
him  twenty  times  for  always  coming  late,  and  his  remon- 
strances have  no  more  effect  upon  him  than  a  breath  of 
wind." 

"And  quite  right,  too;  he  knows  he  can  get  anything  he 
wants  out  of  the  chief." 

"Besides,  how  could  he  come  any  sooner?  A  man  who  sits 
up  all  night,  and  leads  a  fast  life,  doesn't  feel  inclined  for  work 
early  in  the  morning.  Did  you  notice  how  pale  he  looked  when 
he  came  in?" 

"He  must  have  been  playing  heavily  again.  Couturier  says 
he  lost  fifteen  hundred  francs  at  a  sitting  last  week." 

"His  work  is  none  the  worse  done  for  all  that,"  interrupted 
Cavaillon.     "If  you  were  in  his  place — " 

He  stopped  short.  The  door  of  the  cashier's  office  suddenly 
opened,  and  the  cashier  appeared  before  them  with  tottering 
step,  and  a  wild,  haggard  look  on  his  ashy  pale  face.  "Robbed !" 
he  gasped  out ;  "I  have  been  robbed !" 

Prosper's  horrified  expression,  his  hollow  voice  and  trembling 
limbs,  so  alarmed  the  clerks  that  they  jumped  off  their  stools 
and  ran  toward  him.  He  almost  dropped  into  their  arms ;  he 
was  sick  and  faint,  and  sank  into  a  chair.  His  companions 
surrounded  him,  and  begged  him  to  explain  himself.  "Robbed?" 
they  said ;  "where,  how,  by  whom  ?" 


FILE   NUMBER    113  917 

Gradually,  Prosper  recovered  himself.  "All  the  money  that 
was  in  the  safe,"  he  said,  "has  been  stolen." 

"All?" 

"Yes,  all;  three  rolls,  each  containing  one  hundred  notes  of 
a  thousand  francs,  and  one  roll  of  fifty  thousand.  The  four 
were  wrapped  in  a  sheet  of  paper  and  tied  together." 

With  the  rapidity  of  lightning,  the  news  of  the  robbery 
spread  throughout  the  banking-house,  and  the  room  was  soon 
filled  with  curious  inquirers. 

"Tell  us,  Prosper,"  said  young  Cavaillon,  "has  the  safe  been 
broken  open?" 

"No;  it  is  just  as  I  left  it." 

"Well,  then,  how  could—" 

"All  I  know  is  that  yesterday  I  placed  three  hundred  and  fifty 
thousand  francs  in  the  safe,  and  this  morning  they  are  gone." 

A  deep  silence  ensued,  which  was  at  length  broken  by  an 
old  clerk,  who  did  not  seem  to  share  the  general  affright. 
"Don't  distress  yourself,  M.  Bertomy,"  he  said;  "no  doubt  the 
chief  has  disposed  of  the  money." 

The  unhappy  cashier  started  up  with  a  look  of  relief;  he 
eagerly  caught  at  the  suggestion.  "Yes !"  he  exclaimed,  "it 
must  be  as  you  say ;  the  chief  must  have  taken  it."  But,  after 
thinking  a  few  minutes,  he  remarked  in  a  tone  of  deep  depres- 
sion: "No,  that  is  impossible.  During  the  five  years  I  have 
had  charge  of  the  safe,  M.  Fauvel  has  never  opened  it  except- 
ing in  my  presence.  Whenever  he  has  needed  money,  he  has 
either  waited  until  I  came,  or  has  sent  for  me,  rather  than 
take  it  in  my  absence." 

"Well,"  said  Cavaillon,  "before  despairing,  let  us  ascertain 
the  truth." 

But  a  messenger  had  already  informed  M.  Fauvel  of  the 
robbery,  and  as  Cavaillon  was  about  to  go  in  search  of  him,  he 
entered  the  office. 

M.  Andre  Fauvel  appeared  to  be  a  man  of  fifty,  inclined  to 
corpulency,  of  medium  height,  with  iron-gray  hair;  and,  like 
all  hard  workers,  he  had  a  slight  stoop.  Never  did  he  by  a 
single  action  belie  the  kindly  expression  of  his  face.  He  had 
a  frank  air,  a  lively,  intelligent  eye,  and  full,  red  lips.  Bom 
in  the  neighborhood  of  Aix,  he  betrayed,  when  animated,  a 
slight  Provencal  accent  that  gave  a  peculiar  flavor  to  his  genial 
humor.  The  news  of  the  robbery  had  extremely  agitated  him, 
for  his  usually  florid  face  was  now  quite  pale.     "What  is  this 


918  FILE   NUMBER    113 

I  hear?  what  has  happened?"  he  said  to  the  clerks,  who  respect- 
fully stood  aside  when  he  entered  the  office. 

The  sound  of  M.  Fauvel's  voice  inspired  the  cashier  with 
the  factitious  energy  called  forth  by  a  great  crisis.  The 
dreaded  and  decisive  moment  had  come ;  he  arose,  and  advanced 
toward  his  chief.  "Sir,"  he  said,  "having,  as  you  know,  a  pay- 
ment to  make  this  morning,  I  yesterday  drew  from  the  Bank 
of  France  three  hundred  and  fifty  thousand  francs." 

"Why  yesterday?"  interrupted  the  banker.  "I  think  I  have 
a  hundred  times  desired  you  to  wait  until  the  day  payment  has 
to  be  made." 

"I  know  it,  sir,  and  I  did  wrong  to  disobey  you.  But  the 
mischief  is  done.  Yesterday  evening  I  locked  the  money  up : 
it  has  disappeared,  and  yet  the  safe  has  not  been  broken  open." 

"You  must  be  mad !"  exclaimed  M.  Fauvel ;  "you  are 
dreaming !" 

These  few  words  crushed  all  hope;  but  the  horror  of  the 
situation  imparted  to  Prosper,  not  the  coolness  of  a  steadied 
resolution,  but  that  sort  of  stupid,  stolid  indifference  which 
often  results  from  unexpected  catastrophes.  It  was  with  appar- 
ent calmness  that  he  replied :  "I  am  not  mad ;  neither,  unfortu- 
nately, am  I  dreaming;  I  am  simply  telling  the  truth." 

This  tranquillity  at  such  a  moment  appeared  to  exasperate 
M.  Fauvel.  He  seized  Prosper  by  the  arm,  and  shook  him 
roughly.  "Speak !"  he  exclaimed ;  "speak !  who  can  have 
opened  the  safe?" 

"I  can  not  say." 

"No  one  but  you  and  I  knows  the  secret  word.  No  one  but 
you  and  I  possesses  a  key." 

This  was  a  formal  accusation ;  at  least,  all  the  auditors 
present  so  understood  it.  Yet  Prosper's  strange  calmness  never 
left  him  for  an  instant.  He  quietly  released  himself  from  M. 
Fauvel's  grasp,  and  slowly  said :  "In  other  words,  sir,  it  is  only 
I  who  could  have  taken  this  money — " 

"Miserable  man !"  exclaimed  M.  Fauvel. 

Prosper  drew  himself  up  to  his  full  height,  and,  looking  M. 
Fauvel  full  in  the  face,  added:  "Or  you!" 

The  banker  made  a  threatening  gesture;  and  there  is  no 
knowing  what  would  have  happened  if  he  had  not  been  inter- 
rupted by  loud  and  angry  voices  in  the  hall.  A  man  insisted 
upon  entering  despite  the  protestations  of  the  messengers,  and 
succeeded  in  forcing  his  way  in.     It  was  M.  de  Clameran. 


FILE   NUMBER    113  919 

The  clerks  stood  looking  on,  bewildered  and  inert.  The 
silence  was  profound  and  solemn.  It  was  easy  to  perceive  that 
some  terrible  issue  was  being  anxiously  weighed  by  all  these 
men. 

The  ironmaster  did  not  appear  to  observe  anything  unusual. 
He  advanced,  and  without  lifting  his  hat  said,  in  his  former 
impertinent  tone :  "It  is  after  ten  o'clock,  gentlemen." 

No  one  answered ;  and  M.  de  Clameran  was  about  to  con- 
tinue, when  turning  round,  he  for  the  first  time  saw  the  banker, 
and,  walking  up  to  him,  exclaimed :  "Well,  sir,  I  congratulate 
myself  upon  finding  you  in  at  last.  I  have  been  here  once  before 
this  morning,  and  found  the  cashier's  office  not  opened,  the 
cashier  not  arrived,  and  you  absent." 

"You  are  mistaken,  sir,  I  was  in  my  office." 

"At  any  rate,  I  was  told  you  were  out ;  that  gentleman  there 
assured  me  of  the  fact."  And  the  ironmaster  pointed  out  Ca- 
vaillon.  "However,  that  is  of  little  importance,"  he  went  on 
to  say.  "I  return,  and  this  time  not  only  the  cashier's  office 
is  closed,  but  I  am  refused  admittance  to  the  banking-house, 
and  find  myself  compelled  to  force  my  way  in.  Be  so  good  as 
to  tell  me  whether  I  can  have  my  money." 

M.  Fauvel's  pale  face  turned  red  with  anger  as  he  listened 
to  this  harangue ;  yet  he  controlled  himself.  "I  should  be 
obliged  to  you,  sir,"  he  said  in  a  low  voice,  "for  a  short  delay." 

"I  thought  you  told  me — " 

"Yes,  yesterday.  But  this  morning — this  very  instant — I  find 
I  have  been  robbed  of  three  hundred  and  fifty  thousand  francs." 

M.  de  Clameran  bowed  ironically,  and  asked:  "Shall  I  have 
to  wait  long?" 

"Long  enough  for  me  to  send  to  the  Bank  of  France." 

Then,  turning  his  back  on  the  iron-founder,  M.  Fauvel  said 
to  his  cashier :  "Write  a  check  and  send  to  the  bank  at  once 
to  draw  out  all  the  available  money.  Let  the  messenger  take 
a  cab."  Prosper  remained  motionless.  "Do  you  hear  me?" 
inquired  the  banker  in  an  angry  voice. 

The  cashier  started;  he  seemed  as  if  awakening  from  a 
dream.  "It  is  useless  to  send,"  he  said  in  a  slow,  measured 
tone :  "this  gentleman  requires  three  hundred  thousand  francs, 
and  there  is  less  than  one  hundred  thousand  at  the  bank." 

M.  de  Clameran  appeared  to  expect  this  answer,  for  he  mut- 
tered :  "Of  course."  Although  he  only  pronounced  these  words, 
his    voice,    his    manner,    his    countenance    clearly    said:    "This 


920  FILE   NUMBER   113 

comedy  is  well  acted ;  but  nevertheless  it  is  a  comedy,  and  I  don't 
intend  to  be  duped  by  it." 

Alas !  After  Prosper's  answer,  and  the  ironmaster's  coarsely 
expressed  opinion,  the  clerks  knew  not  what  to  think.  The 
fact  was,  that  Paris  had  just  been  startled  by  several  financial 
crashes.  The  thirst  for  speculation  had  caused  the  oldest  and 
stanchest  houses  to  totter.  Men  of  the  most  unimpeachable 
honor  had  to  sacrifice  their  pride,  and  go  from  door  to  door 
imploring  aid.  Credit,  that  rare  bird  of  security  and  peace, 
rested  with  none,  but  stood,  with  upraised  wings,  ready  to  fly 
off  at  the  first  suggestion  of  suspicion. 

This  idea  of  a  comedy  arranged  beforehand  between  the 
banker  and  his  cashier  might  therefore  readily  occur  to  the 
minds  of  people  who,  if  not  suspicious,  were  at  least  aware  of 
all  the  expedients  resorted  to  by  speculators  in  order  to  gain 
time,  which  with  them  often  meant  salvation. 

M.  Fauvel  had  had  too  much  knowledge  of  mankind  not 
to  instantly  divine  the  impression  produced  by  Prosper's  an- 
swer; he  read  the  most  mortifying  doubt  on  the  faces  around 
him.  "Don't  be  alarmed,  sir,"  said  he  to  M.  de  Clameran,  "this 
house  has  other  resources.    Be  kind  enough  to  await  my  return." 

He  left  the  office,  went  up  to  his  private  room,  and  in  a  few 
minutes  returned,  holding  in  his  hand  a  letter  and  a  bundle  of 
securities.  "Here,  quick,  Couturier!"  he  said  to  one  of  his 
clerks,  "take  my  carriage,  which  is  waiting  at  the  door,  and 
go  with  this  gentleman  to  M.  de  Rothschild.  Hand  the  latter 
this  letter  and  these  securities;  in  exchange,  you  will  receive 
three  hundred  thousand  francs,  which  give  to  M.  de  Clameran." 

The  ironmaster  was  visibly  disappointed;  he  seemed  desirous 
of  apologizing  for  his  rudeness.  "I  assure  you,"  said  he  to 
M.  Fauvel,  "that  I  had  no  intention  of  giving  offense.  Our 
relations,  for  some  years,  have  been  such  that  I  hope — " 

"Enough,  sir,"  interrupted  the  banker,  "I  desire  no  apologies. 
In  business,  friendship  counts  for  nothing.  I  owe  you  money: 
I  am  not  ready  to  pay:  you  are  pressing:  you  have  a  perfect 
right  to  demand  what  is  your  own.  Accompany  my  messenger: 
he  will  pay  you  your  money."  Then  he  turned  to  his  clerks, 
who  stood  curiously  gazing  on,  and  said :  "As  for  you,  gentle- 
men, be  good  enough  to  resume  your  places  at  your  desks." 

In  an  instant  the  office  was  cleared  of  every  one  excepting 
the  clerks  who  habitually  occupied  it;  and  they  resumed  their 
seats  at  their  desks  with  their  noses  almost  touching  the  paper 


FILE    NUMBER   113  921 

before  them,  as  if  they  were  too  engrossed  in  their  work  to 
think  of  anything  else. 

Still  excited  by  the  events  which  had  rapidly  succeeded  each 
other,  M.  Andre  Fauvel  walked  up  and  down  the  room  with 
quick,  nervous  steps,  occasionally  uttering  some  half-stifled 
exclamation.  Prosper  had  remained  leaning  against  the  par- 
tition, with  pale  face  and  fixed  eyes,  looking  as  if  he  had  lost 
the  faculty  of  thinking  or  of  acting.  Presently  the  banker, 
after  a  long  silence,  stopped  short  before  him;  he  had  deter- 
mined upon  the  line  of  conduct  he  would  pursue.  "We  must 
have  an  explanation,"  he  said.     "Go  into  your  office." 

The  cashier  mechanically  obeyed ;  and  his  chief  followed 
him,  taking  the  precaution  to  close  the  door  after  them.  The 
room  bore  no  evidences  of  a  successful  burglary.  Everything 
was  in  perfect  order;  not  even  a  paper  was  disturbed.  The 
safe  was  open,  and  on  the  top  shelf  lay  several  rouleaus  of 
gold,  overlooked  or  disdained  by  the  thieves. 

M.  Fauvel,  without  troubling  himself  to  examine  anything, 
took  a  seat,  and  ordered  his  cashier  to  do  the  same.  He  had 
quite  recovered  his  equanimity,  and  his  countenance  wore  its 
usual  kind  expression.  "Now  that  we  are  alone,  Prosper,"  he 
said,  "have  you  nothing  to  tell  me?" 

The  cashier  started,  as  if  surprised  at  the  question.  "Noth- 
ing, sir,  that  I  have  not  already  told  you,"  he  replied. 

"What!  nothing?  Do  you  persist  in  maintaining  an  attitude 
so  absurd  and  ridiculous  that  no  one  can  possibly  give  you 
credence  ?  It  is  sheer  folly  ?  Confide  in  me :  it  is  your  only 
chance  of  salvation.  I  am  your  employer,  it  is  true;  but  I  am 
before  and  above  all  your  friend — your  best  and  truest  friend. 
I  can  not  forget  that  in  this  very  room,  fifteen  years  ago,  you 
were  intrusted  to  me  by  your  father;  and  ever  since  that  day 
I  have  had  cause  to  congratulate  myself  on  possessing  so  faith- 
ful and  efficient  a  clerk.  Yes,  it  is  fifteen  years  since  you  came 
to  me.  I  was  then  just  commencing  the  foundation  of  my  for- 
tune. You  have  seen  it  gradually  grow,  step  by  step,  from 
almost  nothing  to  its  present  magnitude.  As  my  wealth  in- 
creased, I  endeavored  to  better  your  condition;  you  who, 
although  so  young,  are  the  oldest  of  my  clerks.  At  each 
augmentation  of  my  fortune  I  increased  your  salary." 

Never  had  the  cashier  heard  M.  Fauvel  express  himself  in 
so  feeling  and  paternal  a  manner.  Prosper  was  silent  with 
astonishment. 


922  FILE    NUMBER    113 

"Answer,"  persued  M.  Fauvel,  "have  I  not  always  been  like 
a  father  to  you?  From  the  first  day,  my  house  has  been  open 
to  you;  you  were  treated  as  a  member  of  my  family;  my  niece 
Madeleine  and  my  sons  looked  upon  you  as  a  brother.  But 
you  grew  weary  of  this  peaceful  life.  One  day,  a  year  ago, 
you  suddenly  began  to  shun  us ;  and  since  then — " 

The  memories  of  the  past  thus  called  up  by  the  banker  seemed 
too  much  for  the  unhappy  cashier ;  he  buried  his  face  in  his 
hands,  and  wept  bitterly. 

"A  man  can  confide  everything  to  his  father,"  resumed  M. 
Fauvel,  also  deeply  affected.  "Fear  nothing.  A  father  not 
only  pardons,  he  forgets.  Do  I  not  know  the  temptations  that 
beset  a  young  man  in  a  city  like  Paris?  There  are  some  inor- 
dinate desires  before  which  the  firmest  principles  will  give  way, 
and  which  so  pervert  our  moral  sense  as  to  render  us  incapable 
of  judging  between  right  and  wrong.     Speak,  Prosper,  speak!" 

"What  do  you  wish  me  to  say?" 

"The  truth.  When  an  honorable  man  yields,  in  an  hour  of 
weakness,  to  temptation,  his  first  step  toward  atonement  is  con- 
fession. Say  to  me :  'Yes,  I  have  been  tempted,  dazzled :  the 
sight  of  these  piles  of  gold  turned  my  brain.  I  am  young:  I 
have  passions.' " 

"I P  murmured  Prosper,  "I !" 

"Poor  boy,"  said  the  banker  sadly ;  "do  you  think  I  am  igno- 
rant of  the  life  you  have  been  leading  since  you  left  my  roof 
a  year  ago?  Can  you  not  understand  that  all  your  fellow  clerks 
are  jealous  of  you?  that  they  do  not  forgive  you  for  earning 
twelve  thousand  francs  a  year?  Never  have  you  committed  a 
piece  of  folly  without  my  being  immediately  informed  of  it  by 
an  anonymous  letter.  I  could  tell  you  the  exact  number  of 
nights  you  have  spent  at  the  gaming-table,  and  the  money  you 
have  squandered.  Oh,  envy  has  keen  eyes  and  a  quick  ear!  I 
have  great  contempt  for  these  cowardly  denunciations,  but  was 
forced,  not  only  to  heed  them,  but  to  make  inquiries  myself. 
It  is  only  proper  that  I  should  know  what  sort  of  life  is  led 
by  the  man  to  whom  I  intrust  my  fortune  and  my  honor." 

Prosper  seemed  about  to  protest  against  this  last  speech. 

"Yes,  my  honor,"  insisted  M.  Fauvel,  in  a  voice  that  a  sense 
of  humiliation  made  unsteady;  "yes,  my  credit,  which  might 
have  been  compromised  to-day  by  this  M.  dc  Clameran.  Do 
you  know  how  much  I  shall  lose  by  paying  him  this  money? 
And  suppose  I  had  not  had  the  securities  which  I  have  sacri- 
ficed? you  did  not  know  I  possessed  them." 


FILE    NUMBER    113 


923 


The  banker  paused,  as  if  hoping  for  a  confession,  which,  how- 
ever, did  not  come. 

"Come,  Prosper,  have  courage,  be  frank !  I  will  go  upstairs. 
You  will  look  again  in  the  safe ;  I  am  sure  that  in  your  agita- 
tion you  did  not  search  it  thoroughly.  This  evening  I  will 
return,  and  I  am  confident  that,  during  the  day,  you  will  have 
found,  if  not  the  three  hundred  and  fifty  thousand  francs,  at 
least  the  greater  portion  of  the  amount ;  and  to-morrow  neither 
you  nor  I  will  remember  anything  about  this  false  alarm." 

M.  Fauvel  had  risen,  and  was  about  to  leave  the  room  when 
Prosper  arose,  and  seized  him  by  the  arm.  "Your  generosity 
is  useless,  sir,"  he  said  bitterly;  "having  taken  nothing  I  can 
restore  nothing.  I  have  made  a  scrupulous  search;  the  bank- 
notes have  been  stolen." 

"But  by  whom,  poor  fool  ?  by  whom  ?" 

"By  all  that  is  sacred,  I  swear  that  it  was  not  by  me." 

The  banker's  face  turned  crimson.  "Miserable  wretch !"' 
cried  he,  "do  you  mean  to  say  that  I  took  the  money?" 

Prosper  bowed  his  head,  and  did  not  answer. 

"Ah !  it  is  thus,  then,"  said  M.  Fauvel,  unable  to  contain 
himself  any  longer,  "you  dare —  Then  between  you  and  me, 
M.  Prosper  Bertomy,  justice  shall  decide.  God  is  my  witness 
that  I  have  done  all  I  could  to  save  you.  You  will  have  yourself 
to  thank  for  what  follows.  I  have  sent  for  the  commissary  of 
police ;  he  must  be  waiting  in  my  room.   Shall  I  call  him  down  ?" 

Prosper,  with  the  fearful  resignation  of  a  man  who  entirely 
abandons  himself,  replied  in  a  stifled  voice:  "Do  as  you  will." 

The  banker  was  near  the  door,  which  he  opened,  and,  after 
giving  the  cashier  a  last  searching  look,  called  to  an  office  boy: 
"Anselm,  bid  the  commissary  of  police  to  step  down." 


¥  F  there  is  one  man  in  the  world  whom  no  event  should 
■*■  move  or  surprise,  always  on  his  guard  against  deceptive 
appearances,  capable  of  admitting  everything  and  explaining 
everything,  it  certainly  is  a  Parisian  commissary  of  police. 


924  FILE   NUMBER   113 

While  the  judge,  from  his  lofty  seat,  applies  the  Code  to 
the  facts  submitted  to  him,  the  commissary  of  police  observes 
and  watches  all  the  odious  circumstances  the  law  can  not  reach. 
He  is,  in  spite  of  himself,  the  confidant  of  disgraceful  details, 
domestic  crimes,  and  tolerated  vices. 

If,  when  he  entered  upon  his  office,  he  had  any  illusions, 
before  the  end  of  a  year  they  would  all  be  dissipated.  If  he 
does  not  absolutely  despise  the  human  race,  it  is  because  often, 
side  by  side  with  abominations  indulged  in  with  impunity,  he 
discovers  sublime  generosities  which  remain  unrewarded.  He 
sees  impudent  villains  filching  the  public  respect;  and  he  con- 
soles himself  by  thinking  of  the  modest,  obscure  heroes  whom 
he  has  also  encountered. 

So  often  have  his  forecasts  been  deceived,  that  he  has  reached 
a  state  of  complete  skepticism.  He  believes  in  nothing,  neither 
in  evil  nor  in  absolute  good;  not  more  in  virtue  than  in  vice. 
His  experience  has  forced  him  to  come  to  the  drear  conclu- 
sion, that  not  men,  but  events,  are  worth  considering. 

The  commissary  sent  for  by  M.  Fauvel  soon  made  his 
appearance.  It  was  with  a  calm  air,  if  not  one  of  perfect  in- 
difference, that  he  entered  the  office.  He  was  followed  by  a 
short  man  dressed  in  a  full  suit  of  black,  which  was  slightly 
relieved  by  a  ruffled  collar. 

The  banker,  scarcely  bowing,  said  to  the  commissary: 
"Doubtless,  sir,  you  have  been  apprised  of  the  painful  circum- 
stances which  compel  me  to  have  recourse  to  your  assistance?" 

"It  is  about  a  robbery,  I  believe." 

"Yes;  an  infamous  and  mysterious  robbery  committed  in  this 
office,  from  the  safe  you  see  open  there,  of  which  my  cashier" 
(he  pointed  to  Prosper)  "alone  possesses  the  key  and  the  word." 

This  declaration  seemed  to  arouse  the  unfortunate  cashier 
from  his  dull  stupor.  "Excuse  me,  sir,"  he  said  to  the  com- 
missary in  a  low  tone.  "Mv  chief  also  has  the  word  and  the 
key."  ' 

"Of  course,  that  is  understood." 

The  commissary  at  once  drew  his  own  conclusions.  Evidently 
these  two  men  accused  each  other.  From  their  own  statements, 
one  or  the  other  was  guilty.  One  was  the  head  of  an  important 
bank;  the  other  was  simply  the  cashier.  One  was  the  chief; 
the  other  the  clerk.  But  the  commissary  of  police  was  too  well 
skilled  in  concealing  his  impressions  to  betray  his  thoughts  by 
any  visible  sign.     Not  a  muscle  of  his  face  moved.     Yet  he 


FILE    NUMBER    113  925 

became  more  grave,  and  alternately  watched  the  cashier  and 
M.  Fauvel,  as  if  trying  to  draw  some  satisfactory  conclusion 
from  their  behavior. 

Prosper  was  very  pale  and  dejected.  He  had  dropped  into 
a  seat,  and  his  arms  hung  inert  on  either  side  of  the  chair.  The 
banker,  on  the  contrary,  remained  standing  with  flashing  eyes 
and  crimson  face,  expressing  himself  with  extraordinary 
vehemence.  "The  importance  of  the  theft  is  immense,"  con- 
tinued he;  "there  is  missing  a  fortune,  three  hundred  and  fifty 
thousand  francs !  This  robbery  might  have  had  the  most  dis- 
astrous consequences.  In  times  like  these,  the  want  of  this 
sum  might  compromise  the  credit  of  the  wealthiest  banking- 
house  in  Paris." 

"I  believe  so,  if  bills  were  falling  due." 

"Well,  sir,  I  have  this  very  day  a  heavy  payment  to  make." 

"Ah,  really !"  There  was  no  mistaking  the  commissary's 
tone ;  a  suspicion,  the  first,  had  evidently  entered  his  mind. 

The  banker  understood  it;  he  started,  and  added  quickly:  "I 
met  my  engagements,  but  at  the  cost  of  a  disagreeable  sacrifice.  I 
ought  to  add  further,  that  if  my  orders  had  been  obeyed,  the  three 
hundred  and  fifty  thousand  francs  would  not  have  been  here." 

"How  is  that?" 

"I  desire  never  to  have  large  sums  of  money  in  my  house 
overnight.  My  cashier  had  positive  orders  invariably  to 
wait  until  the  last  moment  before  drawing  money  from  the 
Bank  of  France.  I  forbade  him,  above  all,  to  leave  large 
sums  of  money  in  the  safe  overnight." 

"You  hear  this?"  said  the  commissary  to  Prosper. 

"Yes,  sir,"  replied  the  cashier,  "M.  Fauvel's  statement  is 
quite   correct." 

After  this  explanation,  the  suspicions  of  the  commissary, 
instead  of  being  strengthened,  were  dissipated.  "Well,"  he 
said,  "a  robbery  has  been  perpetrated,  but  by  whom?  Did 
the  robber  enter  from  without?" 

The  banker  hesitated  a  moment.    "I  think  not,"  he  said  at  last. 

"And  I  am  certain  he  did  not,"  said  Prosper. 

The  commissary  expected  and  was  prepared  for  these  an- 
swers; but  it  did  not  suit  his  purpose  to  follow  them  up  im- 
mediately. "However,"  said  he,  "we  must  make  ourselves  sure 
of  it."  Turning  toward  his  companion — "M.  Fanferlot,"  he 
said,  "go  and  see  if  you  can  discover  any  traces  that  may  have 
escaped  the  attention  of  these  gentlemen." 


926  FILE    NUMBER    113 

M.  Fanferlot,  nicknamed  "the  squirrel,"  was  indebted  to  his 
prodigious  agility  for  his  title,  of  which  he  was  not  a  little 
proud.  Slim  and  insignificant  in  appearance,  in  spite  of  his 
iron  muscles,  he  might  be  taken  for  the  under  clerk  of  a  bailiff 
as  he  walked  along  buttoned  up  to  the  chin  in  his  thin  black 
overcoat.  He  had  one  of  those  faces  that  impress  one  dis- 
agreeably— an  odiously  turned-up  nose,  thin  lips,  and  little 
restless  black  eyes. 

Fanferlot,  who  had  been  in  the  detective  force  for  five  years, 
burned  to  distinguish  himself.  He  was  ambitious.  Alas !  he 
was  unsuccessful,  lacking  opportunity — or  genius.  Already, 
before  the  commissary  spoke  to  him,  he  had  ferreted  every- 
where; studied  the  doors,  sounded  the  partitions,  examined  the 
wicket,  and  stirred  up  the  ashes  in  the  grate.  "I  can  not  im- 
agine," said  he,  "how  a  stranger  could  have  effected  an  entrance 
here."  He  walked  round  the  office.  "Is  this  door  closed  at 
night?"  he  inquired. 

"It  is  always   locked." 

"And  who  keeps  the  key?" 

"The  watchman,"  said  Prosper,  "to  whom  I  always  gave  it 
in  charge  before  leaving  the  bank." 

"And  who,"  said  M.  Fauvel,  "sleeps  in  the  outer  room  on 
a  folding-beadstead,  which  he  unfolds  at  night,  and  folds  up 
in  the  morning." 

"Is  he  here  now?"  inquired  the  commissary. 

"Yes,"  replied  the  banker,  and  he  opened  the  door,  and 
called:   "Anselme!" 

This  mart  was  the  favored  servant  of  M.  Fauvel,  and  had 
lived  with  him  for  ten  years.  He  knew  that  he  would  not  be 
suspected ;  but  the  idea  of  being  connected  in  any  way  with  a 
robbery  was  too  much  for  him,  and  he  entered  the  door 
trembling  like  a  leaf. 

"Did  you  sleep  in  the  next  room  last  night?"  asked  the  com- 
missary. 

"Yes,  sir,  as  usual." 

"At  what  hour  did  you  go  to  bed  ?" 

"About  half-past  ten ;  I  had  spent  the  evening  at  a  cafe  near 
by,  with  master's  valet." 

"Did  you  hear  no  noise  during  the  night?" 

"Not  a  sound;  and  still  I  sleep  so  lightly,  that  if  M.  Fauvel 
comes  down  to  the  cashier's  office  when  I  am  asleep,  I  am 
instantly  aroused  by  the  sound  of  his  footsteps." 


FILE    NUMBER    113  927 


u 


M.    Fauvel   often   comes   to    the   cashier's    office   at   night, 
does   he?" 

"No,  sir;  very  seldom." 

"Did  he  come  last  night?" 

"No,  sir,  I  am  very  certain  he  did  not ;  for  I  was  kept  awake 
nearly  all  night  by  the  strong  coffee  I  had  drunk  with  the  valet." 

"That  will  do;  you  can  retire,"  said  the  commissary. 

When  Anselme  had  left  the  room,  Fanferlot  resumed  his 
search.  He  opened  the  door  of  the  private  staircase.  "Where 
do  these  stairs  lead  to?"  he  asked. 

"To  my  private  office,"  replied  M.  Fauvel. 

"Is  not  that  the  room  whither  I  was  conducted  when  I  first 
arrived?"  inquired  the  commissary. 

"The  same." 

"I  should  like  to  see  it,"  said  Fanferlot,  "and  examine  the 
entrance   to  it." 

"Nothing  is  easier,"  said  M.  Fauvel  eagerly;  "follow  me, 
gentlemen.     And  you  too.  Prosper." 

M.  Fauvel's  private  office  consisted  of  two  rooms,  the  waiting- 
room,  sumptuously  furnished  and  elaborately  decorated,  and 
the  inner  one  where  he  transacted  business.  The  furniture  in 
this  room  was  composed  of  a  large  office-table,  several  leather- 
covered  chairs,  and  on  either  side  of  the  fireplace  a  secretary 
and  a  bookshelf. 

These  two  rooms  had  only  three  doors;  one  opened  on  the 
private  staircase,  another  into  the  banker's  bedroom,  and  the 
third  on  to  the  landing.  It  was  through  this  latter  door  that 
the  banker's  clients  and  visitors  were  admitted. 

M.  Fanferlot  examined  the  room  at  a  glance.  He  seemed 
puzzled,  like  a  man  who  had  flattered  himself  with  the  hope  of 
discovering  some  clue  and  had  found  nothing.  "Let  us  see 
the  other  side,"  he  said.  He  passed  into  the  waiting-room,  fol- 
lowed by  the  banker  and  the  commissary  of  police. 

Prosper  remained  behind.  Despite  the  confused  state  of  his 
mind,  he  could  not  but  notice  that  the  situation  was  for 
him  momentarily  becoming  more  serious.  He  had  demanded 
and  accepted  the  contest  with  his  chief;  the  struggle  had 
commenced,  and  now  it  no  longer  depended  upon  his  own 
will  to  arrest  the  consequences  of  his  action.  They  were  about 
to  engage  in  a  bitter  conflict,  utilizing  all  weapons,  until  one 
of  the  two  should  succumb,  the  loss  of  honor  being  the  price 
of  defeat. 


928  FILE   NUMBER    113 

In  the  eyes  of  justice  who  would  be  the  innocent  man? 
Alas !  the  unfortunate  cashier  saw  only  too  clearly  that  thf: 
chances  were  terribly  unequal,  and  he  was  overwhelmed  with 
the  sense  of  his  own  inferiority.  Never  had  he  thought  that 
his  chief  would  carry  out  his  threats ;  for  in  a  contest  of  this 
nature,  M.  Fauvel  would  have  as  much  at  stake  as  his  cashier, 
and  more  to  lose. 

Prosper  was  sitting  near  the  fireplace,  absorbed  in  the  most 
gloomy  forebodings,  when  the  banker's  bedroom  door  suddenly 
opened,  and  a  lovely  girl  appeared  upon  the  threshold.  She  was 
tall  and  slender;  a  loose  morning  robe,  confined  at  the  waist  by 
a  simple  black  ribbon,  betrayed  to  advantage  the  graceful 
elegance  of  her  figure.  Her  dark  eyes  were  large  and  soft; 
her  complexion  had  the  creamy  pallor  of  a  white  camellia;  and 
her  beautiful  black  hair,  carelessly  held  together  by  a  tortoise- 
shell  comb,  fell  in  a  profusion  of  soft  curls  upon  her  finely 
shaped  neck.  She  was  Madeleine,  M.  Fauvel's  niece,  of  whom 
he  had  spoken  not  long  before.  Seeing  Prosper  in  the 
room,  where  probably  she  had  expected  to  find  her  uncle 
alone,  she  could  not  refrain  from  an  exclamation  of  sur- 
prise:   "Ah!" 

Prosper  started  up  as  if  he  had  received  an  electric  shock. 
His  eyes,  a  moment  before  so  dull  and  heavy,  now  sparkled 
with  joy,  as  if  he  had  caught  a  glimpse  of  an  angel  of  hope. 
"Madeleine!"  he  cried,  "Madeleine!" 

The  young  girl  was  blushing  crimson.  She  seemed  about  to 
hastily  retreat,  and  stepped  back;  but  Prosper  having  ad- 
vanced toward  her,  she  was  overcome  by  a  sentiment  stronger 
than  her  will,  and  extended  her  hand,  which  he  took  and  pressed 
with  great  respect.  They  stood  thus  face  to  face,  but  with 
averted  looks,  as  if  they  dared  not  let  their  eyes  meet  for  fear 
of  betraying  their  feelings ;  having  much  to  say,  and  not 
knowing  how  to  begin,  they  stood  silent.  Finally  Madeleine 
murmured  in  a  scarcely  audible  voice :  "You,  Prosper — you  !" 

These  words  broke  the  spell.  The  cashier  dropped  the  white 
hand  which  he  held,  and  answered  bitterly:  "Yes,  I  am 
Prosper,  the  companion  of  your  childhood — suspected,  accused 
of  the  most  disgraceful  theft;  Prosper,  whom  your  uncle  has 
just  delivered  up  to  justice,  and  who,  before  the  day  has  gone 
by,  will  be  arrested  and  thrown  into  prison." 

Madeleine,  with  a  terrified  gesture,  cried  in  a  tone  of  anguish: 
"Good  heavens!  Prosper,  what  are  you  saying?" 


FILE    NUMBER    113  929 

"What!  mademoiselle,  do  you  not  know  what  has  happened? 
Have  not  your  aunt  and  cousins  told  you?" 

"They  have  told  me  nothing.  I  have  scarcely  seen  my 
cousins  this  morning;  and  my  aunt  is  so  ill  that  I  felt  uneasy, 
and  came  to  tell  my  uncle.  But  for  heaven's  sake,  speak :  tell 
me  the  cause  of  your  distress." 

Prosper  hesitated.  Perhaps  it  occurred  to  him  to  open  his 
heart  to  Madeleine,  of  revealing  to  her  his  most  secret  thoughts. 
A  remembrance  of  the  past  checked  his  confidence.  He  sadly 
shook  his  head,  and  replied :  "Thanks,  mademoiselle,  for  this 
proof  of  interest,  the  last,  doubtless,  that  I  shall  ever  receive 
from  you ;  but  allow  me,  by  being  silent,  to  spare  you  distress, 
and  myself  the  mortification  of  blushing  before  you." 

Madeleine  interrupted  him  imperiously:  "I  insist  upon  know- 
ing,"  she   said. 

"Alas !  mademoiselle,"  answered  Prosper,  "you  will  only  too 
soon  learn  my  misfortune  and  disgrace ;  then,  yes  then,  you 
will  applaud  yourself  for  what  you  have  done." 

She  became  more  urgent ;  instead  of  commanding  she  en- 
treated; but  Prosper  was  inflexible.  "Your  uncle  is  in  the 
adjoining  room,  with  the  commissary  of  police  and  a  detective," 
said  he.  "They  will  soon  return.  I  entreat  you  to  retire  that 
they  may  not  find  you  here."  As  he  spoke  he  gently  pushed 
her  through  the  door,  and  closed  it  upon  her. 

It  was  time,  for  the  next  moment  the  commissary  and  M. 
Fauvel  entered.  They  had  visited  the  main  entrance  and  the 
waiting-room,  and  had  heard  nothing  of  what  had  passed.  But 
Fanferlot  had  heard  for  them.  This  excellent  bloodhound  had 
not  lost  sight  of  the  cashier.  He  said  to  himself:  "Now  that  my 
young  gentleman  believes  himself  to  be  alone,  his  face  will 
betray  him.  I  shall  detect  a  smile  or  a  gesture  that  will 
enlighten   me." 

Leaving  M.  Fauvel  and  the  commissary  to  pursue  their  in- 
vestigations, he  posted  himself  to  watch.  He  saw  the  door 
open,  and  Madeleine  appear  upon  the  threshold ;  he  lost  not  a 
single  word  or  gesture  of  the  rapid  scene  which  had  passed.  It 
mattered  little  that  every  word  of  this  scene  was  an  enigma. 
M.  Fanferlot  was  skilful  enough  to  complete  the  sentences  he 
did  not  understand.  As  yet  he  only  had  a  suspicion ;  but  a 
mere  suspicion  is  better  than  nothing;  it  is  a  point  to  start 
from.  So  ready  was  he  in  building  a  plan  upon  the  slightest 
incident,  that  he  thought  he  saw  in  the  past  of  these  people, 


930  FILE    NUMBER    113 

who  were  utter  strangers  to  him,  glimpses  of  a  domestic  drama. 
If  the  commissary  of  police  is  a  skeptic,  the  detective  has  faith, 
he  believes  in  evil.  "I  understand  the  case  now,"  said  he  to 
himself.  "This  man  loves  the  young  lady,  who  is  really  very 
pretty;  and.  as  he  is  handsome,  I  suppose  his  love  is  recipro- 
cated. This  love  affair  vexes  the  banker,  who,  not  knowing  how 
to  get  rid  of  the  importunate  lover  by  fair  means,  has  to  resort 
to  foul,  and  plans  this  imaginary  robbery,  which  is  very 
ingenious." 

Thus,  to  M.  Fanferlot's  mind,  the  banker  had  simply  robbed 
himself,  and  the  innocent  cashier  was  the  victim  of  a  vile 
machination.  But  this  conviction  was  at  present  of  little  service 
to  Prosper.  Fanferlot,  the  ambitious  man,  who  had  deter- 
mined to  obtain  renown  in  his  profession,  decided  to  keep  his 
conjectures  to  himself.  "I  will  let  the  others  go  their  way, 
and  I'll  go  mine,"  he  said.  "When,  by  dint  of  close  watching 
and  patient  investigation,  I  shall  have  collected  proof  sufficient 
to  insure  certain  conviction  I  will  unmask  the  scoundrel." 

He  was  radiant.  He  had  at  last  found  the  crime,  so  long 
looked  for,  which  would  make  him  celebrated.  Nothing  was 
wanting,  neither  the  odious  circumstances,  nor  the  mystery, 
nor  even  the  romantic  and  sentimental  element  represented  by 
Prosper  and  Madeleine.  Success  seemed  difficult,  almost  im- 
possible ;  but  Fanferlot,  "the  squirrel,"  had  great  confidence  in 
his  own  genius  for  investigation. 

Meanwhile,  the  search  upstairs  was  completed,  and  every 
one  had  returned  to  Prosper's  office.  The  commissary,  who  had 
seemed  so  calm  when  he  first  came,  now  looked  grave  and  per- 
plexed. The  moment  for  taking  a  decisive  part  had  come,  yet 
it  was  evident  that  he  hesitated.  "You  see,  gentlemen,"  he 
began,  "our  search  has  only  confirmed  our  first  opinion."  M. 
Fauvel  and  Prosper  bowed  assentingly. 

"And  what  do  you  think,  M.  Fanferlot?"  continued  the  com- 
missary. Fanferlot  did  not  answer.  Occupied  in  studying  the 
lock  of  the  safe,  he  manifested  signs  of  a  lively  surprise. 
Evidently  he  had  just  made  an  important  discovery.  M.  Fauvel, 
Prosper,  and  the  commissary  rose,  and  surrounded  him. 

"Have  you  discovered  any  trace?"  asked  the  banker  eagerly. 

Fanferlot  turned  round  with  a  vexed  air.  He  reproached 
himself  for  not  having  concealed  his  impressions.  "Oh  !"  said 
he  carelessly,  "I  have  discovered  nothing  of  importance" 

"But  we  should  like  to  know,"  said  Prosper. 


FILE    NUMBER    113  931 

"I  have  merely  convinced  myself  that  this  safe  has  been 
recently  opened  or  shut,  I  know  not  which,  with  some  violence 
and  haste." 

"How  so  ?"  asked  the  commissary,  becoming-  attentive. 

"Look,  sir,  at  this  scratch  near  the  lock." 

The  commissary  stooped  down,  and  carefully  examined  the 
safe;  he  saw  a  slight  scratch  several  inches  long  that  had  re- 
moved the  outer  coat  of  varnish.  "I  see  the  scratch,"  said  he, 
"but  what  does  it  prove?" 

"Oh,  nothing  at  all !"  said  Fanferlot  "I  just  now  told  you 
it  was  of  no  importance." 

Fanferlot  said  this,  but  it  was  not  his  real  opinion.  This 
scratch,  undeniably  fresh,  had  for  him  a  signification  that 
escaped  the  others.  He  said  to  himself:  "This  confirms  my 
suspicions.  If  the  cashier  had  stolen  millions,  there  was  no 
occasion  for  his  being  in  a  hurry ;  whereas  the  banker  creeping 
down  in  the  dead  of  the  night  with  furtive  footsteps,  for  fear 
of  awakening  the  man  in  the  outer  room,  in  order  to  rifle  his 
own  safe,  had  every  reason  to  tremble,  to  hurry,  to  hastily 
withdraw  the  key,  which,  slipping  out  of  the  lock,  scratched 
off  the  varnish." 

Resolved  to  unravel  alone  the  tangled  thread  of  this  mystery. 
the  detective  determined  to  keep  his  conjectures  to  himself ; 
for  the  same  reason  he  was  silent  as  to  the  interview  which  he 
had  witnessed  between  Madeleine  and  Prosper.  He  hastened 
to  withdraw  attention  from  the  scratch  upon  the  lock.  "To 
conclude,"  he  said,  addressing  the  commissary,  "I  am  con- 
vinced that  no  one  outside  of  the  bank  could  have  obtained 
access  to  this  room.  The  safe,  moreover,  is  intact.  No  sus- 
picious pressure  has  been  used  on  the  movable  buttons.  I  can 
assert  that  the  lock  has  not  been  tampered  with  by  burgulars' 
tools  or  false  keys.  Those  who  opened  the  safe  knew  the  word, 
and  possessed  the  key." 

This  formal  affirmation  of  a  man  whom  he  knew  to  be 
skilful  ended  the  hesitation  of  the  commissary.  "That  being 
the  case,"  he  replied,  "I  must  request  a  few  moments'  conver- 
sation with  M.  Fauvel." 

"I  am  at  your  service,"  said  the  banker. 

Prosper  foresaw  the  result  of  this  conversation.  He  quietly 
placed  his  hat  on  the  table  to  show  that  he  had  no  intention  of 
attempting  to  escape,  and  passed  into  the  adjoining  office. 
Fanferlot  also  went  out,   but  not  before   the  commissary  had 


V32  FILE    NUMBER    113 

made  him  a  sign,  and  received  one  in  return.  This  sign  signi- 
fied, "You  are  responsible  for  this  man." 

The  detective  needed  no  hint  to  make  him  keep  a  strict 
watch.  His  suspicions  were  too  vague,  his  desire  for  success 
was  too  ardent,  for  him  to  lose  sight  of  Prosper  an  instant. 
Closely  following  the  cashier,  he  seated  himself  in  a  dark 
corner  of  the  office,  and,  pretending  to  be  sleepy,  he  fixed 
himself  in  a  comfortable  position  for  taking  a  nap,  gaped 
until  his  jawbone  seemed  about  to  be  dislocated,  then  closed 
his  eyes  and  kept  perfectly  quiet. 

Prosper  took  a  seat  at  the  desk  of  an  absent  clerk.  The 
others  were  burning  to  know  the  result  of  the  investigation; 
their  eyes  shone  with  curiosity,  but  they  dared  not  ask  a 
question.  Unable  to  restrain  himself  any  longer,  little  Cavail- 
lon,  Prosper's  defender,  ventured  to  say:  "Well,  who  stole  the 
money  ?" 

Prosper  shrugged  his  shoulders.    "Nobody  knows,"  he  replied. 

Was  this  conscious  innocence  or  hardened  recklessness?  The 
clerks  observed  with  bewildered  surprise  that  Prosper  had  re- 
sumed his  usual  manner — that  sort  of  icy  haughtiness  that  kept 
people  at  a  distance,  and  made  him  so  unpopular  in  the  bank- 
Save  the  deathlike  pallor  of  his  face,  and  the  dark  circles 
around  his  swollen  eyes,  he  bore  no  traces  of  the  pitiable 
agitation  he  had  exhibited  not  long  before.  Never  would  a 
stranger  entering  the  office  have  supposed  that  this  young  man, 
idly  lounging  in  a  chair  and  toying  with  a  pencil,  was  resting 
under  an  accusation  of  robbery,  and  was  about  to  be  arrested. 
He  soon  stopped  playing  with  the  pencil,  and  drew  toward  him 
a  sheet  of  paper  upon  which  he  hastily  wrote  a  few  lines. 

"Ah,  ha !"  thought  Fanferlot,  the  squirrel,  whose  hearing 
and  sight  were  wonderfully  good  in  spite  of  his  profound  sleep; 
"eh !  eh !  he  makes  his  little  confidential  communication  on 
paper,  I  see;  now  we  will  discover  something  positive." 

His  note  written,  Prosper  folded  it  carefully  into  the  smallest 
possible  size,  and  after  furtively  glancing  toward  the  detective, 
who  remained  motionless  in  his  corner,  threw  it  across  the 
desk  to  little  Cavaillon  with  this  one  word — "Gipsy !" 

All  this  was  so  quickly  and  cleverly  done  that  Fanferlot  was 
confounded,  and  began  to  feel  a  little  uneasy.  "The  devil  take 
him!"  said  he  to  himself;  "for  a  suffering  innocent  this  young 
dandy  has  more  pluck  and  nerve  than  many  of  my  oldest  cus- 
tomers.   This,  however,  shows  the  result  of  education  !" 


FILE    NUMBER   113  933 

Yes,  innocent  or  guilty,  Prosper  must  have  been  endowed 
with  great  self-controi  and  power  of  dissimulation  to  affect 
this  presence  of  mind  at  a  time  when  his  honor,  his  future 
happiness,  all  that  he  held  dear  in  life,  were  at  stake.  And  he 
was  not  more  than  thirty  years  old. 

Either  from  natural  deference,  or  from  the  hope  of  gaining 
some  ray  of  light  by  a  private  conversation,  the  commissary 
determined  to  speak  to  the  banker  before  acting  decisively. 
"There  is  not  a  shadow  of  doubt,"  said  he,  as  soon  as  they 
were  alone;  "this  young  man  has  robbed  you.  It  would  be 
a  gross  neglect  of  duty  if  I  did  not  secure  his  person.  The 
law  will  decide  whether  he  shall  be  released  or  sent  to  prison." 

This  declaration  seemed  to  distress  the  banker.  He  sank 
into  a  chair,  and  murmured:  "Poor  Prosper!"  Seeing  the 
astonished  look  of  his  listener,  he  added:  "Until  to-day,  I  have 
always  had  the  most  implicit  faith  in  my  cashier's  honesty,  and 
would  have  unhesitatingly  confided  my  fortune  to  his  keeping. 
Almost  on  my  knees  have  I  besought  and  implored  him  to  con- 
fess that  in  a  moment  of  desperation  he  had  taken  the  money, 
promising  him  pardon  and  forgetfulness ;  but  I  could  not  move 
him.  I  loved  him;  and  even  now,  in  spite  of  the  trouble  and 
humiliation  that  he  is  heaping  upon  me,  I  can  not  bring  myself 
to  feel  harshly  toward  him." 

The  commissary  looked  as  if  he  did  not  understand.  "What 
do  you  mean  by  humiliation?"  he  asked. 

"What!"  said  M.  Fauvel  excitedly,  "is  not  justice  the  same 
for  all  ?  Because  I  am  the  head  of  a  bank,  and  he  only  a  clerk, 
does  it  follow  that  my  word  is  more  to  be  relied  upon  than  his? 
Why  could  I  not  have  robbed  myself?  Such  things  have  been 
done.  They  will  ask  me  for  facts;  and  I  shall  be  compelled  to 
expose  the  exact  situation  of  my  house,  explain  my  affairs, 
disclose  the  secret  and  method  of  my  operations." 

"It  is  possible  that  you  will  be  called  upon  for  some  exp!ana> 
tion ;  but  your  well-known  integrity — " 

"Alas !  He  was  honest  too.  His  integrity  has  never  been 
doubted.  Who  would  have  been  suspected  this  morning  if  I 
had  not  been  able  to  instantly  produce  a  hundred  thousand 
crowns?  Who  would  be  suspected  if  I  could  not  prove  that  my 
assets  exceed  my  liabilities  by  more  than  three  millions?" 

To  h.  cirictly  honorable  man,  the  thought,  the  possibility  of 
suspicion  tarnishing  his  fair  name,  is  cruel  suffering.  The 
banker  suffered,  and  the  commissary  of  police  saw  it,  and  felt 


934  FILE   NUMBER    113 

for  him.  "Be  calm,  sir,"  said  he;  "before  the  end  of  a  week, 
justice  will  have  collected  sufficient  proof  to  establish  the  guilt 
of  this  unfortunate  man,  whom  we  may  now  recall." 

Prosper  entered  with  Fanferlot — whom  they  had  much  trouble 
to  awaken — and  with  the  most  stolid  indifference  listened  to  the 
announcement  of  his  arrest.  In  response  he  calmly  said:  "I 
swear  that  I  am  guiltless." 

M.  Fauvel,  much  more  disturbed  and  excited  than  his  cashier, 
made  a  last  attempt.  "It  is  not  too  late  yet,  poor  boy,"  he 
said:  "for  heaven's  sake  reflect — " 

Prosper  did  not  appear  to  hear  him.  He  drew  from  his  pocket 
a  small  key,  which  he  laid  on  the  table,  and  said:  "Here,  sir, 
is  the  key  of  your  safe.  I  hope  for  my  sake  that  you  will  some 
day  be  convinced  of  my  innocence ;  and  I  hope  for  your  sake 
that  the  conviction  will  not  come  too  late."  Then  as  every  one 
was  silent,  he  resumed :  "Before  leaving  I  hand  over  to  you  the 
books,  papers,  and  accounts  necessary  for  my  successor.  I 
must  at  the  same  time  inform  you  that,  without  speaking  of  the 
stolen  three  hundred  and  fifty  thousand  francs,  I  leave  a  deficit 
in  cash." 

A  deficit !  This  ominous  word  from  the  lips  of  the  cashier 
fell  like  a  bombshell  upon  the  ears  of  Prosper's  hearers.  His 
declaration  was  interpreted  in  divers  ways.  "A  deficit !" 
thought  the  commissary;  "how,  after  this,  can  his  guilt  be 
doubted?  Before  stealing  the  whole  contents  of  the  safe,  he 
has  kept  his  hand  in  by  occasional  small  thefts."  "A  deficit !" 
said  the  detective  to  himself,  "now,  no  doubt,  the  very  inno- 
cence of  this  poor  wretch  gives  his  conduct  an  appearance  of 
great  depravity ;  were  he  guilty,  he  would  have  replaced  the 
first  money  by  a  portion  of  the  second." 

The  grave  importance  of  Prosper's  statement  was  consider- 
ably lessened  by  the  explanation  he  proceeded  to  make :  "There 
is  a  deficit  of  three  thousand  five  hundred  francs  on  my  cash 
account,  which  has  been  disposed  of  in  the  following  manner: 
two  thousand  taken  by  myself  in  advance  on  my  salary;  fifteen 
hundred  advanced  to  several  of  my  fellow  clerks.  This  is  the 
last  day  of  the  month:  to-morrow  the  salaries  will  be  paid, 
consequently — " 

The  commissary  interrupted  him :  "Were  you  authorized  to 
draw  money  whenever  you  wished  for  yourself  or  the  clerks?" 

"No;  but  I  knew  that  M.  Fauvel  would  not  have  refused 
me  permission  to  oblige  my  friends  in  the  bank.     What  I  did 


FILE   NUMBER   113  935 

is  done  everywhere ;  I  have  simply  followed  my  predecessor's 
example."  The  banker  made  a  sign  of  assent.  "As  regards  that 
spent  by  myself,"  continued  the  cashier,  "I  had  a  sort  of  right 
to  it,  all  of  my  savings  being  deposited  in  this  bank;  about 
fifteen  thousand  francs." 

"That  is  true,"  said  M.  Fauvel,  "M.  Bertomy  has  at  least 
that  amount  on  deposit." 

This  last  question  settled,  the  commissary's  errand  was  at 
an  end,  and  his  report  might  now  be  made.  He  announced  his 
intention  of  leaving,  and  ordered  the  cashier  to  prepare  to 
follow  him. 

Usually,  the  moment — when  stern  reality  stares  us  in  the 
face,  when  our  individuality  is  lost,  and  we  feel  that  we  are 
being  deprived  of  our  liberty — is  terrible.  At  the  fatal  com- 
mand, "Follow  me,"  which  brings  before  our  eyes  the  yawning 
prison  gates,  the  most  hardened  sinner  feels  his  courage  fail, 
and  abjectly  begs  for  mercy.  But  Prosper  lost  none  of  that 
studied  stoicism  which  the  commissary  of  police  secretly  pro- 
nounced consummate  impudence.  Slowly,  with  as  much  care- 
less ease  as  if  going  to  lunch  with  a  friend,  he  smoothed  his 
hair,  drew  on  his  overcoat  and  gloves,  and  said  politely :  "I  am 
ready,  sir,  to  accompany  you." 

The  commissary  folded  up  his  note-book,  and  bowing  to  M. 
Fauvel,  said  to  Prosper :  "Come  with  me !" 

They  left  the  room,  and  with  a  distressed  face,  and  eyes 
filled  with  tears  that  he  could  not  restrain,  the  banker  stood 
watching  their  retreating  forms. 

"Good  heavens!"  he  exclaimed:  "gladly  would  I  give  twice 
that  sum  to  regain  my  old  confidence  in  poor  Prosper,  and  be 
able  to  keep  him  with  me !" 

The  quick-eared  Fanferlot  overheard  these  words,  and  prompt 
to  suspicion,  and  ever  disposed  to  impute  to  others  the  deep 
astuteness  peculiar  to  himself,  was  convinced  they  had  been 
uttered  for  his  benefit.  He  had  remained  behind  the  others, 
under  pretext  of  looking  for  an  imaginary  umbrella,  and,  as  he 
reluctantly  departed,  said  he  would  call  in  again  to  see  if  it 
had  been  found. 

It  was  Fanferlot's  task  to  escort  Prosper  to  prison;  but,  as 
they  were  about  starting,  he  asked  the  commissary  to  leave 
him  at  liberty  to  pursue  another  course,  a  request  which  his 
superior  granted.  Fanferlot  had  resolved  to  obtain  possession 
of  Prosper's  note,  which  he  knew  to  be  in  Cavaillon's  pocket 


936  FILE   NUMBER   113 

To  obtain  this  written  proof,  which  must  be  an  important  one, 
appeared  the  easiest  thing  in  the  world.  He  had  simply  to 
arrest  Cavaillon,  frighten  him,  demand  the  letter,  and,  if  neces- 
sary, take  it  by  force.  But  to  what  would  this  lead  ?  To  noth- 
ing but  an  incomplete  and  doubtful  result. 

Fanferlot  was  convinced  that  the  note  was  intended,  not 
for  the  young  clerk,  but  for  a  third  person.  If  exasperated, 
Cavaillon  might  refuse  to  divulge  who  this  person  was,  who 
after  all  might  not  bear  the  name  "Gipsy"  pronounced  by  the 
cashier.  And,  even  if  he  did  answer  his  questions,  would  he 
not  lie?  After  mature  reflection,  Fanferlot  decided  that  it 
would  be  superfluous  to  ask  for  a  secret  when  it  could  be  sur- 
prised. To  quietly  follow  Cavaillon,  and  keep  close  watch  on 
him  until  he  caught  him  in  the  very  act  of  handing  over  the 
letter,  was  but  play  for  the  detective.  This  method  of  pro- 
ceeding, moreover,  was  much  more  in  keeping  with  the  charac- 
ter of  Fanferlot,  who,  being  naturally  soft  and  stealthy,  deemed 
it  due  to  his  profession  to  avoid  all  disturbance  or  anything 
resembling  violence. 

Fanferlot's  plan  was  settled  when  he  reached  the  vestibule. 
He  began  talking  with  an  office-boy,  and,  after  a  few  apparently 
idle  questions,  discovered  that  Fauvel's  bank  had  no  outlet  on 
the  Rue  de  la  Victoire,  and  that  consequently  all  the  clerks 
were  obliged  to  pass  in  and  out  through  the  main  entrance  in 
the  Rue  de  Provence.  From  this  moment  the  task  he  had 
undertaken  no  longer  presented  a  shadow  of  difficulty.  He  rap- 
idly crossed  the  street,  and  took  up  his  position  under  a  gate- 
way. His  post  of  observation  was  admirably  chosen ;  not  only 
could  he  see  every  one  who  entered  and  came  out  of  the  bank, 
but  he  also  commanded  a  view  of  all  the  windows,  and  by 
standing  on  tiptoe  could  look  through  the  grating  and  see 
Cavaillon  bending  over  his  desk. 

Fanferlot  waited  a  long  time,  but  did  not  get  impatient,  for 
he  had  often  remained  on  watch  entire  days  and  nights  at  a 
time,  with  much  less  important  objects  in  view  than  the  present 
one.  Besides,  his  mind  was  busily  occupied  in  estimating  the 
value  of  his  discoveries,  weighing  his  chances,  and,  like  Per- 
rette  with  her  pot  of  milk,  building  the  foundation  of  his  for- 
tune upon  present  success.  Finally,  about  one  o'clock,  he  saw 
Cavaillon  rise  from  his  desk,  change  his  coat,  and  take  down 
his  hat.  "Very  good!"  he  exclaimed,  "my  man  is  coming  out; 
I  must  keep  my  eyes  open." 

Gab. — Vol.  IV 


FILE    NUMBER    113  937 

The  next  moment  Cavaillon  appeared  at  the  door  of  the  bank; 
but  before  stepping  on  the  pavement  he  looked  up  and  down 
the  street  in  an  undecided  manner. 

"Can  he  suspect  anything?"  thought  Fanferlot. 

No,  the  young  clerk  suspected  nothing;  only  having  a  com- 
mission to  execute,  and  fearing  his  absence  would  be  observed, 
he  was  debating  with  himself  which  would  be  the  shortest  road 
for  him  to  take.  He  soon  decided,  entered  the  Faubourg  Mont- 
martre,  and  walked  up  the  Rue  Notre  Dame  de  Lorette  so 
rapidly,  utterly  regardless  of  the  grumbling  passers-by  whom 
he  elbowed  out  of  his  way,  that  Fanferlot  found  it  difficult  to 
keep  him  in  sight.  Reaching  the  Rue  Chaptal,  Cavaillon  sud- 
denly stopped,  and  entered  the  house  numbered  39.  He  had 
scarcely  taken  three  steps  in  the  narrow  hall  when  he  felt  a 
touch  on  his  shoulder,  and  turning  abruptly  found  himself  face 
to  face  with  Fanferlot.  He  recognized  him  at  once,  and  turn- 
ing very  pale  he  shrank  back,  and  looked  around  for  means  of 
escape.  But  the  detective,  anticipating  the  attempt,  barred  the 
way.  Cavaillon  saw  that  he  was  fairly  caught.  "What  do  you 
want  with  me?"  he  asked  in  a  voice  tremulous  with  fright. 

Fanferlot  was  distinguished  among  his  colleagues  for  his 
exquisite  suavity  and  unequaled  urbanity.  Even  with  his  pris- 
oners he  was  the  perfection  of  courtesy,  and  never  was  known 
to  handcuff  a  man  without  first  apologizing  for  being  compelled 
to  do  so.  "You  will  be  kind  enough,  my  dear  sir,"  he  said, 
"to  excuse  the  great  liberty  I  take;  but  I  really  am  under  the 
necessity  of  asking  you  for  a  little  information." 

"Information!     From  me?" 

"From  you,  my  dear  sir;  from  M.  Eugene  Cavaillon." 

"But  I  do  not  know  you.*' 

"Oh,  yes,  you  must  remember  seeing  me  this  morning.  It 
is  only  about  a  trifling  matter,  and  you  will  overwhelm  me 
with  obligations  if  you  will  do  me  the  honor  to  accept  my  arm, 
and  step  outside  for  a  moment."  What  could  Cavaillon  do? 
He  took  Fanferlot's  arm,  and  went  out  with  him. 

The  Rue  Chaptal  is  not  one  of  those  noisy  thoroughfares 
where  foot-passengers  are  in  perpetual  danger  of  being  run 
over  by  numberless  vehicles  dashing  to  and  fro;  there  are  but 
two  or  three  shops,  and  from  the  corner  of  the  Rue  Fontaine, 
occupied  by  an  apothecary,  to  the  entrance  of  the  Rue  Leonie, 
extends  a  high,  gloomy  wall,  broken  here  and  there  by  some 
small  windows  which  light  the  carpenters'  shops  behind.     It  is 

Gab. — Vol.  IV  B 


938  FILE   NUMBER   113 

one  of  those  streets  where  you  can  talk  at  your  ease,  without 
having  to  step  from  the  sidewalk  every  moment.  So  Fan- 
ferlot  and  Cavaillon  were  in  no  danger  of  being  disturbed  by 
passers-by. 

"What  I  wished  to  say,  my  dear  sir,"  began  the  detective, 
"is  that  M.  Prosper  Bertomy  threw  you  a  note  this  morning." 

Cavaillon  vaguely  foresaw  that  he  was  to  be  questioned  about 
this  note  and  instantly  put  himself  on  his  guard.  "You  are 
mistaken,"  he  said,  blushing  to  his  ears. 

"Excuse  me  for  presuming  to  contradict  you,  but  I  am  quite 
certain  of  what  I  say." 

"I  assure  you  that  Prosper  never  gave  me  anything." 

"Pray,  sir,  do  not  persist  in  a  denial ;  you  will  compel  me 
to  prove  that  four  clerks  saw  him  throw  you  a  note  written  in 
pencil  and  closely  folded." 

Cavaillon  saw  the  folly  of  further  contradicting  a  man  so 
well  informed ;  so  he  changed  his  tactics,  and  said :  "It  is  true 
Prosper  gave  me  a  note  this  morning;  but  as  it  was  intended 
for  me  alone,  after  reading  it,  I  tore  it  up,  and  threw  the 
pieces  in  the  fire." 

This  might  be  the  truth.  Fanferlot  feared  so;  but  how  could 
he  assure  himself  of  the  fact?  He  remembered  that  the  most 
palpable  tricks  often  succeed  the  best,  and,  trusting  to  his  star, 
he  said  at  hazard:  "Permit  me  to  observe  that  this  state- 
ment is  not  correct ;  the  note  was  entrusted  to  you  to  give  to 
Gipsy." 

A  despairing  gesture  from  Cavaillon  apprised  the  detective 
that  he  was  not  mistaken ;  he  breathed  again.  "I  swear  to  you, 
sir — "  began  the  young  man. 

"Do  not  swear,"  interrupted  Fanferlot :  "all  the  oaths  in  the 
world  would  be  useless.  You  not  only  preserved  the  note,  but 
you  came  to  this  house  for  the  purpose  of  giving  it  to  Gipsy, 
and  it  is  in  your  pocket  now." 

"No,  sir,  no!" 

Fanferlot  paid  no  attention  to  this  denial,  but  continued  in 
his  gentlest  tone:  "And  I  am  sure  you  will  be  kind  enough  to 
give  it  to  me;  believe  me,  nothing  but  the  most  absolute 
necessity — " 

"Never !"  exclaimed  Cavaillon ;  and,  believing  the  moment 
favorable,  he  suddenly  attempted  to  jerk  his  arm  from  under 
Fanferlot's  and  escape.  But  his  efforts  were  vain;  the  detec- 
tive's strength  was  equal  to  his  suavity. 


FILE   NUMBER    113  H39 

"Don't  hurt  yourself,  young  man,"  he  said,  "but  take  my 
advice,  and  quietly  give  up  the  letter." 

"I  have  not  got  it." 

"Very  well ;  see,  you  reduce  me  to  painful  extremities.  If 
you  persist  in  being  so  obstinate,  I  shall  call  two  policemen,  who 
will  take  you  by  each  arm,  and  escort  you  to  the  commissary 
of  police ;  and,  once  there,  I  shall  be  under  the  painful  necessity 
of  searching  your  pockets,  whether  you  will  or  not." 

Cavaillon  was  devoted  to  Prosper,  and  willing  to  make  any 
sacrifice  in  his  behalf;  but  he  clearly  saw  that  it  was  worse 
than  useless  to  struggle  any  longer,  as  he  would  have  no  time 
to  destroy  the  note.  To  deliver  it  under  force  was  no  betrayal ; 
but  he  cursed  his  powerlessness,  and  almost  wept  with  rage. 
"I  am  in  your  power,"  he  said,  and  then  suddenly  drew  from 
his  pocket-book  the  unlucky  note,  and  gave  it  to  the  detective. 

Fanferlot  trembled  with  pleasure  as  he  unfolded  the  paper; 
yet,  faithful  to  his  habits  of  fastidious  politeness,  before  read- 
ing it,  he  bowed  to  Cavaillon  and  said:  "You  will  permit  me, 
will  you  not,  sir?"    Then  he  read  as  follows: 

"Dear  Nina — If  you  love  me,  follow  my  instructions  in- 
stantly, without  a  moment's  hesitation,  without  asking  any 
questions.  On  the  receipt  of  this  note,  take  everything  you 
have  in  the  house,  absolutely  everything,  and  establish  your- 
self in  furnished  rooms  at  the  other  end  of  Paris.  Do  not 
appear  in  public,  but  conceal  yourself  as  much  as  possible.  My 
life  may  depend  on  your  obedience.  I  am  accused  of  an  out- 
rageous robbery,  and  am  about  to  be  arrested.  Take  with  you 
five  hundred  francs,  which  you  will  find  in  the  secretary. 
Leave  your  address  with  Cavaillon,  who  will  explain  what  I 
have  not  time  to  tell.    Be  hopeful,  whatever  happens.    Good-by ! 

"Prosper." 

Had  Cavaillon  been  less  bewildered,  he  would  have  seen 
blank  disappointment  depicted  upon  the  detective's  face  after 
the  perusal  of  the  note.  Fanferlot  had  cherished  the  hope  that 
he  was  about  to  possess  a  very  important  document  which  would 
clearly  prove  the  guilt  or  innocence  of  Prosper ;  whereas  he  had 
only  seized  a  love-letter  written  by  a  man  who  was  evidently 
more  anxious  about  the  welfare  of  the  woman  he  loved  than 
about  his  own.  Vainly  did  he  puzzle  over  the  letter,  hoping 
to  discover  some  hidden  meaning:  twist  the  words  as  he  would, 


910  FILE   NUMBER   113 

they  proved  nothing  for  or  against  the  writer.  The  two  words 
"absolutely  everything"  were  underscored,  it  is  true;  but  they 
could  be  interpreted  in  so  many  ways.  The  detective,  however, 
determined  not  to  drop  the  matter  here.  "This  Madame  Nina 
Gipsy  is  doubtless  a  friend  of  M.  Prosper  Bertomy?" 

"She  is  his  particular  friend." 

"Ah.  I  understand ;  and  she  lives  here  at  No.  39  ?" 

"You  know  it  well  enough,  as  you  saw  me  go  in  there." 

"I  suspected  it  to  be  the  house,  but  now  tell  me  whether  the 
apartments  she  occupies  are  rented  in  her  name." 

"No.     Prosper  rents  them." 

"Exactly ;  and  on  which  floor,  if  you  please  ?" 

"On  the  first." 

During  this  colloquy,  Fanferlot  had  folded  up  the  note,  and 
slipped  it  into  his  pocket.  "A  thousand  thanks,"  said  he,  "for 
the  information ;  and,  in  return,  I  will  relieve  you  of  the  trouble 
of  executing  your  commission." 

"Sir !" 

"Yes;  with  your  permission,  I  will  myself  take  this  note  to 
Madame  Nina  Gipsy." 

Cavaillon  began  to  remonstrate,  but  Fanferlot  cut  him  short 
by  saying:  "I  will  also  venture  to  give  you  a  piece  of  advice 
Return  quietly  to  your  business  and  have  nothing  more  to  do 
with  this  affair." 

"But  Prosper  is  a  good  friend  of  mine,  and  has  saved  me 
from  ruin  more  than  once." 

"Only  the  more  reason  for  your  keeping  quiet.  You  can  not 
be  of  the  slightest  assistance  to  him,  and  I  can  tell  you  that 
you  may  be  of  great  injury.  As  you  are  known  to  be  his 
devoted  friend,  of  course  your  absence  at  this  time  will  be 
remarked  upon.  Any  steps  that  you  take  in  this  matter  will 
receive  the  worst  interpretation." 

"Prosper  is  innocent,  I  am  sure." 

Fanferlot  was  of  the  same  opinion,  but  he  had  no  idea  of 
betraying  his  private  thoughts;  and  yet  for  the  success  of  his 
investigations  it  was  necessary  to  impress  the  importance  of 
prudence  and  discretion  upon  the  young  man.  He  would  have 
told  him  to  keep  silent  concerning  what  had  passed  between 
them,  but  he  dared  not. 

"What  you  say  may  be  true,"  he  said.  "I  hope  it  is  for  the 
sake  of  M.  Bertomy,  and  on  your  own  account  too;  for,  if  he 
is  guilty,  you  will  certainly  be  very  much  annoyed,  and  perhaps 


FILE    NUMBER    113  941 

suspected  of  complicity,  as  you  are  well  known  to  be  intimate 
with  him." 

Cavaillon  was  overcome. 

"Now,  you  had  better  take  my  advice,  and  return  to  the 
bank,  and — good  morning,  sir." 

The  poor  fellow  obeyed.  Slowly  and  with  swelling  heart 
he  returned  to  the  Rue  Notre  Dame  de  Lorette.  He  asked 
himself  how  he  could  serve  Prosper,  warn  Madame  Gipsy,  and 
above  all,  have  his  revenge  upon  this  odious  detective,  who  had 
just  made  him  suffer  such  humiliation.  He  had  no  sooner 
turned  the  corner  of  the  street  than  Fanferlot  entered  No.  39, 
mentioned  the  name  of  Prosper  Bertomy  to  the  concierge,  went 
upstairs,  and  knocked  at  the  first  door  he  came  to.  It  was 
opened  by  a  youthful  footman,  dressed  in  the  most  fanciful 
livery. 

"Is  Madame  Gipsy  at  home?"  inquired  Fanferlot. 

The  servant  hesitated ;  seeing  this,  Fanferlot  showed  his  note 
and  said:  "M.  Prosper  told  me  to  hand  this  note  to  madame 
and  wait  for  an  answer." 

"Walk  in,  and  I  will  let  madame  know  you  are  here." 

The  name  of  Prosper  produced  its  effect.  Fanferlot  was 
ushered  into  a  little  room  furnished  in  blue  and  gold  silk 
damask.  Heavy  curtains  darkened  the  windows,  and  hung  in 
front  of  the  doors.  The  floor  was  covered  with  a  blue  velvet- 
pile  carpet. 

"Our  cashier  was  certainly  well  lodged,"  murmured  the  de- 
tective. But  he  had  ho  time  to  pursue  his  inventory.  One  of 
the  curtains  was  pushed  aside,  and  Madame  Nina  Gipsy  stood 
before  him.  She  was  quite  young,  small,  and  graceful,  with 
a  brown  or  rather  gold-colored  quadroon  complexion,  and  the 
hands  and  feet  of  a  child.  Long  curling  silk  lashes  softened 
the  piercing  brilliancy  of  her  large  black  eyes;  her  lips  were 
full,  and  her  teeth  were  very  white.  She  had  not  yet  made 
her  toilet,  but  wore  a  velvet  dressing-gown,  which  did  not  con- 
ceal the  lace  ruffles  beneath.  But  she  had  already  been  under  the 
hands  of  a  hairdresser.  Her  hair  was  curled  and  frizzed  high 
on  her  forehead,  and  confined  by  narrow  bands  of  red  velvet; 
her  back  hair  was  rolled  in  an  immense  coil,  and  held  by  a 
beautiful  gold  comb.  She  was  ravishing.  Her  beauty  was 
so  startling  that  the  dazzled  detective  was  speechless  with 
admiration. 

"Well,"   he  said  to   himself,   as   he   remembered  the  noble, 


942  FILE    NUMBER   113 

severe  beauty  of  Madeleine,  whom  he  had  seen  a  few  hours 
previous,  "our  young  gentleman  certainly  has  good  taste — very 
good  taste — two  perfect  beauties  !" 

While  he  thus  reflected,  perfectly  bewildered,  and  wondering 
how  he  could  begin  the  conversation,  Madame  Gipsy  eyed  him 
with  the  most  disdainful  surprise:  she  was  waiting  for  this 
shabby  little  man  in  a  threadbare  coat  and  greasy  hat  to  ex- 
plain his  presence  in  her  dainty  drawing-room.  She  had  many 
creditors,  and  was  recalling  them,  and  wondering  which  one 
had  dared  send  this  man  to  wipe  his  dusty  boots  on  her  velvet- 
pile  carpets.  After  scrutinizing  him  from  head  to  foot  with 
undisguised  contempt,  she  said  haughtily:  "What  is  it  that  you 
want?" 

Any  one  but  Fanferlot  would  have  been  offended  at  her  in- 
solent manner ;  but  he  only  noticed  it  to  gain  some  notion  of 
the  young  woman's  disposition.  "She  is  bad-tempered,"  he 
thought,  "and  is  uneducated." 

While  he  was  speculating  upon  her  merits,  Madame  Nina 
impatiently  stamped  her  little  foot,  and  waited  for  an  answer ; 
finally  she  said :  "Why  don't  you  speak  ?  What  do  you  want 
here?" 

"I  am  charged,  my  dear  madame,"  he  answered  in  his 
blandest  tone,  "by  M.  Bertomy  to  give  you  this  note." 

"From  Prosper!     You  know  him  then?" 

"I  have  that  honor,  madame;  indeed,  I  may  be  so  bold  as 
to  claim  him  as  a  friend." 

"What,  sir!  You  a  friend  of  Prosper!"  exclaimed  Madame 
Gipsy  in  a  scornful  tone,  as  if  her  pride  were  wounded. 

Fanferlot  did  not  condescend  to  notice  this  offensive  exclama- 
tion. He  was  ambitious,  and  contempt  failed  to  irritate  him. 
"I  said  a  friend  of  his,  madame,  and  there  are  few  people  who 
would  have  the  courage  to  claim  friendship  for  him  now." 

Madame  Gipsy  was  struck  by  the  words  and  manner  of  Fan- 
ferlot. "I  never  could  guess  riddles,"  she  said  tartly ;  "will  you 
be  kind  enough  to  explain  what  you  mean?" 

The  detective  slowly  drew  Prosper's  note  from  his  pocket, 
and,  with  a  bow,  presented  it  to  Madame  Gipsy.  "Read,  ma- 
dame," he  said. 

She  certainly  anticipated  no  misfortune;  although  her  sight 
was  excellent,  she  stopped  to  fasten  a  tiny  gold  eyeglass  on  her 
nose,  then  carelessly  opened  the  note.  At  a  glance  she  read  its 
contents.'    She  turned  very  pale,  then  very  red;  she  trembled 


FILE    NUMBER    113  943 

as  if  with  a  nervous  chill  {  her  limhs  seemed  to  give  way,  and 
she  tottered  so  that  Fanferlot,  thinking  she  was  about  to  fall, 
extended  his  arms  to  catch  her. 

Useless  precaution  !  Madame  Gipsy  was  one  of  those  women 
whose  inert  listlessness  conceals  indomitable  energy;  fragile- 
looking  creatures  whose  powers  of  endurance  and  resistance 
are  unlimited;  cat-like  in  their  soft  grace  and  delicacy,  espe- 
cially cat-like  in  their  nerves  and  muscles  of  steel.  The  diz- 
ziness caused  by  the  shock  she  had  received  quickly  pas-ed 
off.  She  tottered,  but  did  not  fall,  and  stood  up  looking 
stronger  than  ever;  seizing  the  wrist  of  the  detective,  she  held 
it  as  if  her  delicate  little  hands  were  a  vise,  and  cried  out: 
"Explain  yourself!  what  does  all  this  mean?  Do  you  know 
anything  about  the  contents  of  this  note?'' 

Although  Fanferlot  showed  plenty  of  courage  in  daily  con- 
tending with  the  most  dangerous  rascals,  he  was  almost  terrified 
by  the  action  of  Madame  Gipsy.    "Alas!"  was  all  he  murmured. 

"Prosper  is  to  be  arrested,  accused  of  being  a  thief?" 

"Yes,  madame,  he  is  accused  of  taking  three  hundred  and 
fifty  thousand  francs  from  the  bank  safe." 

"It  is  false,  infamous,  absurd!"  she  cried.  She  had  dropped 
Fanferlot's  hand ;  and  her  fury,  like  that  of  a  spoiled  child, 
found  vent  in  violent  actions.  She  tore  her  web-like  handker- 
chief, and  the  magnificent  lace  on  her  gown,  to  shreds.  "Pros- 
per steal !"  she  cried ;  "what  a  stupid  idea !  Why  should  he 
steal?     Is  he  not  rich?" 

"M.  Bertomy  is  not  rich,  madame;  he  has  nothing  but  his 
salary." 

This  answer  seemed  to  confound  Madame  Gipsy.  "But,"  she 
insisted,  "I  have  always  seen  him  with  plenty  of  money ;  not 
rich — then — "  She  dared  not  finish  ;  but  her  eye  met  Fanferlot's, 
and  they  understood  each  other. 

Madame  Nina's  look  meant:  "He  committed  this  robbery  in 
order  to  gratify  my  extravagant  whims."  Fanferlot's  glance 
signified:  "Very  likely,  madame." 

A  few  moments'  reflection  restored  Nina's  original  assur- 
ance. Doubt  fled  after  hovering  for  an  instant  over  her  agitated 
mind.  "No!"  she  cried.  "I  regret  to  say  that  Prosper  would 
never  have  stolen  a  single  sou  for  me.  One  can  understand 
a  man  robbing  a  bank  to  obtain  the  means  of  bestowing  pleasure 
and  luxury  upon  the  woman  he  loves ;  but  Prosper  does  not  love 
me;  he  never  has  loved  me." 


944  FILE   NUMBER    113 

"Oh,  my  dear  lady!"  protested  the  gallant  and  insinuating 
Fanferlot,  "you  surely  can  not  mean  what  you  say." 

Her  beautiful  eyes  filled  with  tears  as  she  sadly  shook  her 
head  and  replied:  "I  mean  exactly  what  I  say.  It  is  only  too 
true.  He  is  ready  to  gratify  my  every  wish,  you  may  say; 
what  does  that  prove?  Nothing.  I  am  too  well  convinced  that 
he  does  not  love  me.  I  know  what  love  is.  Once  I  was  beloved 
by  an  affectionate,  true-hearted  man;  and  my  own  sufferings 
of  the  last  year  make  me  know  how  miserable  I  must  have 
made  him  by  my  cold  return.  Alas!  we  must  suffer  ourselves 
before  we  can  feel  for  others.  No,  I  am  nothing  to  Prosper; 
he  would  not  care  if — " 

"But  then,  madame,  why — " 

"Ah,  yes,"  interrupted  Nina,  "why?  You  will  be  very  wise 
if  you  can  answer  me.  For  a  year  have  I  vainly  sought  an 
answer  to  this  question,  so  sad  to  me.  I,  a  woman,  can  not 
answer  it;  and  I  defy  you  to  do  so.  You  can  not  discover  the 
thoughts  of  a  man  who  is  so  thoroughly  master  of  himself  that 
he  never  permits  a  single  idea  that  is  passing  through  his  mind 
to  be  detected  upon  his  countenance.  I  have  watched  him  as 
only  a  woman  can  watch  the  man  upon  whom  her  fate  depends, 
but  it  has  always  been  in  vain.  He  is  kind  and  indulgent;  but 
he  does  not  betray  himself,  never  will  commit  himself,  ignorant 
people  call  him  weak,  yielding:  I  tell  you  that  fair-haired  man 
is  a  rod  of  iron  painted  like  a  reed !" 

Carried  away  by  the  violence  of  her  feelings,  Madame  Nina 
betrayed  her  inmost  thoughts.  She  was  without  distrust,  never 
suspecting  that  the  stranger  listening  to  her  was  other  than  a 
friend  of  Prosper.  As  for  Fanferlot,  he  congratulated  himself 
upon  his  success.  No  one  but  a  woman  could  have  drawn  him 
so  excellent  a  portrait;  in  a  moment  of  excitement  she  had 
given  him  the  most  valuable  information;  he  now  knew  the 
nature  of  the  man  with  whom  he  had  to  deal,  which,  in  an 
investigation  like  that  he  was  pursuing,  is  the  principal  point. 
"You  know  that  M.  Bertomy  gambles,"  he  ventured  to  say, 
"and  gambling  is  apt  to  lead  a  man — " 

Madame  Gipsy  shrugged  her  shoulders,  and  interrupted  him. 
"Yes,  he  plays,"  she  said,  "but  he  is  not  a  gambler.  I  have 
seen  him  lose  and  gain  large  sums  without  betraying  the  slight- 
est agitation.  He  plays  as  he  drinks,  as  he  sups,  as  he  dissi- 
pates— without  passion,  without  enthusiasm,  without  pleasure. 
Sometimes  he  frightens  me ;  he  seems  to  drag  about  a  body  with- 


FILE   NUMBER   113  945 

out  a  soul.  Ah,  I  am  not  happy !  Never  have  I  been  able  to 
overcome  his  indifference,  an  indifference  so  great,  so  reckless, 
that  I  often  think  it  must  be  despair;  nothing  will  convince  me 
that  he  has  not  some  terrible  secret,  some  great  misfortune 
weighing  upon  his  mind,  and  making  life  a  burden." 

"Then  he  has  never  spoken  to  you  of  his  past?" 

"Why  should  he  tell  me?  Did  you  not  hear  me?  I  tell  you 
he  does  not  love  me !" 

Madame  Nina  was  overcome  by  thoughts  of  the  past,  and 
tears  silently  coursed  down  her  cheeks.  But  her  despair  was 
only  momentary.  She  started  up,  and,  her  eyes  sparkling  with 
generous  resolution,  she  exclaimed:  "But  I  love  him,  and  I 
will  save  him !  I  will  see  his  chief,  the  miserable  wretch  who 
dares  to  accuse  him.  I  will  haunt  the  judges,  and  I  will  prove 
that  he  is  innocent.  Come,  sir,  let  us  start,  and  I  promise  you 
that  before  sunset  he  shall  be  free,  or  I  shall  be  in  prison 
with  him." 

Madame  Gipsy's  project  was  certainly  laudable,  and  prompted 
by  the  noblest  sentiments ;  but  unfortunately  it  was  imprac- 
ticable. Moreover,  it  would  be  going  counter  to  the  plans  of 
the  detective.  Although  he  had  resolved  to  reserve  to  himself 
all  the  difficulties  as  well  as  the  benefits  of  this  inquiry,  Fan- 
ferlot  saw  clearly  that  he  could  not  conceal  the  existence  of 
Madame  Nina  from  the  investigating  magistrate.  She  would 
necessarily  be  brought  into  the  case,  and  be  sought  after.  But 
he  did  not  wish  her  to  take  any  steps  of  her  own  accord.  He 
proposed  to  let  her  appear  when  and  how  he  judged  proper, 
so  that  he  might  gain  for  himself  the  merit  of  having  dis- 
covered her. 

Fanferlot's  first  step  was  to  try  to  calm  the  young  woman's 
excitement.  He  thought  it  easy  to  prove  to  her  that  the  slight- 
est interference  in  favor  of  Prosper  would  be  a  piece  of  folly. 
"What  will  you  gain  by  acting  thus,  my  dear  madame?"  he 
asked.  "Nothing.  I  can  assure  you  that  you  have  not  the  least 
chance  of  success.  Remember  that  you  will  seriously  compro- 
mise yourself.  Who  knows  if  you  will  not  be  suspected  as 
M.  Bertomy's  accomplice?" 

But  this  alarming  perspective,  which  had  frightened  Cavaillon 
into  foolishly  giving  up  a  letter  which  he  might  so  easily  have 
retained,  only  stimulated  Gipsy's  enthusiasm.  Man  calculates, 
while  woman  follows  the  inspirations  of  her  heart.  Our  most 
devoted  friend,  if  a  man,  hesitates  and  draws  back ;  if  a  woman, 


946  FILE    NUMBER   113 

rushes  undauntedly  forward,  regardless  of  the  danger.  "What 
matters  the  risk?"  she  exclaimed.  "I  don't  believe  any  danger 
exists;  but,  if  it  does,  so  much  the  better:  it  will  be  all  the 
more  to  my  credit.  I  am  sure  Prosper  is  innocent;  but,  if 
he  should  be  guilty,  I  wish  to  share  the  punishment  which 
awaits  him." 

Madame   Gipsy's   persistence   was  becoming   alarming.     She 

astily  drew  around  her  a  cashmere  shawl,  put  on  her  bonnet, 

and,    although   still   wearing   her   dressing-gown    and   slippers, 

declared  that  she  was  ready  to  walk  from  one  end  of  Paris  to 

the  other,  in  search  of  this  or  the  other  magistrate. 

"Come,  sir,"  she  said,  with  feverish  impatience.  "Are  you 
not  coming  with  me?" 

Fanferlot  was  perplexed.  Happily  he  had  always  several 
strings  to  his  bow.  Personal  considerations  having  no  hold 
upon  this  impulsive  nature,  he  resolved  to  appeal  to  her  interest 
in  Prosper. 

"I  am  at  your  command,  my  dear  lady,"  he  said;  "let  us  go 
if  you  desire  it ;  only  permit  me,  while  there  is  yet  time,  to 
say  that  we  are  very  probably  about  to  do  great  injury  to 
M.  Bertomy." 

"In  what  way,  if  you  please?" 

"Because  we  are  taking  a  step  that  he  expressly  forbade  in 
his  letter;  we  are  surprising  him — giving  him  no  warning." 

Nina  scornfully  tossed  her  head,  and  replied:  "There  are 
some  people  who  must  be  saved  without  warning,  and  against 
their  will.  I  know  Prosper;  he  is  just  the  man  to  let  him- 
self be  murdered  without  a  struggle,  without  speaking  a  word — 
to  give  himself  up  through  sheer  recklessness  and  despair." 

"Excuse  me,  madame,"  interrupted  the  detective;  "M.  Ber- 
tomy has  by  no  means  the  appearance  of  a  man  who  has  aban- 
doned himself  to  despair.  On  the  contrary,  I  think  he  has 
already  prepared  his  plan  of  defense.  By  showing  yourself, 
when  he  advises  you  to  remain  in  concealment,  you  will  very 
likely  render  his  most  careful  precautions  useless." 

Madame  Gipsy  was  silently  weighing  the  value  of  Fanferlot's 
objections.  Finally  she  said:  "I  can  not  remain  here  inactive 
without  attempting  to  contribute  in  some  way  to  his  safety. 
Can  you  not  understand  that  this  floor  burns  my  feet?" 

Evidently,  if  she  was  not  absolutely  convinced,  her  resolution 
was  shaken.  Fanferlot  saw  that  he  was  gaining  ground,  and 
this   certainty,  putting  him  more  at  east,  gave  weight  to  his 


FILE   NUMBER    113  947 

persuasive  eloquence.  "You  have  it  in  your  power,  madame," 
he  said,  "to  render  a  great  service  to  the  man  you  love." 

"In  what  way,  sir?  tell  me  in  what  way." 

"Obey  him,  my  child,"   said  Fanferlot  in   a  paternal  tone. 

Madame  Gipsy  evidently  expected  very  different  advice. 
"Obey,"  she  murmured,  "obey !" 

"It  is  your  duty,"  said  Fanferlot  with  grave  dignity;  "it  is 
your  sacred  duty." 

She  still  hesitated ;  and  he  took  from  the  table  Prosper's  note, 
which  she  had  laid  there,  and  continued:  "What!  M.  Bertomy 
at  the  most  trying  moment,  when  he  is  about  to  be  arrested, 
stops  to  point  out  your  line  of  conduct;  and  you  would  render 
vain  this  wise  precaution !  What  does  he  say  to  you  ?  Let  us 
read  over  this  note,  which  is  like  the  testament  of  his  liberty. 
He  says,  'If  you  love  me,  I  entreat  you,  obey.'  And  you  hesi- 
tate to  obey.  Then  you  do  not  love  him.  Can  you  not  under- 
stand, unhappy  child,  that  M.  Bertomy  has  his  reasons,  terrible, 
imperious  reasons,  for  your  remaining  in  obscurity  for  the 
present  ?" 

Fanferlot  understood  these  reasons  the  moment  he  put  his 
foot  in  the  sumptuous  apartment  of  the  Rue  Chaptal ;  and.  if 
he  did  not  expose  them  now,  it  was  because  he  kept  them  as 
a  good  general  keeps  his  reserve,  for  the  purpose  of  deciding 
the  victory.  Madame  Gipsy  was  intelligent  enough  to  divine 
these  reasons. 

"Reasons  for  my  hiding!"  thought  she.  "Prosper  wishes, 
then,  to  keep  every  one  in  ignorance  of  our  intimacy." 

She  remained  thoughtful  for  a  moment;  then  a  ray  of  light 
seemed  to  cross  her  mind,  and  she  exclaimed :  "Oh,  I  under- 
stand now!  Fool  that  I  was  for  not  seeing  it  before!  My 
presence  here,  where  I  have  been  for  a  year,  would  be  an 
overwhelming  charge  against  him.  An  inventory  of  my  pos- 
sessions would  be  taken — of  my  dresses,  my  laces,  my  jewels — 
and  my  luxury  would  be  brought  against  him  as  a  crime,  He 
would  be  asked  where  he  obtained  the  money  requisite  to  lavish 
all  these  elegancies  on  me." 

The  detective  bowed,  and  said:  "That  is  perfectly  true, 
madame." 

"Then  I  must  fly  at  once !  Who  knows  that  the  police  are 
not  already  warned,  and  may  appear  at  any  moment?" 

"Oh,"  said  Fanferlot  with  easy  assurance,  "you  have  plenty 
}f  time;  the  police  are  not  so  very  prompt." 


948  FILE   NUMBER   113 

"No  matter!" 

And,  leaving  the  detective  alone  in  the  parlor,  Madame  Nina 
hastily  ran  into  her  bedroom,  and  calling  her  maid,  her  cook, 
and  her  little  footman,  ordered  them  to  empty  her  drawers 
and  wardrobe  of  their  contents,  and  assisted  them  to  stuff  her 
best  clothing  and  jewels  into  her  trunks.  Suddenly  she  rushed 
back  to  Fanferlot,  and  said:  "Everything  will  be  ready  for  me 
to  start  in  a  few  minutes ;  but  where  am  I  to  go  ?" 

"Did  not  M.  Bertomy  say,  my  dear  lady,  to  the  other  end 
of  Paris?    To  a  hotel,  or  furnished  apartments." 

"But  I  don't  know  v/here  to  find  any." 

Fanferlot  seemed  to  be  reflecting;  but  he  had  great  difficulty 
in  concealing  his  delight  at  a  sudden  idea  that  flashed  upon 
him;  his  little  black  eyes  fairly  danced  with  joy.  "I  know  a 
hotel,"  he  said  at  last,  "but  it  might  not  suit  you.  It  is  not 
elegantly  furnished  like  this  apartment." 

"Should  I  be  comfortable  there?" 

"Upon  my  recommendation  you  would  be  treated  like  a 
queen,  and,  above  all,  you  would  be  kept  concealed." 

"Where  is  it?" 

"On  the  other  side  of  the  river,  on  the  Quai  Saint  Michel. 
It  is  called  the  Grand  Archangel,  and  is  kept  by  Madame 
Alexandre." 

Madame  Nina  was  never  long  making  up  her  mind.  "Here 
are  pen  and  paper,"  said  she,  "write  your  recommendation." 

Fanferlot  rapidly  wrote,  and  handed  her  the  letter,  saying: 
"With  these  three  lines,  madame,  you  can  make  Madame  Alex- 
andre do  anything  you  wish." 

"Very  good.  Now,  how  am  I  to  let  Cavaillon  know  my 
address?  It  was  he  who  should  have  brought  me  Prosper's 
letter." 

"He  was  unable  to  come,  madame,"  interrupted  the  detec- 
tive ;  "but  I  will  give  him  your  address." 

Madame  Gipsy  was  about  to  send  for  a  carriage,  but  Fan- 
ferlot said  he  was  in  a  hurry  and  would  procure  her  one.  He 
seemed  to  be  in  luck  that  day;  for  a  cab  was  passing  the  door, 
and  he  hailed  it.  "Wait  here,"  he  said  to  the  driver,  after 
telling  him  that  he  was  a  detective,  "for  a  little  brunette  who 
is  coming  down  with  some  trunks.  If  she  tells  you  to  drive 
her  to  the  Quai  Saint  Michel,  crack  your  whip;  if  she  gives 
you  any  other  address,  get  down  from  your  box  and  arrange 
your  harness.     I  will  keep  in  sight." 


FILE    NUMBER    113  949 

He  stepped  across  the  street,  and  stood  in  the  door  of  a 
wine-shop.  He  had  not  long  to  wait.  In  a  few  minutes  the 
loud  cracking  of  a  whip  apprised  him  that  Madame  Nina  had 
started  for  the  Hotel  of  the  Grand  Archangel.  "Aha !"  said 
he  gaily,  "I  hold  her  at  any  rate." 


AT  the  same  hour  that  Madame  Nina  Gipsy  was  seeking 
**•  refuge  at  the  Grand  Archangel,  so  highly  recommended 
by  Fanferlot,  Prosper  Bertomy  was  being  consigned  to  the 
depot  of  the  Prefecture  of  Police.  From  the  moment  he 
had  resumed  his  habitual  composure,  he  never  once  faltered. 
Vainly  did  the  people  around  him  watch  for  a  suspicious  ex- 
pression, or  any  sign  of  his  giving  way  under  the  embarrass- 
ment of  his  situation.  His  face  was  stolid  as  marble,  and  one 
would  have  supposed  him  insensible  to  the  horrors  of  his  con- 
dition had  not  his  heavy  breathing,  and  the  beads  of  perspira- 
tion standing  on  his  brow,  betrayed  the  intense  agony  he  was 
suffering. 

At  the  police  station,  where  Prosper  had  to  wait  for  two 
hours  while  the  commissary  went  to  receive  orders  from  higher 
authorities,  he  entered  into  conversation  with  the  two  police 
agents  who  had  charge  of  him.  At  twelve  o'clock  he  said  he 
was  hungry,  and  sent  to  a  restaurant  near  by  for  his  lunch, 
which  he  ate  with  a  good  appetite,  and  also  drank  nearly  a 
bottle  of  wine.  While  he  was  thus  occupied,  several  clerks  from 
the  Prefecture,  who  have  to  transact  business  daily  with  the 
commissaries  of  police,  eyed  him  curiously.  They  all  formed 
the  same  opinion,  and  admiringly  said  to  each  other:  "Well, 
he  is  certainly  made  of  strong  stuff,  that  fellow!"  And  again: 
"The  young  gentleman  doesn't  seem  to  care  much.  He  has 
evidently  something  in  reserve." 

When  he  was  told  that  a  cab  was  waiting  for  him  at  the 
door,  he  at  once  rose ;  but,  before  going  out,  requested  per- 
mission to  light  a  cigar,  which  was  granted  him.  A  flower-girl 
stood  just  by  the  door,  and  he  stopped  and  bought  a  bunch  of 


950  FILE    NUMBER   113 

violets  of  her.     The  girl,  seeing  that  he  was  arrested,  said,  by 
way  of  thanks:  "Good  luck  to  you,  my  poor  gentleman!" 

Prosper  appeared  touched  by  this  mark  of  interest,  and  re- 
plied: "Thanks,  my  good  girl,  but  'tis  a  long  time  since  luck 
has  been  in  my  way." 

It  was  magnificent  weather,  a  bright  spring  morning.  As 
the  cab  went  along  the  Rue  Montmartre,  Prosper  kept  his  head 
out  of  the  window,  smilingly  complaining  at  the  same  time  at 
being  imprisoned  on  such  a  lovely  day,  when  everything  outside 
was  so  sunny  and  pleasant.  "It  is  singular,"  he  said,  "I  never 
felt  so  great  a  desire  to  take  a  walk." 

One  of  the  police  agents,  a  large,  jovial,  red-faced  man, 
received  this  remark  with  a  hearty  burst  of  laughter,  and  said: 
"I  understand." 

While  Prosper  was  going  through  the  formalities  of  the  com- 
mitment, he  replied  with  haughty  brevity  to  the  indispensable 
questions  that  were  put  to  him.  But  after,  being  ordered  to 
empty  his  pockets  on  the  table,  they  began  to  search  him,  his 
eyes  flashed  with  indignation,  and  a  single  tear  coursed  down 
his  flushed  cheek.  In  an  instant  he  had  recovered  his  stony 
calmness,  and  stood  up  motionless,  with  his  arms  raised  in  the 
air,  so  that  the  rough  creatures  about  him  could  more  con- 
veniently ransack  him  from  head  to  foot,  to  assure  themselves 
that  he  had  no  suspicious  object  concealed  under  his  clothes. 

The  search  would  have,  perhaps,  been  carried  to  the  most 
ignominious  lengths  but  for  the  intervention  of  a  middle-aged 
man  of  rather  distinguished  appearance,  who  wore  a  white 
cravat  and  gold  spectacles,  and  was  sitting  at  his  ease  by  the 
fire.  He  started  with  surprise,  and  seemed  much  agitated,  when 
he  saw  Prosper  brought  in  by  the  officers ;  he  stepped  forward, 
as  if  about  to  speak  to  him,  then  suddenly  changed  his  mind, 
and  sat  down  again. 

In  spite  of  his  own  troubles,  Prosper  could  not  help  per- 
ceiving that  this  man  kept  his  eyes  fixed  upon  him.  Did  he 
know  him  ?  Vainly  did  he  try  to  recollect  having  met  him 
before.  This  individual,  treated  with  all  the  deference  due  to 
a  chief,  was  no  less  a  personage  than  M.  Lecoq,  a  celebrated 
member  of  the  detective  police.  When  the  men  who  were 
searching  Prosper  were  about  to  take  off  his  boots,  under  the 
idea  that  a  knife  might  be  concealed  in  them,  M.  Lecoq  waved 
them  aside  with  an  air  of  authority,  and  said:  "You  have  done 
enough." 


FILE    NUMBER    113  951 

He  was  obeyed.  All  the  formalities  being  ended,  the  unfor- 
tunate cashier  was  taken  to  a  narrow  cell;  the  heavily  barred 
door  was  swung  to  and  locked  upon  him ;  he  breathed  freely ; 
at  last  he  was  alone.  Yes,  he  believed  himself  to  be  alone. 
He  was  ignorant  that  a  prison  is  made  of  glass,  that  the  pris- 
oner is  like  a  miserable  insect  under  the  microscope  of  an 
entomologist. 

He  knew  not  that  the  walls  have  listening  ears  and 
watchful  eyes.  He  felt  so  certain  of  being  alone  that  he  at 
once  gave  vent  to  his  suppressed  feelings,  and,  dropping  his 
mask  of  impassibility,  burst  into  a  flood  of  tears.  His  long- 
restrained  anger  now  flashed  out  like  a  smoldering  fire.  In  a 
paroxysm  of  rage  he  uttered  imprecations  and  curses.  He 
dashed  himself  against  the  prison  walls  like  a  wild  beast  in 
a  cage. 

Prosper  Bertomy  was  not  the  man  he  appeared  to  be.  This 
haughty,  correct  gentleman  had  ardent  passions  and  a  fiery 
temperament.  One  day,  when  he  was  about  twenty-four  years 
of  age,  he  had  become  suddenly  fired  by  ambition.  While  all 
of  his  desires  were  repressed — imprisoned  in  his  low  estate,  like 
an  athlete  in  a  strait-waistcoat — seeing  around  him  all  those 
rich  people  with  whom  money  served  the  purpose  of  the  wand 
in  the  fairy  tale,  he  envied  them  their  lot. 

He  studied  the  beginnings  of  these  financial  princes,  and 
found  that  at  the  starting-point  they  possessed  far  less  than 
himself.  How,  then,  had  they  succeeded?  By  the  force  of 
energy,  industry,  and  assurance.  He  determined  to  imitate  and 
excel  them. 

From  that  day,  with  a  force  of  will  much  less  rare  than  we 
think,  he  imposed  silence  upon  his  instincts.  He  reformed  not 
his  character,  but  the  outside  of  his  character;  and  his  efforts 
were  not  without  success.  Those  who  knew  him  had  faith  in 
his  character;  and  his  capabilities  and  ambition  inspired  the 
prophecy  that  he  would  be  successful  in  attaining  eminence 
and  wealth. 

And  the  end  of  all  was  this — to  be  imprisoned  for  robbery; 
that  is,  ruined ! 

For  he  did  not  attempt  to  deceive  himself.  He  knew*  that, 
guilty  or  innocent,  a  man  once  suspected  is  as  ineffaceably 
branded  as  the  shoulder  of  a  galley-slave.  Therefore,  what 
was  the  use  of  struggling?  What  benefit  was  a  triumph  which 
could  not  wash  out  the  stain  ? 


952  FILE    NUMBER   113 

When  the  prison  attendant  brought  him  his  supper,  he  found 
him  lying  on  his  mattress,  with  his  face  buried  in  the  pillow, 
weeping  bitterly.  Ah,  he  was  not  hungry  now !  Now  that  he 
was  alone,  he  was  fed  upon  his  own  bitter  thoughts.  He  sank 
from  a  state  of  frenzy  into  one  of  stupefying  despair,  and  vainly 
did  he  endeavor  to  clear  his  confused  mind,  and  account  for 
the  dark  cloud  gathering  about  him;  no  loophole  for  escape 
could  he  discover. 

The  night  was  long  and  terrible,  and  for  the  first  time  he 
had  nothing  to  count  the  hours  by,  as  they  slowly  dragged  on, 
but  the  measured  tread  of  the  patrol  who  came  to  relieve  the 
sentinels.     He  was  now  thoroughly  wretched. 

At  dawn  he  dropped  into  a  sleep,  a  heavy,  oppressive  sleep, 
which  was  more  wearisome  than  refreshing;  from  which  he 
was  startled  by  the  rough  voice  of  the  jailer. 

"Come,  sir!"  said  he,  "it  is  time  for  you  to  appear  before 
the  investigating  magistrate." 

Prosper  jumped  up  at  once,  and,  without  stopping  to  set  right 
his  disordered  toilet,  said:  "I  am  ready,  lead  the  way." 

The  jailer  remarked  as  they  walked  along:  "You  are  very 
fortunate  in  having  your  case  brought  before  a  very  worthy 
man."    He  was  right. 

Endowed  with  remarkable  penetration,  firm,  unbiased,  equally 
free  from  false  pity  and  excessive  severity,  M.  Patrigent  pos- 
sessed in  an  eminent  degree  all  the  qualities  necessary  for  the 
delicate  and  arduous  office  of  investigating  magistrate.  Per- 
haps he  was  wanting  in  the  feverish  activity  which  is  sometimes 
necessary  for  coming  to  a  quick  and  just  decision;  but  he  pos- 
sessed unwearying  patience,  which  nothing  could  discourage. 
He  would  cheerfully  devote  years  to  the  examination  of  a  case ; 
he  was  even  now  engaged  in  an  affair  of  Belgian  bank-notes, 
of  which  he  did  not  collect  all  the  threads,  and  solve  the  mys- 
tery, until  after  four  years'  investigation.  Thus  it  was  always 
to  him  that  they  brought  the  endless  proceedings,  the  half- 
finished  inquiries,  and  the  incomplete  processes. 

This  was  the  man  before  whom  Prosper  was  being  conducted, 
and  he  was  certainly  taken  by  a  difficult  road.  He  was  escorted 
along"  a  corridor,  through  a  room  full  of  police  agents,  down  a 
narrow  flight  of  steps,  across  a  kind  of  vault,  and  then  up  a 
steep  staircase  which  seemed  to  have  no  end.  Finally  he  reached 
a  long,  narrow  gallery,  on  which  opened  numerous  doors,  bear- 
ing different  numbers.     The  custodian  of  the  unhappy  cashier 


FILE    NUMBER    113  958 

stopped  before  one  of  these  doors,  and  said :  "Here  we  are,  and 
here  your  fate  will  be  decided." 

At  this  remark,  uttered  in  a  tone  of  deep  commiseration, 
Prosper  could  not  refrain  from  shuddering.  It  was  only  too 
true,  that  on  the  other  side  of  the  door  was  a  man  who  would 
interrogate  him,  and  according  to  his  answers  would  either  re- 
lease him  from  custody  or  commit  him  for  trial.  Summoning 
all  his  courage,  he  turned  the  door-knob,  and  was  about  to 
enter  when  the  jailer  stopped  him.  "Don't  be  in  such  haste," 
he  said;  "you  must  sit  down  here  and  wait  till  your  turn  comes; 
then  you  will  be  called."  The  wretched  man  obeyed,  and  his 
keeper  took  a  seat  beside  him. 

Nothing  is  more  doleful  and  terrible  than  having  to  wait  in 
this  gloomy  gallery  of  the  investigating  magistrates.  Occupy- 
ing the  entire  length  of  the  wall  is  a  wooden  bench  blackened 
by  constant  use.  This  bench  has  for  the  last  ten  years  been 
daily  occupied  by  the  murderers,  thieves,  and  suspicious  char- 
acters of  the  department  of  the  Seine.  Sooner  or  later,  as  filth 
rushes  to  a  sewer,  does  crime  reach  this  dreadful  gallery  with 
one  door  opening  on  the  galleys,  the  other  on  the  scaffold.  This 
place  was  bitterly  though  vulgarly  denominated  by  a  certain 
magistrate  as  the  great  public  wash-house  of  all  the  foul  linen 
in  Paris. 

When  Prosper  reached  the  gallery  it  was  full  of  people.  The 
bench  was  almost  entirely  occupied.  Close  beside  him,  so  as 
to  touch  his  shoulder,  sat  a  man  with  a  sinister  countenance, 
dressed  in  rags. 

Before  each  door,  giving  access  to  the  offices  of  the  investi- 
gating magistrates,  stood  groups  of  witnesses  conversing  in  an 
undertone.  Gendarmes  were  constantly  arriving  and  departing 
with  prisoners.  Sometimes,  above  the  noise  of  their  heavy 
tramping  along  the  flagstones,  a  woman's  stifled  sob  might  be 
heard,  when,  looking  around,  you  would  see  some  poor  mother 
or  wife  with  her  face  buried  in  her  handkerchief,  weeping  bit- 
terly. At  short  intervals  a  door  would  open  and  shut,  when  an 
officer  would  call  out  a  name  or  number. 

The  stifling  atmosphere,  and  the  sight  of  so  much  misery, 
made  Prosper  feel  ill  and  faint ;  he  felt  as  if  another  five  min- 
utes' stay  among  these  wretched  creatures  would  make  him 
deathly  sick,  when  a  little  old  man  dressed  in  black,  wearing 
a  steel  chain,  the  insignia  of  his  office,  cried  out:  "Prosper 
Bertomy !" 


954  FILE   NUMBER    113 

The  unhappy  man  rose,  and,  without  knowing  how,  found 
himself  in  the  room  of  the  investigating  magistrate.  For  a 
moment  he  was  blinded.  He  had  come  out  of  a  dark  passage ; 
and  the  room  in  which  he  now  found  himself  had  a  window 
directly  opposite  the  door,  so  that  a  flood  of  light  streamed  sud- 
denly upon  him.  This  room,  like  all  the  others  in  the  gallery, 
was  of  very  ordinary  appearance,  and  small  and  dingy.  The 
wall  was  covered  with  a  cheap  dark  paper,  and  on  the  floor 
was  a  hideous  brown  carpet,  very  much  worn.  Opposite  the 
door  was  a  large  writing-table  strewn  with  bundles  of  papers, 
furnishing  the  antecedents  of  those  persons  who  were  subjected 
to  examinations,  and  behind  was  seated  the  magistrate,  imme- 
diately facing  those  who  entered,  so  that  his  countenance  re- 
mained in  the  shade,  while  that  of  the  prisoner  or  witness  whom 
he  questioned  was  in  a  glare  of  light. 

Before  a  little  table,  on  the  right,  sat  a  clerk,  the  indispensable 
auxiliary  of  the  magistrate,  engaged  in  writing. 

But  Prosper  observed  none  of  these  details:  his  whole  atten- 
tion was  concentrated  upon  the  arbiter  of  his  fate,  and  as  he 
closely  examined  his  face  he  was  convinced  that  the  jailer  was 
right  in  styling  him  an  honorable  man.  M.  Patrigent's  homely 
face,  with  its  irregular  outline  and  short  red  whiskers,  lit  up 
by  a  pair  of  bright,  intelligent  eyes,  and  a  kindly  expression, 
was  calculated  to  impress  one  favorably  at  first  sight.  "Take 
a  chair,"  he  said  to  Prosper. 

This  little  attention  was  gratefully  welcomed  by  the  prisoner, 
for  he  had  expected  to  be  treated  with  harsh  contempt.  He 
looked  upon  it  as  a  good  sign,  and  his  mind  felt  a  slight  relief. 
M.  Patrigent  turned  toward  the  clerk,  and  said :  "We  will  begin 
now,  Sigault;  pay  attention." 

Looking  at  Prosper,  he  then  asked  him  his  name. 

"Auguste  Prosper  Bertomy,"  replied  the  cashier. 

"How  old  are  you?" 

"I  shall  be  thirty  on  the  fifth  of  next  May." 

"What  is  your  profession?" 

"I  am — that  is,  I  was — chief  cashier  in  M.  Andre  Fauvel's 
bank." 

The  magistrate  stopped  to  consult  a  little  memorandum  book 
lying  on  his  desk.  Prosper,  who  followed  closely  his  every 
movement,  began  to  be  hopeful,  saying  to  himself  that  never 
would  a  man  seemingly  so  unprejudiced  be  cruel  enough  to  send 
him  to  prison  again.     After  finding  what  he  looked  for,   M. 


FILE    NUMBER    113  955 

Patrigent  resumed  the  examination.  "Where  do  you  live?" 
he  asked. 

"At  No.  39,  Rue  Chaptal,  for  the  last  four  years.  Before 
that  time  I  lived  at  No.  y,  Boulevard  des  Batignolles." 

"Where  were  you  horn?" 

"At  Beaucaire,  in  the  department  of  Lo  Gard." 

"Are  your  parents  living?" 

"My  mother  died  two  years  ago;  my  father  is  still  living." 

"Does  he  reside  in  Paris?" 

"No.  sir;  he  lives  at  Beaucaire  with  my  sister,  who  married 
one  of  the  engineers  of  the  Southern  Canal."  It  was  in  broken 
accents  that  Prosper  answered  these  last  questions.  Though 
there  are  moments  in  the  life  of  a  man  when  home  memories 
encourage  and  console  him,  there  are  also  moments  when  he 
would  be  thankful  to  be  without  a  single  tie,  when  he  bitterly 
regrets  that  he  is  not  alone  in  the  world. 

M.  Patrigent  observed  the  prisoner's  emotion  when  he  spoke 
of  his  parents.     "What  is  your  father's  calling?"  he  continued. 

"He  was  formerly  a  superintendent  of  roads  and  bridges; 
then  he  was  employed  on  the  Southern  Canal  like  my  brother- 
in-law;  now  he  has  retired  on  a  pension." 

There  was  a  moment's  silence.  The  magistrate  had  turned 
his  chair  round,  so  that,  although  his  head  was  apparently 
averted,  he  had  a  good  view  of  the  workings  of  Prosper's  coun- 
tenance. "Well,"  he  said  abruptly,  "you  are  accused  of  having 
robbed  M.  Fauvel  of  three  hundred  and  fifty  thousand  francs." 

During  the  last  twenty-four  hours  the  wretched  young  man 
had  had  time  to  familiarize  himself  with  the  terrible  idea  of 
this  accusation;  and  yet,  uttered  as  it  was  now  in  this  formal, 
brief  tone,  it  seemed  to  strike  him  with  a  horror  which  ren- 
dered him  incapable  of  opening  his  lips.  "What  have  you  to 
answer?"  asked  the  investigating  magistrate. 

"That  I  am  innocent,  sir;  I  swear  that  I  am  innocent!" 

"I  hope  you  are,"  said  M.  Patrigent,  "and  you  may  count 
upon  me  to  assist  you,  to  the  extent  of  my  ability,  in  proving 
your  innocence.  You  must  have  some  facts  to  allege  in  your 
defense,  some  proofs  you  can  furnish  me  with." 

"Ah,  sir,  what  can  I  say  when  I  am  myself  unable  to  under- 
stand this  dreadful  business?  I  can  only  refer  you  to  my 
past  life." 

The  magistrate  interrupted  him :  "Let  us  be  specific ;  the  rob- 
bery was  committed  under  circumstances  that  prevent  suspicion 


956  FILE   NUMBER    113 

from  falling  upon  any  one  but  M.  Fauvel  and  yourself.  Do 
you  suspect  any  one  else?" 

"No,  sir." 

"You  declare  yourself  to  be  innocent,  therefore  the  guilty 
party  must  be  M.  Fauvel."  Prosper  remained  silent.  "Have 
you,"  persisted  the  magistrate,  "any  cause  for  believing  that 
M.  Fauvel  robbed  himself?"  The  prisoner  preserved  a  rigid 
silence. 

"I  see,"  said  the  magistrate,  "that  you  need  time  for  reflec- 
tion. Listen  to  the  reading  of  your  examination,  and  after 
signing  it  you  will  return  to  prison." 

The  unhappy  man  was  overcome.  The  last  ray  of  hope  was 
gone.  He  heard  nothing  of  what  Sigault  read,  and  he  signed 
the  paper  without  looking  at  it.  He  tottered  as  he  left  the 
magistrate's  room,  so  that  the  agent  who  had  him  in  charge 
was  forced  to  support  him.  "I  fear  your  case  looks  bad,"  said 
the  man,  "but  don't  be  disheartened;  keep  up  your  courage." 

Courage !  Prosper  had  not  a  spark  of  it  when  he  returned 
to  his  cell ;  but  his  heart  was  filled  with  anger  and  resentment. 
He  had  determined  that  he  would  defend  himself  before  the 
magistrate,  that  he  would  prove  his  innocence ;  and  he  had  not 
had  time  to  do  so.  He  reproached  himself  bitterly  for  having 
trusted  to  the  magistrate's  benevolent  face.  "What  a  farce," 
he  angrily  exclaimed,  "to  call  that  an  examination  !" 

It  was  not  really  an  examination  that  Prosper  had  been  sub- 
jected to,  but  a  mere  formality.  In  summoning  him,  M.  Patri- 
gent  obeyed  Article  93  of  the  Criminal  Code,  which  says,  "Every 
suspected  person  under  arrest  must  be  examined  within  twenty- 
four  hours."  But  it  is  not  in  twenty-four  hours,  especially  in 
a  case  like  this,  with  no  evidence  or  material  proof,  that  a 
magistrate  can  collect  the  materials  for  an  examination.  To 
triumph  over  the  obstinate  defense  of  a  prisoner  who  shuts 
himself  up  in  absolute  denial  as  though  in  a  fortress,  valid 
proofs  are  needed.  These  weapons  M.  Patrigent  was  busily 
preparing. 

If  Prosper  had  remained  a  little  longer  in  the  gallery,  he 
would  have  seen  the  same  official  who  had  called  him  come 
from  the  magistrate's  room,  and  cry  out,  No.  3.  The  witness 
who  was  awaiting  his  turn,  and  answered  the  call  for  No.  3, 
was  M.  Fauvel. 

The  banker  was  no  longer  the  same  man.  Yesterday  he  was 
kind  and  affable  in  his  manner;  now,  as  he  entered  the  magis- 


FILE    NUMBER    113  957 

trate's  room,  he  seemed  irritated  against  his  cashier.  Reflec- 
tion, which  usually  brings  calmness  and  a  desire  to  pardon,  had 
in  his  case  led  to  anger  and  a  thirst  for  vengeance.  The  in- 
evitable questions  which  commence  every  examination  had 
scarcely  been  addressed  to  him  before  his  impetuous  temper 
gained  the  mastery,  and  he  burst  forth  in  invectives  against 
Prosper. 

M.  Patrigent  was  obliged  to  impose  silence  upon  the  banker, 
reminding  him  of  what  was  due  to  himself,  no  matter  what 
wrongs  he  had  suffered  at  the  hands  of  his  clerk.  Although 
he  had  very  slightly  examined  Prosper,  the  magistrate  was  now 
scrupulously  attentive  and  particular  in  having  every  question 
answered.  Prosper's  examination  had  been  a  mere  formality, 
the  verifying  of  a  positive  fact.  M.  Patrigent  now  occupied 
himself  in  ferreting  out  all  the  attendant  circumstances  and  the 
most  trifling  particulars,  in  order  to  group  them  together,  and 
arrive  at  a  just  conclusion. 

"Let  us  proceed  with  regularity,"  said  the  magistrate  to  M. 
Fauvel,  "and  pray  confine  yourself  to  answering  my  questions. 
Did  you  ever  suspect  your  cashier  of  being  dishonest?" 

"Certainly  not.  Yet  there  were  reasons  which  should  have 
made  me  hesitate  to  trust  him." 

"What  reasons?" 

"M.  Bertomy  gambled.  I  have  known  of  his  spending  whole 
nights  at  the  card-table,  and  losing  large  sums  of  money.  He 
was  intimate  with  an  unprincipled  set.  Once  he  was  mixed  up 
with  one  of  my  customers,  M.  de  Clameran.  in  a  scandalous 
gambling  affair  at  the  house  of  some  disreputable  woman,  and 
which  ended  in  an  investigation  at  the  police  court." 

For  some  minutes  the  banker  continued  to  revile  Prosper. 
"You  must  confess,  sir,"  interrupted  the  magistrate,  "that  you 
were  very  imprudent,  if  not  culpable,  to  have  entrusted  the 
contents  of  your  safe  to  such  a  man." 

"Ah,  sir,  Prosper  was  not  always  thus.  Until  the  past  year 
he  was  a  perfect  model  for  men  of  his  age.  He  frequented  my 
house  as  one  of  my  family ;  he  spent  all  of  his  evenings  with 
us,  and  was  the  bosom  friend  of  my  eldest  son  Lucien.  One 
day  he  suddenly  left  us,  and  never  came  to  the  house  again. 
Yet  I  had  every  reason  to  believe  him  to  be  attached  to  my 
niece  Madeleine." 

M.  Patrigent  had  an  odd  way  of  contracting  his  brows  when 
he  thought  he  had  discovered  some  new  proof.     He  now  did 


958  FILE   NUMBER    113 

this,  and  said:  "Might  not  this  admiration  for  the  young  lady 
have  been  the  cause  of  M.  Bertomy's  estrangement?" 

"How  so?"  asked  the  banker  with  surprise.  "I  was  willing 
to  bestow  Madeleine's  hand  upon  him,  and,  to  be  frank,  was 
astonished  that  he  did  not  ask  for  her  in  marriage.  My  niece 
would  be  a  good  match  for  any  man,  and  he  should  have  con- 
sidered himself  fortunate  in  obtaining  her.  She  is  very  hand- 
some, and  her  dowry  will  be  half  a  million." 

"Then  you  can  discover  no  motive  for  your  cashier's  con- 
duct ?" 

"It  is  impossible  for  me  to  account  for  it.  I  have,  however, 
always  supposed  that  Prosper  was  led  astray  by  a  young  man 
whom  he  met  at  my  house  about  that  time,  M.  Raoul  de 
Lagors." 

"Ah  !  and  who  is  this  young  man  ?" 

"A  relative  of  my  wife's;  a  very  attractive,  intelligent  young 
man,  somewhat  wild,  but  rich  enough  to  pay  for  his  follies." 

The  magistrate  wrote  the  name  Lagors  at  the  bottom  of  an 
already  long  list  of  his  memoranda.  "Now,"  he  said,  "let  us 
come  to  the  point.  You  are  sure  that  the  theft  was  not  com- 
mitted by  any  one  of  your  household?" 

"Quite  sure,  sir." 

"You  always  kept  your  key?" 

"I  generally  carried  it  about  on  my  person ;  and  whenever 
I  left  it  at  home,  I  placed  it  in  the  drawer  of  the  secretary  in 
my  bedroom." 

"Where  was  it  on  the  evening  of  the  robbery?" 

"In  my  secretary." 

"But  then—" 

"Excuse  me  for  interrupting  you,"  said  M.  Fauvel,  "and  per- 
mit me  to  tell  you  that,  to  a  safe  like  mine,  the  key  is  of  no 
importance.  To  open  it,  one  must  know  the  word  upon  which 
the  five  movable  buttons  turn.  With  the  word  one  can  even 
open  it  without  the  key;  but  without  the  word — " 

"And  you  never  told  this  word  to  any  one?" 

"To  no  one,  sir,  and  sometimes  I  should  have  been  puzzled 
to  know  myself  with  what  word  the  safe  had  been  closed. 
Prosper  would  change  it  when  he  chose,  and  then  inform  me 
of  the  change,  but  I  often  forgot  it." 

"Had  you  forgotten  it  on  the  day  of  the  theft  ?" 

"No;  the  word  had  been  changed  the  day  before;  and  its 
peculiarity  struck  me." 


FILE   NUMBER   113  959 

"What  was  it  ?" 

"Gipsy — g-i-p-s-y,"  said  the  banker,  spelling  the  name. 

M.  Patrigent  wrote  down  this  name.  "One  more  question, 
sir,"  said  he,  "were  you  at  home  the  evening  before  the 
robbery  ?" 

"No ;  I  dined  and  spent  the  evening  with  a  friend ;  when  I 
returned  home,  about  one  o'clock,  my  wife  had  retired,  and 
I  went  to  bed  immediately." 

"And  you  were  not  aware  of  the  amount  of  money  in  the 
safe?" 

"Absolutely.  In  conformity  with  my  positive  orders,  I  could 
only  suppose  that  a  small  sum  had  been  left  there  overnight; 
I  stated  this  fact  to  the  commissary  in  M.  Bertomy's  presence, 
and  he  acknowledged  it  to  be  the  case." 

"It  is  perfectly  correct,  sir:  the  commissary's  report  proves 
it."  M.  Patrigent  was  for  a  time  silent.  To  him  everything 
depended  upon  this  one  fact,  that  the  banker  was  unaware  cf 
the  three  hundred  and  fifty  thousand  francs  being  in  the  safe, 
and  Prosper  had  disobeyed  orders  by  placing  them  there  over- 
night; hence  the  conclusion  was  very  easily  drawn. 

Seeing  that  his  examination  was  over,  the  banker  thought 
he  would  relieve  his  mind  of  what  was  weighing  upon  it.  "I 
believe  myself  above  suspicion,  sir,"  he  began,  "and  yet  I  can 
never  rest  easy  until  Bertomy's  guilt  has  been  clearly  proved. 
Calumny  prefers  attacking  a  successful  man,  and  I  may  be 
calumniated :  three  hundred  and  fifty  thousand  francs  is  a  for- 
tune capable  of  tempting  even  a  rich  man.  I  should  be  obliged 
if  you  would  have  the  condition  of  my  affairs  strictly  examined. 
This  examination  will  prove  that  I  could  have  had  no  interest 
in  robbing  my  own  safe.    The  prosperous  condition — " 

"That  is  sufficient,  sir." 

M.  Patrigent  was  already  well  informed  of  the  high  standing 
of  the  banker,  and  knew  almost  as  much  of  his  affairs  as  M. 
Fauvel  himself.  He  asked  him  to  sign  his  testimony,  and  then 
escorted  him  to  the  door  of  his  office,  a  rare  favor  on  his  part. 

When  M.  Fauvel  had  left  the  room,  Sigault  indulged  in  a 
remark.  "This  seems  to  be  a  very  cloudy  case,"  he  said ;  "if 
the  cashier  is  shrewd  and  firm,  it  will  be  difficult  to  convict 
him." 

"Perhaps  it  will,"  said  the  magistrate;  "but  let  us  hear  what 
the  other  witnesses  have  to  say." 

The  person  who  answered  to  the  call  for  No.  4  was  Lucien, 


960  FILE   NUMBER   113 

M.  Fauvel's  eldest  son.  He  was  a  tall,  handsome  young  man 
of  twenty-two.  To  the  magistrate's  questions  he  replied  that 
he  was  very  fond  of  Prosper,  was  once  very  intimate  with  him, 
and  had  always  regarded  him  as  a  strictly  honorable  man, 
incapable  of  doing  anything  unbecoming  a  gentleman.  He  de- 
clared that  he  could  not  imagine  what  fatal  circumstances 
could  have  induced  Prosper  to  commit  the  theft.  He  knew  that 
he  played  cards,  but  not  to  the  extent  that  was  reported.  He 
had  never  known  him  to  indulge  in  expenses  beyond  his  means. 
In  regard  to  his  cousin  Madeleine,  he  replied:  "I  always 
thought  that  Prosper  was  in  love  with  Madeleine,  and,  until 
yesterday,  I  was  certain  he  would  marry  her,  knowing  that 
my  father  would  not  oppose  their  union.  I  have  always  attrib- 
uted the  discontinuance  of  Prosper's  visits  to  a  quarrel  with  my 
cousin,  but  supposed  they  would  ultimately  become  reconciled." 

This  information  threw  more  light  upon  Prosper's  past  life 
than  that  furnished  by  M.  Fauvel,  but  did  not  apparently  dis- 
close any  evidence  which  could  be  used  in  the  present  state  of 
affairs.     Lucien  signed  his  deposition,  and  withdrew. 

Cavaillon's  turn  for  examination  came  next.  The  poor  fellow 
was  in  a  pitiable  state  of  mind  when  he  appeared  before  the 
magistrate.  Having  confided  to  a  friend  his  adventure  with 
the  detective,  as  a  great  secret,  and  being  jeered  at  for  his 
cowardice  in  giving  up  the  note,  he  felt  great  remorse,  and 
passed  the  night  in  reproaching  himself  for  having  ruined 
Prosper.  He  endeavored  to  repair,  as  well  as  he  could,  what 
he  called  his  treason.  He  did  not  exactly  accuse  M.  Fauvel, 
but  he  courageously  declared  that  he  was  the  cashier's  friend, 
and  that  he  was  as  certain  of  his  innocence  as  he  was  of  his 
own.  Unfortunately,  besides  having  no  proofs  to  strengthen 
his  assertions,  the  latter  were  deprived  of  most  of  their  value 
by  his  violent  professions  of  friendship  for  the  accused. 

After  Cavaillon,  six  or  eight  clerks  of  Fauvel's  bank  suc- 
cessively defiled  in  the  magistrate's  room ;  but  their  depositions 
were  nearly  all  insignificant.  One  of  them,  however,  stated  a 
fact  which  the  magistrate  carefully  noted.  He  said  he  knew 
that  Prosper  had  speculated  on  the  Bourse  through  the  medium 
of  M.  Raoul  de  Lagors,  and  had  gained  immense  sums.  Five 
o'clock  struck  before  the  list  of  witnesses  summoned  for  the 
day  was  exhausted.  But  M.  Patrigent's  task  was  not  yet  fin- 
ished. He  rang  for  his  attendant,  who  instantly  appeared,  when 
he  said  to  him:  "Go  at  once  and  bring  Fanferlot." 


FILE    NUMBER    113  961 

It  was  some  time  before  the  detective  answered  the  summons. 
Having  met  a  colleague  in  the  gallery,  he  thought  it  his  duty 
to  treat  him ;  and  the  official  had  to  fetch  him  from  the  wine- 
shop at  the  corner. 

"How  is  it  that  you  keep  people  waiting?"  said  the  magis- 
trate, when  the  detective  entered  bowing  and  scraping.  Fan- 
ferlot  bowed  more  profoundly  still.  Despite  his  smiling  face, 
he  was  very  uneasy.  To  unravel  the  Bertomy  case  alone,  it 
was  requisite  to  play  a  double  game  that  might  be  discovered 
at  any  moment.  In  serving  at  the  same  time  the  cause  of 
justice  and  his  own  ambition,  he  ran  great  risks,  the  least  of 
which  was  the  losing  of  his  place. 

"I  have  had  a  great  deal  to  do,"  he  said,  to  excuse  himself, 
"and  have  not  wasted  any  time."  And  he  began  to  give  a  de- 
tailed account  of  his  movements.  He  was  embarrassed,  for  he 
spoke  with  all  sorts  of  restrictions,  picking  out  what  was  to  be 
said,  and  avoiding  what  was  to  be  left  unsaid.  Thus  he  gave 
the  history  of  Cavaillon's  letter,  which  he  handed  to  the  magis- 
trate; but  he  did  not  breathe  a  word  of  Madeleine.  On  the 
other  hand,  he  furnished  minute  biographical  details  of  Prosper 
and  Madame  Gipsy,  which  he  had  collected  from  various  quar- 
ters during  the  day. 

As  the  detective  progressed,  M.  Patrigent's  conviction  was 
strengthened.  "This  young  man  is  evidently  guilty,"  he  mur- 
mured. Fanferlot  did  not  reply ;  his  opinion  was  different,  but 
he  was  delighted  that  the  magistrate  was  on  the  wrong  track, 
thinking  that  his  own  glorification  would  thereby  be  the  greater 
when  he  discovered  the  real  culprit.  True,  this  grand  dis- 
covery was  as  far  off  as  it  had  ever  been. 

After  hearing  all  he  had  to  say,  the  magistrate  dismissed 
Fanferlot,  telling  him  to  return  the  next  day.  "Above  all,"  he 
said,  as  Fanferlot  left  the  room,  "do  not  lose  sight  of  the 
woman  Gipsy;  she  must  know  where  the  money  is,  and  can 
put  us  on  the  right  scent." 

Fanferlot  smiled  cunningly.  "You  may  rest  easy  about  that, 
sir,"  replied  he ;  "the  lady  is  in  good  hands." 

Left  to  himself,  although  the  evening  was  far  advanced,  M. 
Patrigent  continued  to  busy  himself  with  the  case,  and  to  ar- 
range for  the  rest  of  the  depositions  being  taken.  The  affair  had 
obtained  complete  possession  of  his  mind ;  it  was,  at  the  same 
time,  puzzling  and  attractive.  It  seemed  to  be  surrounded  by  a 
cloud  of  mystery,  which  he  determined  to  penetrate  and  dispel. 

Gab.— V  ol.  IV  C 


962 


FILE    NUMBER    113 


The  next  morning  he  was  in  his  room  much  earlier  than 
usual.  On  this  day  he  examined  Madame  Gipsy,  recalled  Ca- 
vaillon,  and  sent  again  for  M.  Fauvel.  For  several  days  he 
displayed  the  same  activity.  Of  all  the  witnesses  summoned, 
only  two  failed  to  appear.  One  was  the  messenger  sent  by 
Prosper  to  bring  the  money  from  the  Bank  of  France,  and  who 
was  ill  from  a  fall.  The  other  was  M.  Raoul  de  Lagors.  But 
their  absence  did  not  prevent  the  memoranda  relating  to  Pros- 
pers case  from  daily  increasing;  and  on  the  ensuing  Monday, 
five  days  after  the  robbery,  M.  Patrigent  thought  he  held  in  his 
hands  enough  moral  proof  to  crush  the  accused. 


\\T  HILE  his  whole  past  was  the  object  of  the  most  minute 
*  *  investigations,  Prosper  was  in  prison,  in  solitary  confine- 
ment. The  two  first  days  had  not  appeared  very  long  to  him. 
He  had  requested,  and  been  supplied  with  some  sheets  of  paper, 
numbered,  for  they  had  to  be  accounted  for ;  and  he  wrote,  with 
a  sort  of  fury,  plans  of  defense  and  a  narrative  of  justification. 

The  third  day  he  began  to  feel  uneasy  at  not  seeing  any  one 
except  the  condemned  prisoners  employed  to  serve  those  under- 
going solitary  confinement,  and  the  jailer  who  brought  him  his 
food.    "Am  I  not  to  be  examined  again?"  he  would  ask. 

"Your  turn  is  coming,"  the  jailer  invariably  answered. 

Time  passed ;  and  the  wretched  man,  tortured  by  the  suffer- 
ings of  solitary  confinement  which  quickly  breaks  the  spirit, 
sank  into  the  depths  of  despair.  "Am  I  to  stay  here  forever  ?" 
he  moaned. 

No,  he  was  not  forgotten ;  for  on  the  Monday  morning,  at 
one  o'clock,  an  hour  when  the  jailer  never  came,  he  heard  the 
heavy  bolt  of  his  cell  pushed  back.  He  ran  toward  the  door. 
But  the  sight  of  a  gray-headed  man  standing  there  rooted  him 
to  the  spot. 

"Father,"  he  gasped,  "father !" 

"Your  father,  yes !" 

Prosper's  astonishment  at  seeing  his  father  was  instantly  sue- 


FILE    NUMBER   113  963 

ceeded  by  a  feeling  of  great  joy.  A  father  is  the  one  friend 
upon  whom  we  can  always  rely.  In  the  hour  of  need,  when 
all  else  fails,  we  remember  him  upon  whose  knees  we  sat  when 
children,  and  who  soothed  our  sorrows;  and  even  though  he 
may  be  unable  to  assist  us,  his  mere  presence  serves  to  comfort 
and  strengthen  us. 

Without  reflecting,  Prosper,  impelled  by  tender  feeling,  was 
about  to  throw  himself  into  his  father's  arms,  but  M.  Bertomy 
harshly  repulsed  him.  "Do  not  approach  me !"  he  exclaimed. 
He  then  advanced  into  the  cell,  and  closed  the  door.  The 
father  and  son  were  alone  together — Prosper  heart-broken, 
crushed;  M.  Bertomy  angry,  almost  threatening. 

Cast  off  by  his  last  friend,  by  his  father,  the  miserable  young 
man  seemed  to  be  stupefied  with  pain  and  disappointment. 
"You,  too!"  he  bitterly  cried.  "You — you  believe  me  guilty? 
Oh,  father!" 

"Spare  yourself  this  shameful  comedy,"  interrupted  M.  Ber- 
tomy: "I  know  all." 

"But  I  am  innocent,  father ;  I  swear  it  by  the  sacred  memory 
of  my  mother." 

"Unhappy  wretch !"  cried  M.  Bertomy,  "do  not  blaspheme !" 
He  seemed  overcome  by  tender  thoughts  of  the  past,  and  in  a 
weak,  broken  voice  added:  "Your  mother  is  dead,  Prosper,  and 
little  did  I  think  that  the  day  would  come  when  I  could  thank 
God  for  having  taken  her  from  me.  Your  crime  would  have 
killed  her,  would  have  broken  her  heart  1" 

After  a  painful  silence,  Prosper  said:  "You  overwhelm  me, 
father,  and  at  the  moment  when  I  need  all  my  courage;  when 
I  am  the  victim  of  a  hideous  plot." 

"Victim !"  cried  M.  Bertomy,  "victim !  Dare  you  utter  your 
insinuations  against  the  honorable  man  who  has  taken  care  of 
you,  loaded  you  with  benefits,  and  had  ensured  you  a  brilliant 
future !  It  is  enough  for  you  to  have  robbed  him ;  do  not 
calumniate  him." 

"For  pity's  sake,  father,  let  me  explain  !" 

"I  suppose  you  would  deny  your  benefactor's  kindness  Yet 
you  were  at  one  time  so  sure  of  his  affection  that  you  wrote  me 
to  hold  myself  in  readiness  to  come  to  Paris  and  ask  M.  Fauvel 
for  the  hand  of  his  niece.    Was  that,  then,  a  lie?" 

"No,"  said  Prosper  in  a  choked  voice,  "no." 

"That  was  a  year  ago;  you  then  loved  Mademoiselle  Made- 
leine; at  least  you  told  me  so." 


964  FILE   NUMBER    113 

"Father,  I  love  her  now,  more  than  ever ;  I  have  never  ceased 
to  love  her." 

M.  Bertomy  made  a  gesture  of  contemptuous  pity.  "Indeed !" 
he  cried.  "And  the  thought  of  the  pure,  innocent  girl  whom 
you  loved  did  not  prevent  your  entering  upon  a  path  of  sin. 
You  loved  her!  How  dared  you,  then,  without  blushing,  ap- 
proach her  presence  after  associating  with  the  shameless 
creatures  with  whom  you  were  so  intimate?" 

"For  heaven's  sake,  let  me  explain  by  what  fatality  Made- 
leine—" 

"Enough,  sir,  enough.  I  told  you  that  I  know  everything. 
I  saw  M.  Fauvel  yesterday;  this  morning  I  saw  the  magistrate, 
and  'tis  to  his  kindness  that  I  am  indebted  for  this  interview. 
Do  you  know  what  mortification  I  suffered  before  being  allowed 
to  see  you?  I  was  searched  and  made  to  empty  all  my  pockets. 
They  suspected  I  was  conveying  some  weapon  to  you !" 

Prosper  ceased  to  justify  himself,  but  in  a  helpless,  dejected 
way  dropped  down  upon  a  seat. 

"I  have  seen  your  apartments,  and  at  once  recognized  the 
prov  fs  of  your  crime.  I  saw  silk  curtains  hanging  before  all 
the  windows  and  doors  and  the  walls  covered  with  pictures.  In 
my  father's  house  the  walls  were  whitewashed;  and  there  was 
but  one  armchair  in  the  whole  place,  and  that  was  my  mother's. 
Our  luxury  was  our  honesty.  You  are  the  first  member  of 
our  family  who  has  possessed  Aubusson  carpets;  though,  to 
be  sure,  you  are  the  first  thief  of  our  blood."  At  this  last 
insult  Prosper's  face  flushed  crimson,  but  he  remained  silent  and 
immovable. 

"But  luxury  is  necessary  now,"  continued  M.  Bertomy,  be- 
coming more  excited  and  angry  as  he  went  on;  "luxury  must 
be  had  at  any  price.  You  must  have  the  insolent  opulence  and 
display  of  an  upstart,  without  the  upstart's  wealth.  You  must 
support  worthless  women  who  wear  satin  slippers  lined  with 
swan's-down,  like  those  I  saw  in  your  rooms,  and  keep  ser- 
vants in  livery — and  to  do  this  you  steal !  Bankers  will  no 
longer  dare  trust  the  keys  of  their  safes  with  any  one,  for 
every  day  honest  families  are  disgraced  by  the  discovery  of 
some  new  piece  of  villainy." 

M.  Bertomy  suddenly  stopped.  He  saw  for  the  first  time  that 
his  son  was  not  in  a  condition  to  hear  his  reproaches.  "But 
I  will  say  no  more,"  he  added.  "I  came  here  not  to  reproach 
you,  but  to  save,  if  possible,  the  honor  of  our  name,  to  prevent 


FILE    NUMBER    113  965 

it  from  being  published  in  the  papers  among  the  names  of 
thieves  and  murderers.  Stand  up  and  listen  to  me  !"  At  his 
father's  imperious  tone,  Prosper  arose.  So  many  successive 
blows  had  reduced  him  to  a  state  of  torpor. 

"First  of  all,"  began  M.  Bertomy,  "how  much  have  you  re- 
maining of  the  stolen  three  hundred  and  fifty  thousand  francs?" 

"Once  more,  father,"  replied  the  unfoitunate  man  in  a  tone 
of  hopeless  resignation,  "once  more  I  swear  I  am  innocent." 

"So  I  supposed  you  would  say.  Then  our  family  will  have 
to  repair  the  injury  you  have  done  M.  Fauvel." 

"What  do  you  mean?" 

"The  day  your  brother-in-law  heard  of  your  crime  he 
brought  me  your  sister's  dowry — seventy  thousand  francs.  I 
succeeded  in  collecting  a  hundred  and  forty  thousand  francs 
more.  This  makes  two  hundred  and  ten  thousand  francs 
which  I  have  brought  with  me  to  give  to  M.  Fauvel." 

This  threat  aroused  Prosper  from  his  torpor.  "You  shall 
do  nothing  of  the  kind  !"  he  cried  with  unrestrained  indignation. 

"I  will  do  so  before  the  sun  goes  down  this  day.  M.  Fauvel 
will  grant  me  time  to  pay  the  rest.  My  pension  is  fifteen  hun- 
dred francs.  I  can  live  upon  five  hundred ;  I  am  strong  enough 
to  go  to  work  again ;  and  your  brother-in-law — "  M.  Bertomy 
stopped  short,  frightened  at  the  expression  of  his  son's  face. 
His  features  were  contracted  with  such  furious  rage  that  h« 
was  scarcely  recognizable,  and  his  eyes  glared  like  a  maniac's. 

"You  dare  not  disgrace  me  thus  !"  cried  Prosper ;  "you  have 
no  right  to  do  it.  You  are  free  to  disbelieve  me  yourself,  but 
you  have  no  right  to  take  a  step  which  would  be  a  confession 
of  guilt,  and  ruin  me  forever.  Who  and  what  convinces  you 
of  my  guilt?  When  cold  justice  hesitates,  you,  my  father, 
hesitate  not,  but,  more  pitiless  than  the  law,  condemn  me 
unheard !" 

"I  will  do  my  duty !" 

"Which  means  that  I  stand  on  the  edge  of  a  precipice,  and 
you  push  me  over !  Do  you  call  that  your  duty  ?  What !  be- 
tween strangers  who  accuse  me,  and  myself  who  swear  that  I 
am  innocent,  you  do  not  hesitate?  Why?  Is  it  because  I  am 
your  son?  Our  honor  is  at  stake,  it  is  true;  but  that  is  only 
the  more  reason  why  you  should  stand  by  me,  and  assist  me 
to  defend  myself." 

Prosper's  earnest,  truthful  manner  was  enough  to  unsettle 
the   firmest  convictions,   and   make   doubt   penetrate   the   most 


966  FILE    NUMBER    113 

stubborn  mind.  "Yet,"  said  M.  Bertomy  in  a  hesitating  tone, 
"everything  seems  to  accuse  you." 

"Ah,  father,  you  do  not  know  that  I  was  suddenly  banished 
from  Madeleine's  presence ;  that  I  was  compelled  to  avoid  her. 
I  became  desperate,  and  tried  to  forget  my  sorrow  in  dissipa- 
tion. I  sought  oblivion,  and  found  shame  and  disgust.  Oh, 
Madeleine,  Madeleine !"  He  was  overcome  with  emotion ;  but 
in  a  few  minutes  he  resumed  with  renewed  violence  in  his  voice 
and  manner:  "Everything  is  against  me;  but  no  matter.  I  will 
clear  myself  or  perish.  Human  justice  is  liable  to  error;  al- 
though innocent,  I  may  be  convicted ;  so  be  it.  I  will  undergo 
my  penalty;  but  people  are  not  kept  galley-slaves  forever." 

"What  do  you  mean?" 

"I  mean,  father,  that  I  am  now  another  man.  My  life,  hence- 
forth, has  an  object — vengeance  !  I  am  the  victim  of  a  vile 
plot.  As  long  as  I  have  a  drop  of  blood  in  my  veins,  I  will 
seek  its  author.  And  I  will  certainly  find  him ;  and  then  bitterly 
shall  he  expiate  all  of  my  cruel  suffering.  The  blow  has  come 
from  Fauvel's,  and  I  will  seek  the  villain  there." 

"Take  care:  your  anger  makes  you  say  things  that  you  will 
repent  hereafter." 

"Yes,  I  see,  you  are  going  to  descant  upon  the  probity  of 
M.  Andre  Fauvel.  You  will  tell  me  that  all  the  virtues  have 
taken  refuge  in  the  bosom  of  this  patriarchal  family.  What 
do  you  know  about  it?  Would  this  be  the  first  instance  in 
which  the  most  shameful  secrets  are  concealed  beneath  the 
fairest  appearances?  Why  did  Madeleine  suddenly  forbid  me 
to  think  of  her?  Why  has  she  exiled  me,  when  she  suffers  as 
much  from  our  separation  as  I  myself,  when  she  still  loves  me  ? 
For  she  does  love  me.     I  am  sure  of  it.     I  have  proofs  of  it." 

The  jailer  here  came  to  say  that  the  time  allotted  to  M.  Ber- 
tomy had  expired,  and  that  he  must  leave  the  cell.  A  thousand 
conflicting  emotions  seemed  to  rend  the  old  man's  heart.  Sup- 
pose Prosper  were  telling  the  truth :  how  great  would  be  his 
own  remorse,  if  he  had  added  to  the  frightful  weight  of  sorrow 
and  trouble  his  son  already  had  to  bear !  And  who  could  prove 
that  he  was  not  sincere  in  what  he  said? 

The  voice  of  his  son,  of  whom  he  had  ever  been  proud,  had 
aroused  all  his  paternal  affection  which  he  had  so  violently  re- 
repressed.  Ah,  were  he  guilty,  and  guilty  of  a  worse  crime. 
still  he  was  his  son,  his  only  son!  His  countenance  lost  its 
severity,  and  his  eyes  filled  with  tears.     He   wished  to  leave 


FILE    NUMBER    113  967 

as  he  had  entered,  stern  and  angry,  but  he  had  not  the  cruel 
courage.  His  heart  was  breaking.  He  opened  his  arms,  and 
pressed  Prosper  to  his  breast.  "Oh,  my  son  I"  he  murmured, 
"God  grant  you  have  spoken  the  truth  !" 

Prosper  was  triumphant :  he  had  almost  convinced  his  father 
of  his  innocence.  But  he  had  no  time  to  rejoice  over  this  vic- 
tory. The  cell  door  again  opened,  and  the  jailer's  gruff  voice 
called  out :  "It  is  time  for  you  to  appear  before  the  investigating 
magistrate." 

Prosper  instantly  obeyed  the  summons.  His  step  was  no 
longer  unsteady,  as  a  few  days  previous:  a  complete  change 
had  come  over  him.  He  walked  firmly,  with  his  head  erect, 
and  the  fire  of  resolution  in  his  eye.  He  knew  the  way  now, 
and  he  proceeded  a  little  ahead  of  the  officer  who  escorted  him. 
As  he  was  passing  through  the  room  full  of  police  agents,  he 
encountered  the  individual  with  the  gold  spectacles,  who  had 
watched  him  so  intently  the  day  he  was  searched.  "Courage, 
M.  Prosper  Bertomy,"  he  said ;  "if  you  are  innocent,  there  are 
those  who  will  help  you." 

Prosper  started  with  surprise,  and  was  about  to  reply,  when 
the  man  disappeared.  "Who  is  that  gentleman?"  he  asked  of 
the  officer  who  was  escorting  hirn. 

"Is  it  possible  that  you  don't  know  him?"  replied  the  man 
with  surprise.    "Why,  it  is  M.  Lecoq  of  the  detective  service." 

"You  say  his  name  is  Lecoq?" 

"You  might  as  well  say  'Monsieur  Lecoq,'  "  said  the  offended 
official ;  "it  would  not  burn  your  mouth.  M.  Lecoq  is  a  man 
who  knows  everything  that  he  wants  to  know,  without  its  ever 
being  told  to  him.  If  your  case  had  been  in  his  hands  instead 
of  in  those  of  that  smooth-tongued,  imbecile  Fanferlot.  it  would 
have  been  settled  long  ago.  Nobody  is  allowed  to  waste  time 
when  he  is  in  command.     But  he  seems  to  be  a  friend  of  vours." 

"I  never  saw  him  until  the  first  day  I  came  here." 

"You  can't  swear  to  that,  because  no  one  can  boast  of  know- 
ing the  real  face  of  M.  Lecoq.  It  is  one  thing  to-day,  and 
another  to-morrow;  sometimes  he  is  a  dark  man,  sometimes 
a  fair  one,  sometimes  quite  young,  and  then  an  octogenarian. 
Why,  at  times  he  even  deceives  me.  I  begin  to  talk  to  a 
stranger — bah  !  it  turns  out  to  be  M.  Lecoq  !  Anybody  on  the 
face  of  the  earth  might  be  he.  If  I  were  told  that  you  were 
he,  I  should  say :  'Very  likely  it  is  so.'  Ah  !  he  can  convert 
himself  into  any  form  he  pleases.     He  is  a  wonderful  man!" 


968  FILE    NUMBER    113 

The  speaker  would  have  continued  forever  his  praises  of  M. 
Lecoq,  had  not  the  sight  of  the  magistrate's  room  put  an  end 
to  them. 

This  time,  Prosper  was  not  kept  waiting  on  the  wooden 
bench ;  on  the  contrary,  the  magistrate  was  waiting  for  him. 
M.  Patrigent,  who  was  a  profound  observer  of  human  nature, 
had  contrived  the  interview  between  M.  Bertomy  and  his  son. 
He  was  certain  that  between  the  father,  a  man  of  such  stubborn 
honor,  and  the  son,  accused  of  theft,  an  affecting  scene  would 
take  place,  and  this  scene  would  completely  unman  Prosper, 
and  induce  him  to  confess.  He  determined  to  send  for  him 
as  soon  as  the  interview  was  over,  while  his  nerves  were  vibrat- 
ing with  terrible  emotions:  he  would  then  tell  the  truth,  to 
relieve  his  troubled,  despairing  mind. 

The  magistrate's  surprise  therefore  was  great  to  see  the 
cashier's  bearing;  resolute  without  obstinacy,  firm  and  assured 
without  defiance.    "Well,"  he  said  to  him,  "have  you  reflected?" 

"Not  being  guilty,  sir,  I  had  nothing  to  reflect  upon." 

"Ah,  I  see  the  prison  has  not  been  a  good  counselor;  you 
forget  that  sincerity  and  repentance  are  the  first  things  neces- 
sary to  obtain  the  indulgence  of  the  law." 

"I  crave  no  indulgence,  sir." 

M.  Patrigent  looked  vexed,  and  said :  "What  would  you  say 
if  I  told  you  what  had  become  of  the  three  hundred  and  fifty 
thousand  francs?" 

Prosper  shook  his  head  sadly.  "If  it  were  known,  sir,  I 
should  not  be  here,  but  at  liberty." 

This  device  had  often  been  used  by  the  magistrate,  and  had 
generally  succeeded ;  but,  with  a  man  so  thoroughly  master  of 
himself  as  Prosper  then  was,  there  was  small  chance  of  suc- 
cess on  this  occasion.  It  had  been  used  at  a  venture,  and  had 
failed.  "Then  you  persist  in  accusing  M.  Fauvel?"  remarked 
M.  Patrigent. 

"Him,  or  some  one  else." 

"Excuse  me :  no  one  else,  since  he  alone  knew  the  word. 
Had  he  any  interest  in  robbing  himself?" 

"I  can  think  of  none." 

"Well,  now  I  will  tell  you  what  interest  you  had  in  robbing 
him." 

M.  Patrigent  spoke  as  a  man  who  was  convinced  of  the  facts 
he  was  about  to  state;  but  his  assurance  was  all  assumed.  He 
had    relied   upon   crushing   at   a   blow   a   despairing,   wretched 


FILE    NUMBER    113  969 

man,  and  was  nonplused  by  seeing  him  appear  so  determined 
upon  resistance.  "Will  you  be  good  enough  to  tell  me,"  he  said 
in  a  vexed  tone,  "how  much  you  have  spent  during  the  last 
year?" 

Prosper  did  not  find  it  necessary  to  stop  to  reflect  and  cal- 
culate. "Yes,  sir,"  he  answered,  unhesitatingly.  "Circum- 
stances made  it  necessary  for  me  to  preserve  the  greatest  order 
in  my  wild  career;  I  spent  about  fifty  thousand  francs." 

"Where  did  you  obtain  them?" 

"In  the  first  place,  twelve  thousand  francs  were  left  to  me 
by  my  mother.  I  received  from  M.  Fauvel  fourteen  thousand 
francs  for  my  salary,  and  share  of  the  profits.  By  speculating 
on  the  Bourse  I  gained  eight  thousand  francs.  The  rest  I  bor- 
rowed, and  intend  repaying  out  of  the  fifteen  thousand  francs 
which  I  have  deposited  in  M.  Fauvel's  bank."  The  account 
was  clear,  exact,  and  could  be  easily  proved;  it  must  be  a 
true  one. 

"Who  lent  you  the  money?"  inquired  M.  Patrigent. 

"M.  Raoul  de  Lagors."  This  witness  had  left  Paris  the  day 
of  the  robbery,  and  could  not  be  found ;  so  for  the  time  being, 
M.  Patrigent  was  compelled  to  rely  upon  Prosper's  word. 

"Well,"  he  said,  "I  will  not  press  this  point.  Tell  me  why, 
in  spite  of  M.  Fauvel's  formal  order,  you  drew  the  money  from 
the  Bank  of  France  the  night  before,  instead  of  waiting  till  the 
morning  of  the  payment?" 

"Because  M.  de  Clameran  had  informed  me  that  it  would  be 
convenient,  necessary  even,  for  him  to  have  his  money  early 
in  the  morning.  He  will  testify  to  that  fact,  if  you  summon 
him;  and  I  knew  that  I  should  reach  my  office  late." 

"Then  M.  de  Clameran  is  a  friend  of  yours?" 

"By  no  means.  I  have  always  had  an  aversion  to  him,  which 
there  was  nothing  whatever  to  justify;  he  is,  however,  the  inti- 
mate friend  of  M.  de  Lagors." 

While  Sigault  was  writing  down  these  answers,  M.  Patrigent 
was  racking  his  brain  to  imagine  what  could  have  occurred 
between  M.  Bertomy  and  his  son  to  cause  this  transformation 
in  Prosper.  "One  thing  more,"  said  the  magistrate :  "how  did 
you  spend  your  evening  the  night  of  the  crime?" 

"When  I  left  my  office,  at  five  o'clock,  I  took  the  St.  Germain 
train,  and  went  to  Vesinet  to  M.  de  Lagors's  country  house,  to 
return  him  fifteen  hundred  francs  which  he  had  asked  for ;  and, 
not  finding  him  at  home,  I  left  the  money  with  his  servant." 


970  FILE   NUMBER    113 

"Did  the  latter  tell  you  that  M.  de  Lagors  was  going  away?" 

"No,  sir.     I  did  not  know  that  he  had  left  Paris." 

"Where  did  you  go  when  you  left  Vesinet?" 

"I  returned  to  Paris,  and  dined  at  a  restaurant  with  a  friend." 

"And  then?"    Prosper  hesitated. 

"You  are  silent,"  said  M.  Patrigent.  "I  will  therefore  tell 
you  how  you  employed  your  time.  You  returned  to  your  rooms 
in  the  Rue  Chaptal,  dressed  yourself,  and  went  to  a  party  given 
by  one  of  those  women  who  style  themselves  dramatic  artists, 
and  who  are  a  disgrace  to  the  stage;  who  receive  salaries  of 
a  hundred  crowns  a  year,  and  yet  keep  their  carriages.  You 
went  to  Mademoiselle  Wilson's." 

"You  are  right,  sir." 

"There  is  heavy  playing  at  Wilson's?" 

"Sometimes." 

"You  are  in  the  habit  of  visiting  places  of  this  sort.  Were 
you  not  connected  in  some  way  with  a  scandalous  affair  which 
took  place  at  the  house  of  a  woman  named  Crescenzi?" 

"I  was  summoned  to  give  evidence,  having  been  witness  of  a 
theft." 

"Gambling  generally  leads  to  stealing.  And  did  you  not 
play  baccarat  at  Wilson's,  and  lose  eighteen  hundred  francs  ?" 

"Excuse  me,  sir,  only  eleven  hundred." 

"Very  well.  In  the  morning  you  paid  a  bill  that  fell  due 
of  a  thousand  francs." 

"Yes,  sir." 

"Moreover,  there  remained  in  your  desk  five  hundred  francs, 
and  you  had  four  hundred  in  your  purse  when  you  were  ar- 
rested. So  that  altogether,  in  twenty-four  hours,  four  thousand 
five  hundred  francs — " 

Prosper  was  not  discountenanced,  but  amazed.  Not  being 
aware  of  the  powerful  means  of  investigation  which  the  law 
has  at  its  command,  he  wondered  hpw  the  magistrate  could 
have  obtained  such  accurate  information  in  so  short  a  time. 
"Your  statement  is  correct,  sir,"  he  finally  said. 

"Where  did  all  this  money  come  from?  The  evening  before 
you  had  so  little  that  you  were  obliged  to  defer  the  payment  of 
a  small  account." 

"The  day  to  which  you  allude  I  sold  some  bonds  I  had, 
through  an  agent,  which  realized  about  three  thousand  francs. 
In  addition  I  took  from  the  safe  two  thousand  francs  in  advance 
of  my  salary.    I  have  nothing  to  conceal." 


FILE    NUMBER    113  971 

Prosper  had  given  clear  answers  to  all  questions  put  to  him, 
and  M.  Patrigent  thought  he  would  now  attack  him  from  a 
new  point.  "You  say  you  have  no  wish  to  conceal  any  of  your 
actions ;  then  why  this  note  stealthily  thrown  to  one  of  your 
companions?"    Here  he  held  up  the  mysterious  note. 

This  time  the  blow  struck.  Prosper' s  eyes  dropped  before 
the  inquiring  look  of  the  magistrate.  "I  thought/'  he  stam- 
mered, "I  wished — " 

"You  wished  to  hide  your  mistress?" 

"Well,  yes,  sir,  I  did.  I  knew  that  a  man  in  my  condition, 
accused  of  a  robbery,  has  every  fault,  every  weakness  he  has 
ever  indulged  in,  charged  against  him  as  a  great  crime." 

"Which  means  that  you  knew  that  the  presence  of  a  woman 
at  your  apartments  would  tell  very  much  against  you,  and  that 
justice  would  not  excuse  this  scandalous  defiance  of  public 
morality.  A  man  who  respects  himself  so  little  as  to  live  with 
a  worthless  woman  does  not  elevate  her  to  his  standard,  but 
descends  to  her  base  level." 

"Sir!" 

"I  suppose  you  know  who  the  woman  is,  whom  you  permit 
to  bear  the  honest  name  borne  by  your  mother?" 

"Madame  Gipsy  was  a  governess  when  I  first  knew  her.  She 
was  born  at  Oporto,  and  came  to  France  with  a  Portuguese 
family." 

"Her  name  is  not  Gipsy:  she  has  never  been  a  governess, 
and  she  is  not  a  Portuguese." 

Prosper  began  to  protest  against  this  statement ;  but  M.  Pa- 
trigent  shrugged  his  shoulders,  and  after  looking  over  a  lot  of 
papers  on  his  desk,  said:  "Ah,  here  it  is;  listen:  Palmyre  Cho- 
careille,  born  at  Paris  in  1840.  daughter  of  James  Chocareille, 
undertaker's  assistant,  and  of  Caroline  Piedlent,  his  wife." 

Prosper  looked  vexed  and  impatient;  he  was  not  aware  that 
the  magistrate  was  reading  him  this  report  in  order  to  con- 
vince him  that  nothing  can  escape  the  police.  "Palmyre  Cho- 
careille," continued  M.  Patrigent,  "was  apprenticed  at  twelve 
years  of  age  to  a  shoemaker,  and  remained  with  him  until  she 
was  sixteen.  Traces  of  her  for  one  year  are  lost.  At  the  age 
of  seventeen  she  was  hired  as  a  servant  by  a  grocer  in  the  Rue 
St.  Denis,  named  Dombas,  and  remained  with  him  three  months. 
She  entered  during  this  same  year,  1857,  eight  different  situa- 
tions. In  1858  she  entered  the  service  of  a  dealer  in  fans  in  the 
Passage  Choiseul." 


972  FILE    NUMBER   113 

As  he  read,  the  magistrate  watched  Prosper's  face  to  observe 
the  effect  of  these  revelations.  "Toward  the  close  of  1858," 
continued  he,  "she  was  employed  as  a  servant  by  Madame 
Nunes,  and  accompanied  her  to  Lisbon.  How  long  she  re- 
mained in  Lisbon,  and  what  she  did  while  she  remained  there, 
is  not  reported.  But  in  1861  she  returned  to  Paris,  and  was 
sentenced  to  three  months'  imprisonment  for  assault  and  bat- 
tery. Ah,  she  returned  from  Portugal  with  the  name  of  Nina 
Gipsy." 

"But  I  assure  you,  sir — "  Prosper  began. 

"Yes,  I  understand:  this  history  is  less  romantic,  doubtless, 
than  the  one  related  to  you ;  but  then  it  has  the  merit  of  being 
true.  We  lose  sight  of  Palmyre  Chocareille,  called  Gipsy,  upon 
her  release  from  prison;  but  we  meet  her  again  six  months 
later,  she  having  made  the  acquaintance  of  a  commercial  trav- 
eler named  Caldas,  who  became  infatuated  with  her  beauty,  and 
furnished  some  rooms  for  her  near  the  Bastille.  She  assumed 
his  name  for  some  time,  then  she  deserted  him  to  devote  herself 
to  you.     Did  you  ever  hear  of  this  Caldas?" 

"Never,  sir." 

"This  foolish  man  so  deeply  loved  this  creature  that  her 
desertion  drove  him  almost  insane  through  grief.  He  was  very 
resolute,  and  publicly  swore  that  he  would  kill  his  rival  if  he 
ever  found  him.  The  current  report  afterward  was,  that  he 
committed  suicide.  He  certainly  sold  the  furniture  of  the  house 
occupied  by  the  woman  Chocareille,  and  suddenly  disappeared. 
All  the  efforts  made  to  discover  him  proved  fruitless." 

The  magistrate  paused  a  moment  as  if  to  give  Prosper  time 
for  reflection,  and  then  slowly  said:  "And  this  is  the  woman 
whom  you  made  your  companion,  the  woman  for  whom  you 
robbed  the  bank !" 

Once  more  M.  Patrigent  was  on  the  wrong  track,  owing  to 
Fanferlot's  incomplete  information.  He  had  hoped  that  Pros- 
per would  betray  himself  by  uttering  some  passionate  retort 
when  thus  wounded  to  the  quick;  but  the  latter  remained  im- 
passible. Of  all  that  the  magistrate  had  said  to  him  his  mind 
dwelt  upon  only  one  word — "Caldas,"  the  name  of  the  poor 
commercial  traveler  who  had  killed  himself. 

"At  any  rate,"  insisted  M.  Patrigent,  "you  will  confess  that 
this  girl  has  caused  your  ruin." 

"I  can  not  confess  that,  sir,  for  it  is  not  true." 

"Yet  she  is  the  cause  of  your  extravagance.     "Listen" — the 


FILE   NUMBER   113  973 

magistrate  here  drew  a  bill  from  the  file  of  papers — "during 
December  you  paid  her  dressmaker,  Van  Klopen,  for  two  out- 
door costumes,  nine  hundred  francs ;  one  evening  dress,  seven 
hundred  francs ;  one  domino,  trimmed  with  lace,  four  hundred 
francs." 

"I  spent  that  money  of  my  own  free  will;  but,  nevertheless, 
I  was  not  in  the  least  attached  to  her." 

M.  Patrigent  shrugged  his  shoulders.  "You  can  not  deny  the 
evidence,"  said  he.  "I  suppose  you  will  also  say  that  it  was  not 
for  this  girl's  sake  you  ceased  spending  your  evenings  at  M. 
Fauvel's?" 

"I  assure  you  that  she  was  not  the  cause  of  my  ceasing  to 
visit  M.  Fauvel's  family." 

"Then  why  did  you  suddenly  break  off  your  attentions  to  a 
young  lady  whom  you  confidently  expected  to  marry,  and  whose 
hand  you  had  written  to  your  father  to  ask  for  you?" 

"I  had  reasons  which  I  can  not  reveal,"  answered  Prosper 
with  emotion. 

The  magistrate  breathed  freely;  at  last  he  had  discovered  a 
vulnerable  point  in  the  prisoner's  armor.  "Did  Mademoiselle 
Madeleine  banish  you  from  her  presence?"  Prosper  was  silent, 
and  seemed  agitated.  "Speak,"  said  M.  Patrigent;  "I  must  tell 
you  that  this  is  one  of  the  most  important  circumstances  in 
your  case." 

"Whatever  the  cost  may  be,  on  this  subject  I  am  compelled 
to  keep  silence." 

"Beware  of  what  you  do;  justice  will  not  be  satisfied  with 
scruples  of  conscience."  M.  Patrigent  waited  for  an  answer. 
None  came. 

"You  persist  in  your  obstinacy,  do  you?"  continued  he. 
"Well,  we  will  go  on  to  the  next  question.  You  have,  during 
the  last  year,  spent  fifty  thousand  francs.  Your  resources  are 
at  an  end,  and  your  credit  is  exhausted ;  to  continue  your  mode 
of  life  was  impossible.    What  did  you  intend  to  do?" 

"I  had  no  settled  plan.  I  thought  it  might  last  as  long  as  it 
would,  and  then  I — " 

"And  then  you  would  abstract  money  from  the  safe;  was  it 
not  so?" 

"Ah,  sir,  if  I  were  guilty  I  should  not  be  here !  I  should 
never  have  been  such  a  fool  as  to  return  to  the  bank ;  I  should 
have  fled." 

M.  Patrigent  could  not  restrain  a  smile  of  satisfaction,  and 


974:  FILE    NUMBER   113 

exclaimed :  "Exactly  the  argument  I  expected  you  to  use.  You 
showed  your  shrewdness  precisely  by  staying  to  face  the  storm, 
instead  of  flying  the  country.  Several  recent  cases  have  taught 
dishonest  cashiers  that  flight  abroad  is  dangerous.  Railways 
travel  fast,  but  telegrams  travel  faster.  A  French  thief  can  be 
arrested  in  London  within  forty-eight  hours  after  his  descrip- 
tion has  been  telegraphed.  Even  America  is  no  longer  a  refuge. 
You  remained,  prudently  and  wisely,  saying  to  yourself :  'I  will 
manage  to  avoid  suspicion ;  and,  even  if  I  am  found  out,  I  shall 
be  free  again  after  three  or  five  years'  seclusion,  with  a  large 
fortune  to  enjoy.'  Many  people  would  sacrifice  five  years  of 
their  lives  for  three  hundred  and  fifty  thousand  francs." 

"But,  sir,  had  I  calculated  in  the  manner  you  describe,  I 
should  not  have  been  content  with  three  hundred  and  fifty  thou- 
sand francs — I  should  have  waited  for  an  opportunity  to  steal 
a  million.    I  often  had  that  sum  in  my  charge." 

"Oh !  it  is  not  always  convenient  to  wait." 

Prosper  was  buried  in  deep  thought  for  some  minutes.  "Sir," 
he  finally  said,  "there  is  one  detail  I  forgot  to  mention  before, 
and  it  may  be  of  importance." 

"Explain,  if  you  please." 

"The  messenger  whom  I  sent  to  the  Bank  of  France  for  the 
money  must  have  seen  me  tie  up  the  bundles  of  notes  and  put 
them  away  in  the  safe.  At  any  rate,  he  knows  that  I  left  my 
office  before  he  did." 

"Very  well;  the  man  shall  be  examined.  Now  you  can  re- 
turn to  your  cell ;  and  once  more  I  advise  you  to  consider  the 
consequences  of  your  persistent  denial."  M.  Patrigent  thus 
abruptly  dismissed  Prosper  because  he  wished  to  act  imme- 
diately upon  this  last  piece  of  information. 

"Sigault,"  said  he,  as  soon  as  Prosper  had  left  the  room,  "is 
not  this  messenger  the  man  who  was  excused  from  being  ex- 
amined from  his  having  sent  a  doctor's  certificate  declaring  him 
too  ill  to  appear?" 

"It  is,  sir." 

"Where  does  he  live?" 

"Fanferlot  says  he  was  so  ill  that  he  was  taken  to  the  hospi- 
tal—the Dubois  Hospital." 

"Very  good.  I  am  going  to  examine  him  to-day,  this  very 
hour.    Take  your  pen  and  paper,  and  send  for  a  cab." 

It  was  some  distance  from  the  Palais  de  Justice  to  the  Dubois 
Hospital ;  but  the  cabman,  urged  by  the  promise  of  a  handsome 


FILE    NUMBER    113  975 

present  for  himself,  made  his  sorry  jades  fly  as  if  they  were 
blood  horses. 

Would  the  messenger  be  able  to  answer  any  questions  ?  That 
was  the  point.  The  physician  in  charge  of  the  hospital  said 
that,  although  the  man  suffered  severely  from  a  broken  knee, 
his  mind  was  perfectly  clear.  "That  being  the  case,"  said  the 
magistrate,  "I  wish  to  examine  him,  and  desire  that  no  one  be 
admitted  while  he  makes  his  deposition." 

"Oh!  you  will  not  be  intruded  upon;  his  room  contains  four 
beds,  but  with  the  exception  of  his  own  they  are  just  now  all 
unoccupied." 

When  the  messenger  saw  the  magistrate  enter,  followed  by 
a  tall,  thin  young  man  with  a  portfolio  under  his  arm,  he  at  once 
knew  what  they  had  come  for.  "Ah,"  he  said,  "you  have  come 
to  see  me  about  M.  Bertomy's  affair?" — "Precisely." 

M.  Patrigent  remained  standing  by  the  sick-bed  while  Sigault 
arranged  his  papers  on  a  little  table.  In  answer  to  the  usual 
questions,  the  messenger  stated  that  he  was  named  Antonin 
Poche,  was  forty  years  old,  born  at  Cadaujac  in  the  Gironde, 
and  was  unmarried. 

"Now,"  said  the  magistrate,  "are  you  well  enough  to  answer 
clearly  any  questions  I  may  put  to  you?" 

"Yes,  certainly,  sir." 

"Did  you,  on  the  27th  of  February,  go  to  the  Bank  of 
France  for  the  three  hundred  and  fifty  thousand  francs  that 
were  stolen?" — "Yes,  sir." 

"At  what  hour  did  you  return  with  the  money?" 

"It  must  have  been  five  o'clock  when  I  got  back." 

"Do  you  remember  what  M.  Bertomy  did  when  you  handed 
him  the  notes?  Now,  do  not  be  in  a  hurry;  think  before  you 
answer  the  question." 

"Let  me  see:  first  he  counted  the  notes,  and  made  them  up 
into  four  packages;  then  he  put  them  in  the  safe,  which  he 
afterward  locked,  and  then — it  seems  to  me — yes,  I  am  not  mis- 
taken, he  went  out !" 

He  uttered  these  last  words  with  so  much  energy  that,  for- 
getting his  knee,  he  half  started  up  in  bed,  giving  vent  at  the 
same  time  to  a  cry  of  pain. 

"Are  you  sure  of  what  you  say  ?"  asked  the  magistrate. 

M.  Patrigent's  solemn  tone  seemed  to  frighten  Antonin. 
"Sure !"  he  exclaimed  with  marked  hesitation ;  "I  would  bet 
my  head  on  it,  yet  I  am  not  more  sure  than  that !" 


976  FILE   NUMBER   113 

It  was  impossible  to  get  him  to  be  more  precise  in  his 
answers.  He  had  been  frightened.  He  already  imagined  him- 
self compromised,  and  for  a  trifle  would  have  retracted  every- 
thing. But  the  effect  was  none  the  less  produced,  and  when 
they  retired  M.  Patrigent  said  to  Sigault:  "This  is  a  very 
important  piece  of  evidence." 


♦T'HE  hotel  of  the  Grand  Archangel,  Madame  Gipsy's  asylum, 
■"■      was  the  most  elegant  one  on  the  Quai   St.   Michel.     At 
this  hotel  a  person  who  pays  her  fortnight's  board  in  advance 
is  treated  with  marked  consideration. 

Madame  Alexandre,  who  had  been  a  handsome  woman,  was 
now  stout,  laced  till  she  could  scarcely  breathe,  always  over- 
dressed, and  fond  of  wearing  a  number  of  flashy  gold  chains 
around  her  fat  neck.  She  had  bright  eyes  and  white  teeth; 
but,  alas,  a  red  nose.  Of  all  her  weaknesses — and  heaven  knows 
she  had  indulged  in  every  variety — only  one  remained;  she 
loved  a  good  dinner,  washed  down  with  plenty  of  good  wine. 
But  she  loved  her  husband;  and,  about  the  time  M.  Patrigent 
was  leaving  the  hospital,  she  began  to  feel  worried  because  her 
"little  man"  had  not  returned  to  dinner.  She  was  about  to  sit 
down  without  him,  when  the  waiter  cried  out :  "Here  is  master." 
And  Fanferlot  appeared  in  person. 

Three  years  before,  Fanferlot  had  kept  a  little  private  inquiry 
office ;  Madame  Alexandre  dealt  without  a  license  in  perfumery 
and  toilet  articles,  and,  finding  it  necessary  to  have  some  of 
her  doubtful  customers  watched,  engaged  Fanferlot's  services ; 
this  was  the  origin  of  their  acquaintance. 

If  they  went  through  the  marriage  ceremony  for  the  good 
of  the  mayoralty  and  the  church,  it  was  because  they  imagined 
it  would,  like  a  baptism,  wash  out  the  sins  of  the  past.  Upon 
this  momentous  day  Fanferlot  gave  up  his  private  inquiry 
office,  and  entered  the  police,  where  he  had  already  been 
occasionally  employed,  and  Madame  Alexandre  retired  from 
business. 


FILE   NUMBER    113  977 

Uniting  their  savings,  they  hired  and  furnished  the  Grand 
Archangel,  which  they  were  now  carrying  on  prosperously, 
esteemed  by  their  neighbors,  who  were  ignorant  of  Fanferlot's 
connection  with  the  police  force. 

"Why,  how  late  you  are,  my  little  man !"  exclaimed  Madame 
Alexandre  as  she  dropped  her  knife  and  fork,  and  rushed  for- 
ward to  embrace  her  husband. 

Fanferlot  received  her  caresses  with  an  air  of  abstraction. 
"My  back  is  broken,"  he  said.  "I  have  been  the  whole  day 
playing  billiards  with  Evariste,  M.  Fauvel's  valet,  and  allowed 
him  to  win  as  often  as  he  wished — a  man  who  does  not  know 
what  pool  is !  I  became  acquainted  with  him  yesterday,  and 
now  I  am  his  best  friend.  If  I  wish  to  enter  M.  Fauvel's  service 
in  Antonin's  place,  I  can  rely  upon  Evariste's  good  word." 

"What,  you  be  an  office  messenger?  you?" 

"Of  course  I  would.  How  else  am  I  to  get  an  opportunity 
of  studying  my  characters,  if  I  am  not  on  the  spot  to  continually 
watch  them?" 

"Then  the  valet  gave  you  no  information?" 

"None  that  I  could  make  use  of,  and  yet  I  turned  him  inside 
out  like  a  glove.  This  banker  is  a  remarkable  man;  you  don't 
often  meet  with  one  of  his  sort  nowadays.  Evariste  says  he 
has  not  a  single  vice,  not  even  a  little  defect  by  which  his 
valet  could  gain  ten  sous.  He  neither  smokes,  drinks,  nor 
plays ;  in  fact,  he  is  a  saint.  He  is  worth  millions,  and  lives 
as  respectably  and  quietly  as  a  grocer  He  is  devoted  to  his 
wife,  adores  his  children,  is  very  hospitable,  but  seldom  goes 
into  society." 

"Then  his  wife  is  young?" 

"No,  she  must  be  about  fifty." 

Madame  Alexandre  reflected  a  minute,  then  asked:  "Did  you 
inquire  about  the  other  members  of  the  family?" 

"Certainly.  The  younger  son  is  in  the  army.  The  elder  son, 
Lucien,  lives  with  his  parents,  and  is  altogether  as  proper  as  a 
young  lady.    He  is  so  good,  indeed,  that  he  is  perfectly  stupid." 

"And  what  about  the  niece?" 

"Evariste  could  tell  me  nothing  about  her." 

Madame  Alexandre  shrugged  her  fat  shoulders.  "If  you 
have  discovered  nothing,"  she  said,  "it  is  because  there  is 
nothing  to  be  discovered.  Still,  do  you  know  what  I  would 
do  if  I  were  you?" 

"Tell  me." 


978  FILE    NUMBER    113 

"I  would  consult  M.  Lecoq." 

Fanferlot  jumped  up  as  if  he  had  been  shot.  "Now,  that's 
pretty  advice!"  he  exclaimed.  "Do  you  want  me  to  lose  my 
place?  M.  Lecoq  does  not  suspect  that  I  have  anything  to  do 
with  the  case,  excepting  to  obey  his  orders." 

"Nobody  told  you  to  let  him  know  you  were  investigating 
it  on  your  own  account.  You  can  consult  him  with  an  air  of 
indifference,  as  if  you  were  not  at  all  interested;  and,  after  you 
have  got  his  opinion,  you  can  take  advantage  of  it." 

The  detective  weighed  his  wife's  words,  and  then  said :  "Per- 
haps you  are  right;  yet  M.  Lecoq  is  so  deucedly  shrewd  that 
he  might  see  through  me." 

"Shrewd  !"  echoed  Madame  Alexandre;  "shrewd  !  All  of  you 
at  the  Prefecture  say  that  so  often  that  he  has  gained  his  repu- 
tation by  it.    You  are  just  as  sharp  as  he  is." 

"Well,  we  will  see.  I  will  think  the  matter  over ;  but,  in  the 
mean  time,  what  does  the  girl  say?"  The  "girl"  was  Madame 
Nina  Gipsy. 

In  taking  up  her  abode  at  the  Grand  Archangel,  Madame 
Nina  thought  she  was  following  good  advice ;  and,  as  Fanferlot 
had  never  appeared  in  her  presence  since,  she  was  still  under 
the  impression  that  she  had  obeyed  a  friend  of  Prosper's.  When 
she  received  her  summons  from  M.  Patrigent,  she  admired  the 
wonderful  skill  of  the  police  in  discovering  her  hiding-place; 
for  she  had  established  herself  at  the  hotel  under  a  false,  or 
rather  her  true,  name,  Palmyre  Chocareille.  Artfully  ques- 
tioned by  her  inquisitive  landlady,  she  had,  without  any  mis- 
trust, confided  her  history  to  her.  Thus  Fanferlot  was  able  to 
impress  the  magistrate  with  the  idea  of  his  being  a  skilful 
detective,  when  he  pretended  to  have  discovered  all  this  infor- 
mation from  a  variety  of  sources. 

"She  is  still  upstairs,"  replied  Madame  Alexandre.  "She 
suspects  nothing;  but  to  keep  her  in  the  house  becomes  every 
day  more  difficult.  I  don't  know  what  the  magistrate  told  her, 
but  she  came  home  quite  beside  herself  with  anger.  She  wanted 
to  go  and  make  a  fuss  at  M.  Fauvel's.  Then  she  wrote  a  letter, 
which  she  told  Jean  to  post  for  her;  but  I  kept  it  to  show 
you." 

"What!"  interrupted  Fanferlot,  "you  have  a  letter,  and  d;d 
not  tell  me  before?  Perhaps  it  contains  the  clue  to  the  mystery. 
Give  it  to  me,  quick." 

Obeying  her  husband,  Madame  Alexandre  opened  a  little  cup- 


FILE   NUMBER    113  979 

board  and  took  out  a  letter,  which  she  handed  to  him.    "Here, 
take  it,"  she  said,  "and  be  satisfied." 

Considering  that  she  used  to  be  a  chambermaid,  Palmyre 
Chocareille,  since  become  Madame  Gipsy,  wrote  well.  Her 
letter  bore  the  following  address,  written  in  a  free,  flowing 
hand: 

"M.  L.  de  Clameran, 

"Forgemaster,  Hotel  dn  Louvre. 
"To  be  handed  to  M.  Raoul  de  Lagors. 
"(Immediate.)" 

"Oh,  ho !"  said  Fanferlot,  accompanying  his  exclamation  with 
a  little  whistle,  as  was  his  habit  when  he  thought  he  had  made 
a  grand  discovery.    "Oh,  ho !" 

"Are  you  going  to  open  it?"  inquired  Madame  Alexandre. 

"A  little  bit,"  said  Fanferlot,  as  he  dexterously  opened  the 
envelope. 

Madame  Alexandre  leaned  over  her  husband's  shoulder,  and 
they  both  read  the  following: 

"Monsieur  Raoul — Prosper  is  in  prison,  accused  of  a  rob- 
bery which  he  never  committed.    I  wrote  to  you  three  days  ago." 

"What !"  interrupted  Fanferlot,  "this  silly  girl  wrote,  and  I 
never  saw  the  letter?" 

"But,  little  man,  she  must  have  posted  it  herself  the  day  she 
went  to  the  Palais  de  Justice." 

"Very  likely,"  said  Fanferlot,  propitiated.  He  continued 
reading: 

"I  wrote  to  you  three  days  ago,  and  have  no  reply.  Who 
will  help  Prosper  if  his  best  friends  desert  him  ?  If  you  don't 
answer  this  letter,  I  shall  consider  myself  released  from  a  cer- 
tain promise,  and  without  scruple  will  tell  Prosper  of  the  con- 
versation I  overheard  between  you  and  M.  de  Clameran.  But 
I  can  count  on  you,  can  I  not?  I  shall  expect  yoii  at  the 
Grand  Archangel,  on  the  Quai  St.  Michel,  the  day  after  to- 
morrow, between  twelve  and  four.  Nina  Gipsy." 

The  letter  read,  Fanferlot  at  once  proceeded  to  copy  it. 
"Well!"  said  Madame  Alexandre,  "what  do  you  think?" 
Fanferlot  was  delicately  refastening  the  letter  when  the  door 

of  the  hotel  office  was  abruptly  opened,  and  the  waiter  twice 

whispered:  "Pst !  Pst !" 


980  FILE   NUMBER   113 

Fanferlot  rapidly  disappeared  into  a  dark  closet.  He  had 
barely  time  to  close  the  door  before  Madame  Gipsy  entered  the 
room.  The  poor  girl  was  sadly  changed.  She  was  pale  and 
hollow-cheeked,  and  her  eyes  were  red  with  weeping. 

On  seeing  her,  Madame  Alexandre  could  not  conceal  her  sur- 
prise.   "Why,  my  child,  you  are  not  going  out  ?"  said  she. 

"I  am  obliged  to  do  so,  madame ;  and  I  have  come  to  ask 
you  to  tell  any  one  that  may  call  during  my  absence  to  wait 
until  I  return." 

"But  where  in  the  world  are  you  going  at  this  hour,  unwell 
as  you  are?" 

For  a  moment  Madame  Gipsy  hesitated.  "Oh,"  she  said, 
"you  are  so  kind  that  I  am  tempted  to  confide  in  you ;  read  this 
note  which  a  messenger  just  now  brought  to  me." 

"What!"  cried  Madame  Alexandre  perfectly  aghast;  "a  mes- 
senger enter  my  house,  and  go  up  to  your  room !" 

"Is  there  anything  surprising  in  that?" 

"No,  oh,  no !  nothing  surprising."  And  in  a  tone  loud  enough 
to  be  heard  in  the  closet,  Madame  Alexandre  read  the  note : 

"A  friend  of  Prosper's  who  can  neither  receive  you,  nor  pre- 
sent himself  at  your  hotel,  is  very  anxious  to  speak  to  you.  Be 
in  the  omnibus  office  opposite  the  tower  of  Saint  Jacques  to-night 
at  nine  precisely,  and  the  writer  will  be  there,  and  tell  you  what 
he  has  to  say. 

"I  have  appointed  this  public  place  for  the  rendezvous  so  as 
to  relieve  your  mind  of  all  fear." 

"And  you  are  going  to  this  rendezvous?" 

"Certainly,  madame." 

"But  it  is  imprudent,  foolish :  it  is  a  snare  to  entrap  you." 

"It  makes  no  difference,"  interrupted  Nina.  "I  am  so  un- 
fortunate already  that  I  have  nothing  more  to  dread.  Any 
change  would  be  a  relief."  And,  without  waiting  to  hear  any 
more,  she  went  off.  The  door  had  scarcely  closed  upon  her 
before  Fanferlot  bounced  from  the  closet. 

The  mild  detective  was  white  with  rage,  and  swore  violently. 
"What  is  the  meaning  of  this?"  he  cried.  "Am  I  to  stand  by 
and  have  people  walking  all  over  the  Grand  Archangel  as  if  it 
were  a  public  street?"  Madame  Alexandre  stood  trembling, 
and  dared  not  speak.  "Was  ever  such  impudence  heard  of 
before !"  he  continued.     "A  messenger  comes  into  my  house 


FILE    NUMBER    113  981 

and  goes  upstairs  without  being  seen  by  anybody !  I  will  look 
into  this.  And  the  idea  of  you,  Madame  Alexandre,  you,  a 
sensible  woman,  being  idiotic  enough  to  try  and  persuade  that 
little  viper  not  to  keep  the  appointment !" 

"But,  my  dear—" 

"Had  you  not  sense  enough  to  know  thrt  I  would  follow  her, 
and  discover  what  she  is  attempting  to  conceal  ?  Come,  make 
haste  and  help  me,  so  that  she  won't  recognize  me." 

In  a  few  minutes  Fanferlot  was  completely  disguised  by  a 
thick  beard,  a  wig,  and  a  linen  blouse,  and  looked  for  all  the 
world  like  one  of  those  disreputable  working  men  who  go  about 
seeking  for  employment,  and,  at  the  same  time,  hoping  they 
may  not  find  any. 

"Have  you  your  life-preserver?"  asked  the  solicitous  Madame 
Alexandre. 

"Yes,  yes ;  make  haste  and  have  that  letter  to  M.  de  Clameran 
posted,  and  keep  on  the  lookout."  And  without  listening  to  his 
wife,  who  called  after  him,  "Good  luck,"  Fanferlot  darted  into 
the  street. 

Madame  Gipsy  had  some  minutes'  start  of  him ;  but  he  ran 
up  the  street  he  knew  she  must  have  taken,  and  overtook  her 
on  the  Pont-au-Change.  She  was  walking  with  the  uncertain 
manner  of  a  person  who,  impatient  to  be  at  a  rendezvous,  has 
started  too  soon,  and  is  obliged  to  occupy  the  intervening  time. 
First  she  would  walk  slowly,  then  quicken  her  steps,  and  pro- 
ceed very  rapidly.  She  strolled  up  and  down  the  Place  du 
Chatelet  several  times,  read  the  theatre-bills,  and  finally  seated 
herself  on  a  bench.  One  minute  before  a  quarter  to  nine  she 
entered  the  omnibus  office  and  sat  down. 

A  moment  afterward  Fanferlot  entered;  but,  as  he  feared 
that  Madame  Gipsy  might  recognize  him  in  spite  of  his  beard, 
he  took  a  seat  at  the  opposite  end  of  the  room,  in  a  dark 
corner.  "Singular  place  for  a  conversation,"  he  thought,  as 
he  watched  the  young  woman.  "Who  in  the  world  can  have 
made  this  appointment  in  an  omnibus  office?  Judging  from 
her  evident  curiosity  and  uneasiness,  I  could  swear  she  has  not 
the  faintest  idea  for  whom  she  is  waiting." 

Meanwhile,  the  office  was  rapidly  filling  with  people.  Every 
minute  an  official  would  shout  out  the  destination  of  an  omni- 
bus which  had  just  arrived,  and  the  passengers  would  rush  in 
to  obtain  tickets,  hoping  to  be  able  to  proceed  by  it. 

As  each  newcomer  entered,  Nina  would  tremble,  and  Fan- 


982  FILE    NUMBER   113 

ferlot  would  say,  "This  must  be  him!"  Finally,  as  the  Hotel 
de  Ville  clock  was  striking  nine,  a  man  entered,  and,  without 
going  to  the  ticket-desk,  walked  directly  up  to  Nina,  bowed, 
and  took  a  seat  beside  her.  He  was  of  medium  size,  rather 
stout,  with  a  crimson  face,  and  fiery-red  whiskers.  His  dress 
was  that  of  a  well-to-do  merchant,  and  there  was  nothing  in  his 
manner  or  appearance  to  excite  attention. 

Fanferlot  watched  him  eagerly.  "Well,  my  friend,"  he  said 
to  himself,  "in  future  I  shall  recognize  you,  no  matter  where 
we  meet;  and  this  very  evening  I  will  find  out  who  you  are." 
Despite  his  intent  listening,  Fanferlot  could  not  hear  a  word 
spoken  by  either  the  stranger  or  Nina.  All  he  could  do  was 
to  judge  what  the  subject  of  their  conversation  might  be  by 
their  gestures. 

When  the  stout  man  bowed  and  spoke  to  her,  Madame  Gipsy 
looked  so  surprised  that  it  was  evident  she  had  never  seen  him 
before.  When  he  sat  down  by  her,  and  said  a  few  words,  she 
started  up  with  a  frightened  air,  as  if  seeking  to  escape.  A 
single  word  and  look  made  her  resume  her  seat.  Then,  as  the 
stout  man  went  on  talking,  Nina's  attitude  betrayed  a  certain 
apprehension.  She  evidently  refused  to  do  something  required 
of  her;  then  suddenly  she  seemed  to  consent,  when  a  good 
reason  was  given  for  her  doing  so.  At  one  moment  she  appeared 
ready  to  weep,  and  the  next  her  pretty  face  was  illumined  by 
a  bright  smile.  Finally  she  shook  hands  with  her  companion, 
as  if  she  were  confirming  a  promise. 

"What  can  all  this  mean?"  said  Fanferlot  to  himself,  as  he 
sat  in  his  dark  comer,  biting  his  nails.  "What  an  idiot  I  am 
to  have  stationed  myself  so  far  off!"  He  was  thinking  how 
he  could  manage  to  approach  nearer  without  arousing  their  sus- 
picions, when  the  stout  man  rose,  offered  his  arm  to  Madame 
Gipsy,  who  accepted  it  without  hesitation,  and  they  walked 
together  toward  the  door. 

They  were  so  engrossed  with  each  other,  that  Fanferlot 
thought  he  could,  without  risk,  follow  them  closely;  and  it 
was  well  he  did,  for  the  crowd  was  dense  outside,  and  he 
would  soon  have  lost  sight  of  them.  Reaching  the  door,  he 
saw  the  stout  man  and  Nina  cross  the  pavement,  hail  a  cab, 
and  enter  it 

"Very  good,"  muttered  Fanferlot,  "I've  got  them  now.  There 
is  no  need  to  hurry." 

While  the  driver  was  gathering  up  his  reins,  Fanferlot  pre- 


FILE    NUMBER    113  983 

pared  himself;  and,  when  the  cab  started,  he  set  off  at  a  brisk 
trot,  determined  upon  following  it  to  the  end  of  the  earth. 

The  cab  proceeded  along  the  Boulevard  Sebastopol.  It  went 
pretty  fast;  but  it  was  not  for  nothing  that  Fanferlot  had  been 
dubbed  the  Squirrel.  With  his  elbows  glued  to  his  sides,  and 
economizing  his  wind,  he  ran  on.  By  the  time  he  had  reached 
the  Boulevard  St.  Denis,  he  began  to  get  winded,  and  stiff  from 
the  pain  in  his  side.  The  cabman  abruptly  turned  into  the 
Rue  Faubourg  St.  Martin. 

But  Fanferlot,  who,  at  eight  years  of  age,  had  played  about 
the  streets  of  Paris,  was  not  to  be  baffled;  he  was  a  man  of 
resources.  He  seized  hold  of  the  springs  of  the  cab.  raised 
himself  up  by  the  strength  of  his  wrists,  and  hung  on,  with 
his  legs  resting  on  the  axletree  of  the  hind  wheels.  He  was 
not  particularly  comfortable,  but  then  he  no  longer  ran  the  risk 
of  being  distanced.  "Now,"  he  chuckled,  behind  his  false  beard, 
"you  may  drive  as  fast  as  you  please,  cabby." 

The  man  whipped  up  his  horses,  and  drove  furiously  along 
the  hilly  street  of  the  Faubourg  St.  Martin.  Finally  the  cab 
stopped  in  front  of  a  wine-shop,  and  the  driver  jumped  down 
from  his  seat,  and  went  in. 

The  detective  also  left  his  uncomfortable  post,  and  crouching 
in  a  doorway  waited  for  Nina  and  her  companion  to  alight, 
with  the  intention  of  following  closely  upon  their  heels.  Five 
minutes  passed,  and  still  there  were  no  signs  of  them.  "What 
can  they  be  doing  all  this  time?"  grumbled  the  detective.  With 
great  precautions  he  approached  the  cab  and  peeped  in.  Oh, 
cruel  deception  !  it  was  empty  ! 

Fanferlot  felt  as  if  some  one  had  thrown  a  bucket  of  ice- 
water  over  him ;  he  remained  rooted  to  the  spot  with  his  mouth 
open,  the  picture  of  blank  bewilderment.  He  soon  recovered  his 
wits  sufficiently  to  burst  forth  into  a  volley  of  oaths,  loud  enough 
to  rattle  all  the  window-panes  in  the  neighborhood.  "Tricked  !* 
he  cried,  "fooled !     Ah !  but  won't  I  make  them  pay  for  this !" 

In  a  moment  his  quick  mind  had  run  over  the  gamut  of  pos- 
sibilities, probable  and  improbable.  "Evidently,"  he  muttered 
"this  fellow  and  Nina  entered  by  one  door  and  got  out  by  the 
other;  the  trick  is  simple  enough.  If  they  resorted  to  it,  'tis 
because  they  feared  being  followed.  If  they  feared  being  fol- 
lowed, they  have  uneasy  consciences,  therefore — "  He  suddenly 
interrupted  his  monologue  as  the  idea  struck  him  that  he  had 
better  endeavor  to  find  out  something  from  the  driver. 


984  FILE   NUMBER   113 

Unfortunately,  the  driver  was  in  a  very  surly  mood,  and  not 
only  refused  to  answer,  but  shook  his  whip  in  so  threatening  a 
manner  that  Fanferlot  deemed  it  prudent  to  beat  a  retreat.  "Oh, 
hang  it  V  he  muttered,  "perhaps  the  driver  is  mixed  up  in  the 
affair  also !" 

But  what  could  he  do  now  at  this  time  of  night?  He  could 
not  imagine.  He  walked  dejectedly  back  to  the  quay,  and  it 
was  half-past  eleven  when  he  reached  his  own  door.  "Has  the 
little  fool  returned?"  he  inquired  of  Madame  Alexandre  the 
instant  she  let  him  in. 

"No ;  but  here  are  two  large  bundles  which  have  come  for  her." 

Fanferlot  hastily  opened  them.  They  contained  three  cotton 
dresses,  some  heavy  shoes,  and  some  linen  caps.  "Well,"  said 
the  detective  in  a  vexed  tone,  "now  she  is  going  to  disguise 
herself.  Upon  my  word,  I  am  getting  puzzled !  What  can  she 
be  up  to  ?" 

When  Fanferlot  was  sulkily  walking  down  the  Faubourg  St. 
Martin  he  had  fully  made  up  his  mind  that  he  would  not  tell 
his  wife  of  his  discomfiture.  But  once  at  home,  confronted 
with  a  new  fact  of  a  nature  to  negative  all  his  conjectures,  his 
vanity  disappeared.  He  confessed  everything — his  hopes  so 
nearly  realized,  his  strange  mischance,  and  his  suspicions.  They 
talked  the  matter  over  and  finally  decided  that  they  would  not 
go  to  bed  until  Madame  Gipsy,  from  whom  Madame  Alexandre 
was  determined  to  obtain  an  explanation  of  what  had  happened, 
returned.  At  one  o'clock  the  worthy  couple  were  about  giving 
over  all  hope  of  her  reappearance  when  they  heard  the  bell  ring. 

Fanferlot  instantly  slipped  into  the  closet,  and  Madame  Alex- 
andre remained  in  the  office  to  receive  Nina.  "Here  you  are 
at  last,  my  dear  child !"  she  cried.  "Oh,  I  have  been  so  uneasy, 
so  afraid  lest  some  misfortune  had  happened !" 

"Thanks  for  your  kind  interest,  madame.  Has  a  bundle  been 
sent  here  for  me?" 

Poor  Nina's  appearance  had  strikingly  changed ;  she  was  still 
sad,  but  no  longer  dejected  as  she  had  been.  To  her  prostra- 
tion of  the  last  few  days  had  succeeded  a  firm  and  generous 
resolution,  which  was  betrayed  in  her  sparkling  eyes  and  reso- 
lute step. 

"Yes,  two  bundles  came  for  you;  here  they  are.  I  suppose 
you  saw  M.  Bertomy's  friend?" 

"Yes,  madame,  and  his  advice  has  so  changed  my  plans  that, 
I  regret  to  say,  I  must  leave  you  to-morrow." 


FILE    NUMBER    113  985 

"Going  away  to-morrow !  then  something  must  have  hap- 
pened." 

"Oh !  nothing  that  would  interest  you,  madame." 

After  lighting  her  candle  at  the  gas-burner,  Madame  Gipsy 
said  "Good  night"  in  a  very  significant  way,  and  left  the  room. 

"And  what  do  you  think  of  that,  Madame  Alexandre?"  asked 
Fanferlot,  as  he  emerged  from  his  hiding-place. 

"It  is  incredible !  This  girl  writes  to  M.  de  Lagors  to  meet 
her  here,  and  then  does  not  wait  for  him." 

"She  evidently  mistrusts  us;  she  knows  who  I  am." 

"Then  this  friend  of  the  cashier  must  have  told  her." 

"Nobody  knows  who  told  her.  I  begin  to  think  that  I  have 
to  do  with  some  very  knowing  thieves.  They  guess  I  am  on 
their  track,  and  are  trying  to  escape  me.  I  should  not  be  at 
all  surprised  if  this  little  rogue  has  the  money  herself,  and 
intends  to  run  off  with  it  to-morrow." 

"That  is  not  my  opinion ;  but  listen  to  me,  you  had  better 
take  my  advice,  and  consult  M.  Lecoq." 

Fanferlot  meditated  awhile,  then  exclaimed :  "Very  well ;  I 
will  see  him,  just  for  your  satisfaction;  because  I  know  that 
if  I  have  not  discovered  anything,  neither  will  he.  But  if  he 
takes  upon  himself  to  be  domineering,  it  won't  do;  for  only 
let  him  show  his  insolence  to  me,  and  /  will  let  him  know 
his  place !" 

Notwithstanding  this  brave  speech,  the  detective  passed  an 
uneasy  night,  and  at  six  o'clock  the  next  morning  he  was  up — 
it  was  necessary  to  rise  very  early  if  one  wished  to  catch 
M.  Lecoq  at  home — and,  refreshed  by  a  cup  of  strong  coffee, 
he  directed  his  e  -ps  toward  the  dwelling  of  the  famous  detective. 

Fanferlot  the  Squirrel  was  certainly  not  afraid  of  his  chief, 
as  he  called  him,  for  he  started  off  with  his  nose  in  the  air 
and  his  hat  cocked  on  one  side.  But  by  the  time  he  reached 
the  Rue  Montmartre,  where  M.  Lecoq  lived,  his  courage  had 
vanished ;  he  pulled  his  hat  over  his  eyes,  and  hung  his  head, 
as  if  looking  for  relief  among  the  paving-stones.  He  slowly 
ascended  the  stairs,  pausing  several  times,  and  looking  around 
as  if  he  would  like  to  fly.  Finally  he  reached  the  third  floor, 
and  stood  before  a  door  decorated  with  the  arms  of  the  famous 
detective — a  cock,  the  symbol  of  vigilance — and  his  heart  failed 
him  so  that  he  had  scarcely  the  courage  to  ring  the  bell. 

The  door  was  opened  by  Janouille,  M.  Lecoq's  old  servant, 
who  had  very  much  the  manner  and  appearance  of  a  grenadier. 

Gab. — Vol.  IV  D 


966  FILE   NUMBER   113 

She  was  as  faithful  to  her  master  as  a  watchdog,  and  always 
stood  ready  to  attack  any  one  who  did  not  treat  him  with  the 
august  respect  which  she  considered  his  due.  "Well,  M.  Fan- 
ferlot,"  she  said,  "you  come  at  a  right  time  for  once  in  your 
life.    The  chief  is  waiting  to  see  you." 

Upon  this  announcement  Fanferlot  was  seized  with  a  violent 
desire  to  retreat.  By  what  chance  could  Lecoq  be  waiting  for 
him  ?  While  he  thus  hesitated,  Janouille  seized  him  by  the  arm 
and  pulled  him  in,  saying:  "Do  you  want  to  take  root  there? 
Come  along,  the  master  is  busy  at  work  in  his  study." 

Seated  at  a  desk  in  the  middle  of  a  large  room,  half  library 
and  half  theatrical  dressing-room,  furnished  in  a  curious  style, 
was  the  same  individual  with  gold  spectacles  who  had  said  to 
Prosper  at  the  Prefecture,  "Have  courage."  This  was  M.  Lecoq 
in  his  official  character. 

Fanferlot  on  his  entrance  advanced  respectfully,  bowing  till 
his  backbone  was  a  perfect  curve.  M.  Lecoq  laid  down  his  pen, 
and,  looking  sharply  at  him,  said:  "Ah,  so  here  you  are,  young 
man.  Well,  it  seems  that  you  haven't  made  much  progress  in 
Bertomy's  case." 

"What,"  murmured  Fanferlot,  "you  know — " 

"I  know  that  you  have  muddled  everything  until  you  can't 
see  your  way  out;  so  that  you  are  ready  to  give  in." 

"But,  M.  Lecoq,  it  was  not  I — " 

M.  Lecoq  rose,  and  walked  up  and  down  the  room;  suddenly 
he  confronted  Fanferlot,  and  said  in  a  tone  of  scornful  irony: 
"What  would  you  think,  Master  Squirrel,  of  a  man  who  abuses 
the  confidence  of  those  who  employ  him,  who  reveals  just 
enough  to  lead  the  prosecution  on  the  wrong  scent,  who  sac- 
rifices to  his  own  foolish  vanity  the  cause  of  justice  and  the 
liberty  of  an  unfortunate  prisoner?" 

Fanferlot  started  back  with  a  scared  look.  "I  should  say," 
he  stammered,  "I  should  say — " 

"You  would  say  this  man  ought  to  be  punished,  and  dis- 
missed from  his  employment;  and  you  are  right.  The  less  a 
profession  is  honored,  the  more  honorable  should  those  be 
who  belong  to  it.  And  yet  you  have  been  false  to  yours.  Ah  f 
Master  Squirrel,  we  are  ambitious,  and  we  try  to  make  the 
police  service  forward  our  own  views!  We  let  justice  go 
astray,  and  we  go  on  a  different  tack.  One  must  be  a  more 
cunning  bloodhound  than  you  are,  my  friend,  to  be  able  to  hunt 
without  a  huntsman.     You  are  too  self-reliant  by  half." 


FILE    NUMBER   113  987 

"But,  my  chief,  I  swear — " 

"Silence !  Do  you  pretend  to  say  that  you  did  your  duty, 
and  told  all  you  knew  to  the  investigating  magistrate?  While 
others  were  giving  information  against  the  cashier,  you  were 
getting  up  evidence  against  the  banker.  You  watch  his  move- 
ments :  you  become  intimate  with  his  valet." 

Was  M.  Lecoq  really  angry,  or  pretending  to  be  so  ?  Fan- 
ferlot,  who  knew  him  well,  was  puzzled  as  to  whether  all  this 
indignation  was  real. 

"Still,  if  you  were  only  skilful,"  continued  M.  Lecoq,  "it 
would  be  another  matter;  but  no:  you  wish  to  be  master,  and 
you  are  not  even  fit  to  be  a  journeyman." 

"You  are  right,  my  chief,"  said  Fanferlot  piteously,  for  he 
saw  that  it  was  useless  for  him  to  deny  anything.  "But  how 
could  I  go  about  an  affair  like  this,  where  there  was  not  even 
a  trace,  a  sign  of  any  kind  to  start  from?" 

M.  Lecoq  shrugged  his  shoulders.  "You  are  an  ass !"  ex- 
claimed he.  "Why,  don't  you  know  that  on  the  very  day  you 
were  sent  for  with  the  commissary  to  verify  the  fact  of  the 
robbery,  you  held — I  do  not  say  certainly,  but  very  probably 
held — in  your  great  stupid  hands  the  means  of  knowing  which 
key  had  been  used  when  the  money  was  stolen?" 

"How  is  that?" 

"You  want  to  know,  do  you?  I  will  tell  you.  Do  you  re- 
member the  scratch  you  discovered  on  the  safe  ?  You  were  so 
struck  by  it  that  you  could  not  refrain  from  calling  out  directly 
you  saw  it.  You  carefully  examined  it,  and  were  convinced 
that  it  was  a  fresh  scratch,  only  a  few  hours  old.  You  thought, 
and  rightly  too,  that  this  scratch  was  made  at  the  time  of  the 
theft.  Now,  with  what  was  it  made?  Evidently  with  a  key. 
That  being  the  case,  you  should  have  asked  for  the  keys  both 
of  the  banker  and  the  cashier.  One  of  them  would  have  prob- 
ably had  some  particles  of  the  hard  green  paint  sticking  to  it." 

Fanferlot  listened  with  open  mouth  to  this  explanation.  At 
the  last  words,  he  violently  slapped  his  forehead  with  his  hand 
and  cried  out :  "Idiot !  idiot !" 

"You  have  correctly  named  yourself,"  said  M.  Lecoq.  "Idiot ! 
This  proof  stares  you  right  in  the  face,  and  you  don't  see  it ! 
This  scratch  is  the  only  clue  there  is  to  follow,  and  you  must 
like  a  fool  neglect  it.  If  I  find  the  guilty  party,  it  will  be  by 
means  of  this  scratch;  and  I  am  determined  that  I  will  find 
him." 


988  FILE   NUMBER    113 

At  a  distance  the  Squirrel  very  bravely  abuses  and  defies 
M.  Lecoq,  but  in  his  presence  he  yields  to  the  influence  which 
this  extraordinary  man  exercises  upon  all  who  approach  him. 
This  exact  information,  these  minute  details  just  given  him, 
so  upset  his  mind  that  he  could  not  imagine  where  and  how 
M.  Lecoq  had  obtained  them.  Finally  he  humbly  said:  "You 
have  then  been  occupying  yourself  with  this  case,  my  chief  ?" 

"Probably  I  have ;  but  I  am  not  infallible,  and  may  have  over- 
looked some  important  evidence.  Take  a  seat,  and  tell  me  all 
you  know." 

M.  Lecoq  was  not  the  man  to  be  hoodwinked,  so  Fanferlot 
told  the  exact  truth,  a  rare  thing  for  him  to  do.  However,  as 
he  reached  the  end  of  his  statement,  a  feeling  of  mortified  vanity 
prevented  his  telling  how  he  had  been  fooled  by  Nina  and  the 
stout  man.  Unfortunately  for  poor  Fanferlot,  M.  Lecoq  was 
always  fully  informed  on  every  subject  in  which  he  interested 
himself.  "It  seems  to  me,  Master  Squirrel,"  said  he,  "that  you 
have  forgotten  something.  How  far  did  you  follow  the  empty 
cab?" 

Fanferlot  blushed,  and  hung  his  head  like  a  guilty  schoolboy. 
"Oh,  my  chief!"  he  cried,  "and  you  know  all  about  that  too! 
How  could  you  have — "  But  a  sudden  idea  flashed  across  his 
mind,  he  stopped  short,  bounded  off  his  chair,  and  exclaimed: 
"Oh  !  I  know  now :  you  were  the  stout  gentleman  with  the  red 
whiskers." 

His  amazement  gave  so  singular  an  expression  to  his  face 
that  M.  Lecoq  could  not  restrain  a  smile.  "Then  it  was  you !" 
continued  the  bewildered  detective ;  "you  were  the  stout  gen- 
tleman at  whom  I  stared,  so  as  to  impress  his  appearance  upon 
my  mind,  and  I  never  recognized  you !  You  would  make  a 
superb  actor,  my  chief,  if  you  would  go  on  the  stage ;  but  I  was 
disguised  too — very  well  disguised." 

"Very  poorly  disguised:  it  is  only  just  to  you  that  I  should 
let  you  know  what  a  failure  it  was,  Fanferlot.  Do  you  think 
that  a  huge  beard  and  a  blouse  are  a  sufficient  transformation? 
The  eye  is  the  thing  to  be  changed — the  eye !  The  art  lies  in 
being  able  to  change  the  eye.  That  is  the  secret."  This  theory 
of  disguise  explained  why  the  lynx-eyed  Lecoq  never  appeared 
at  the  Prefecture  of  Police  without  his  gold  spectacles. 

"Then,  my  chief,"  said  Fanferlot,  clinging  to  his  idea,  "you 
have  been  more  successful  than  Madame  Alexandre;  you  have 
made  the  little  girl  confess?     You  know  why  she  leaves  the 


FILE   NUMBER   113  989 

Grand  Archangel,  why  she  does  not  wait  for  M.  de  Lagors, 
and  why  she  has  bought  herself  some  cotton  dresses?" 

"She  is  following  my  advice." 

"That  being  the  case,"  said  the  detective  dejectedly,  "there 
is  nothing  left  for  me  to  do  but  to  acknowledge  myself  an  ass." 

"No,  Squirrel,"  said  M.  Lecoq,  kindly.  "You  are  not  an  ass. 
You  merely  did  wrong  in  undertaking  a  task  beyond  your 
capacity.  Have  you  progressed  one  step  since  you  started  in 
this  affair?  No.  That  shows  that,  although  you  are  incom- 
parable as  a  lieutenant,  you  do  not  possess  the  qualities  of  a 
general.  I  am  going  to  present  you  with  an  aphorism ;  remem- 
ber it,  and  let  it  be  your  guide  in  the  future :  A  man  can  shine 
in  the  second  rank  who  would  be  totally  eclipsed  in  the  first." 

Never  had  Fanferlot  seen  his  chief  so  talkative  and  good- 
natured.  Finding  his  deceit  discovered,  he  had  expected  to  be 
overwhelmed  with  a  storm  of  anger ;  whereas  he  had  escaped 
with  a  little  shower  that  had  cooled  his  brain.  Lecoq's  anger 
disappeared  like  one  of  those  heavy  clouds  which  threaten  in 
the  horizon  for  a  moment,  and  then  are  suddenly  swept  away 
by  a  gust  of  wind. 

But  this  unexpected  affability  made  Fanferlot  feel  uneasy. 
He  was  afraid  that  something  might  be  concealed  beneath  it. 
"Do  you  know  who  the  thief  is,  my  chief?"  he  inquired. 

"I  know  no  more  than  you  do,  Fanferlot ;  and  you  seem  to 
have  made  up  your  mind,  whereas  I  am  still  undecided.  You 
declare  the  cashier  to  be  innocent,  and  the  banker  guilty.  I 
don't  know  whether  you  are  right  or  wrong.  I  follow  after 
you,  and  have  got  no  further  than  the  preliminaries  of  my  in- 
vestigation. I  am  certain  of  but  one  thing,  and  that  is,  the 
scratch  on  the  safe-door.     That  scratch  is  my  starting-point." 

As  he  spoke,  M.  Lecoq  took  from  his  desk  an  immense  sheet 
of  paper  which  he  unrolled.  On  this  paper  was  photographed 
the  door  of  M.  Fauvel's  safe.  Every  detail  was  rendered  per- 
fectly. There  were  the  five  movable  buttons  with  the  engraved 
letters,  and  the  narrow,  projecting  brass  lock.  The  scratch 
was  indicated  with  great  exactness. 

"Now,"  said  M.  Lecoq,  "here  is  our  scratch.  It  runs  from 
top  to  bottom,  starting  diagonally,  from  the  keyhole,  and  pro- 
ceeding from  left  to  right ;  that  is  to  say,  it  terminates  on  the 
side  next  to  the  private  staircase  leading  to  the  banker's  apart- 
ments. Although  very  deep  at  the  keyhole,  it  ends  in  a  scarcely 
perceptible  mark." 


990  FILE   NUMBER    113 

"Yes,  my  chief,  1  see  all  that." 

"Naturally  you  thought  that  this  scratch  was  made  by  the 
person  who  took  the  money.  Let  us  see  if  you  were  right.  I 
have  here  a  little  iron  box,  painted  green  like  M.  Fauvel's  safe; 
here  it  is.    Take  a  key,  and  try  to  scratch  it." 

"The  deuce  take  it !"  said  Fanferlot  after  several  attempts, 
"this  paint  is  awfully  hard  to  move !" 

"Very  hard,  my  friend,  and  yet  that  on  the  safe  is  harder 
still,  and  more  solid.  So  you  see  the  scratch  you  discovered 
could  not  have  been  made  by  the  trembling  hand  of  a  thief 
letting  the  key  slip." 

"Sapristi !"  exclaimed  Fanferlot  amazed ;  "I  never  should  have 
thought  of  that.  It  certainly  required  great  force  to  make  the 
deep  scratch  on  the  safe." 

"Yes,  but  how  was  that  force  applied?  I  have  been  racking 
my  brain  for  three  days,  and  it  was  only  yesterday  that  I  came 
to  a  conclusion.  Let  us  examine  if  my  conjectures  present 
enough   chances   of  probability  to  establish   a   starting-point." 

M.  Lecoq  put  the  photograph  aside,  and,  walking  to  the  door 
communicating  with  his  bedroom,  took  the  key  from  the  lock, 
and,  holding  it  in  his  hands,  said:  "Come  here,  Fanferlot,  and 
stand  by  my  side,  there ;  very  well.  Now  suppose  that  I  want 
to  open  this  door,  and  that  you  don't  wish  me  to  open  it ;  when 
you  see  me  about  to  insert  the  key,  what  would  be  your  first 
impulse?" 

"To  put  my  hands  on  your  arm,  and  draw  it  toward  me  so 
as  to  prevent  your  introducing  the  key." 

"Precisely  so.  Now  let  us  try  it;  go  on."  Fanferlot  obeyed; 
and  the  key  held  by  M.  Lecoq,  pulled  aside  from  the  lock, 
slipped  along  the  door,  and  traced  upon  it,  from  above  to  below 
a  diagonal  scratch,  the  exact  reproduction  of  the  one  in  the 
photograph. 

"Oh,  oh,  oh !"  exclaimed  Fanferlot  in  three  different  tones 
of  admiration,  as  he  stood  gazing  in  a  reverie  at  the  door. 

"Do  you  begin  to  understand  ?"  asked  M.  Lecoq. 

"Understand,  my  chief?  Why,  a  child  could  understand  it 
now.  Ah,  what  a  man  you  are !  I  see  the  scene  as  if  I  had 
been  there.  Two  persons  were  present  at  the  robbery;  one 
wished  to  take  the  money,  the  other  wished  to  prevent  its  being 
taken.     That  is  clear,  that  is  certain." 

Accustomed  to  triumphs  of  this  sort,  M.  Lecoq  was  much 
amused  at  Fanferlot's  enthusiasm.     "There  you  go  off,  half- 


FILE   NUMBER    113  991 

primed  again,"  he  said  good-humoredly ;  "you  regard  as  certain 
proof  a  circumstance  which  may  be  accidental,  and  at  the  most 
only  probable." 

"No,  my  chief;  no!  a  man  like  you  could  not  be  mistaken; 
doubt  is  no  longer  possible." 

"That  being  the  case,  what  deductions  would  you  draw  from 
our  discovery?" 

"In  the  first  place,  it  proves  that  I  am  correct  in  thinking  the 
cashier  innocent." 

"How  so?" 

"Because,  being  at  perfect  liberty  to  open  the  safe  whenever 
he  wished  to  do  so,  it  is  not  likely  that  he  would  have  had  a 
witness  present  when  he  intended  to  commit  the  theft." 

"Well  reasoned,  Fanferlot.  But  on  this  supposition  the 
banker  would  be  equally  innocent ;  reflect  a  little." 

Fanferlot  reflected,  and  all  his  confidence  vanished.  "You 
are  right,"  he  said  in  a  despairing  tone.  "What  can  be  done 
now?" 

"Look  for  the  third  rogue,  or  rather  the  real  rogue,  the  one 
who  opened  the  safe  and  stole  the  notes,  and  who  is  still  at 
large,  while  others  are  suspected." 

"Impossible,  my  chief,  impossible !  Don't  you  know  that  M. 
Fauvel  and  his  cashier  had  keys,  and  they  only?  And  they 
always  kept  these  keys  in  their  possession." 

"On  the  evening  of  the  robbery  the  banker  left  his  key  in  his 
escritoire." 

"Yes ;  but  the  key  alone  was  not  sufficient  to  open  the  safe ; 
it  was  necessary  that  the  word  also  should  be  known." 

M.  Lecoq  shrugged  his  shoulders  impatiently.  "What  was 
the  word?"  he  asked. 

"Gipsy." 

"Which  is  the  name  of  the  cashier's  mistress.  Now  keep 
your  eyes  open.  The  day  you  find  a  man  sufficiently  intimate 
with  Prosper  to  be  aware  of  all  the  circumstances  connected 
with  this  name,  and  who  is  at  the  same  time  on  such  a  footing 
with  the  Fauvel  family  as  would  give  him  the  privilege  of 
entering  M.  Fauvel's  chamber,  then,  and  not  until  then,  will 
you  discover  the  guilty  party.  On  that  day  the  problem  will 
be  solved." 

Self-sufficient  and  vain,  like  all  famous  men,  M.  Lecoq  had 
never  had  a  pupil,  and  never  wished  to  have  one.  He  worked 
alone,  because  he  hated  assistants,  wishing  to  share  neither  the 


992  FILE    NUMBER    113 

pleasures  of  success  nor  the  pain  of  defeat.  Thus  Fanferlot, 
who  knew  his  chief's  character,  was  astonished  to  hear  him 
giving  advice  who  heretofore  had  only  given  orders.  He  was 
so  puzzled  that,  in  spite  of  his  preoccupation,  he  could  not  help 
betraying  his  surprise.  "My  chief,"  he  ventured  to  say,  "you 
seem  to  take  a  great  interest  in  this  affair,  you  have  so  deeply 
studied  it." 

M.  Lecoq  started  nervously,  and  replied,  frowning:  "You  are 
too  curious,  Master  Squirrel ;  be  careful  that  you  do  not  go  too 
far.     Do  you  understand?" 

Fanferlot  began  to  apologize. 

"That  will  do,"  interrupted  M.  Lecoq.  "If  I  choose  to  lend 
you  a  helping  hand,  it  is  because  it  suits  my  fancy  to  do  so.  It 
pleases  me  to  be  the  head,  and  to  let  you  be  the  hand.  Unas- 
sisted, with  your  preconceived  ideas,  you  never  would  have 
found  the  culprit;  if  we  two  together  don't  find  him,  my  name 
is  not  Lecoq." 

"We  shall  certainly  succeed,  as  you  interest  yourself  in  the 
case." 

"Yes,  I  am  interested  in  it,  and  during  the  last  four  days  I 
have  discovered  many  important  facts.  But  listen  to  me.  I 
have  reasons  for  not  appearing  in  this  affair.  No  matter  what 
happens,  I  forbid  you  mentioning  my  name.  If  we  succeed,  all 
the  success  must  be  attributed  to  you.  And,  above  all,  don't 
try  to  find  out  what  I  choose  to  keep  from  you.  Be  satisfied 
with  what  explanations  I  give  you.     Now,  be  careful." 

These  conditions  seemed  to  suit  Fanferlot  perfectly.  "I  will 
obey  your  instructions  and  be  discreet,"  he  replied. 

"I  shall  rely  upon  you,"  continued  M.  Lecoq.  "Now,  to 
begin,  you  must  carry  this  photograph  to  the  investigating 
magistrate.  I  know  M.  Patrigent  is  much  perplexed  about  the 
case.  Explain  to  him  as  if  it  were  your  own  discovery  what 
I  have  just  shown  you;  repeat  for  his  benefit  the  experiment 
we  have  performed,  and  I  am  convinced  that  this  evidence  will 
determine  him  to  release  the  cashier.  Prosper  must  be  at  liberty 
before  I  can  commence  my  operations." 

"Of  course,  my  chief;  but  must  I  let  him  know  that  I  suspect 
any  one  besides  the  banker  or  cashier?" 

"Certainly.  The  authorities  must  not  be  kept  in  ignorance  of 
your  intention  of  following  up  this  affair.  M.  Patrigent  will  tell 
you  to  watch  Prosper ;  you  will  reply  that  you  will  not  lose  sight 
of  him.    I  myself  will  answer  for  his  being  in  safe  keeping." 


FILE    NUMBER    113  993 

"Suppose  he  asks  me  about  Nina  Gipsy?" 

M.  Lecoq  hesitated  for  a  moment.  "Tell  him,"  he  finally 
said,  "that  you  persuaded  her,  in  the  interest  of  Prosper,  to  live 
in  a  house  where  she  can  watch  some  one  whom  you  suspect." 

Fanferlot  rolled  up  the  photograph  and  joyously  seized  hold 
of  his  hat,  intending  to  depart,  when  M.  Iecoq  checked  him  by 
waving  his  hand,  and  said :  "I  have  not  finished  yet.  Do  you 
know  how  to  drive  a  carriage  and  manage  horses?" 

"How  can  you  ask  such  a  question  as  this,  my  chief,  of  a 
man  who  used  to  be  a  rider  in  the  Bouthor  Circus?" 

"Very  good.  As  soon  as  the  magistrate  dismisses  you,  re- 
turn home  immediately,  obtain  for  yourself  a  wig  and  the  com- 
plete dress  of  a  valet ;  and,  when  you  are  ready,  take  this 
letter  to  the  agency  for  servants  at  the  corner  of  the  Passage 
Delorme." 

"But,  my  chief—" 

"There  must  be  no  but,  my  friend;  the  agent  will  send  you 
to  M.  de  Clameran,  who  is  wanting  a  valet,  his  man  having  left 
him  yesterday." 

"Excuse  me,  if  I  venture  to  suggest  that  I  think  you  are 
laboring  under  a  wrong  impression.  This  De  Clameran  is  not 
the  cashier's  friend." 

"Why  do  you  always  interrupt  me?"  said  M.  Lecoq  imperi- 
ously. "Do  what  I  tell  you,  and  don't  disturb  your  mind  about 
the  rest.  I  know  that  De  Clameran  is  not  a  friend  of  Prosper's ; 
but  he  is  the  friend  and  protector  of  Raoul  de  Lagors.  Why 
so?  Whence  the  intimacy  of  these  two  men  of  such  different 
ages?  That  is  what  I  must  find  out.  I  must  also  find  out  who 
this  ironmaster  is  who  spends  all  his  time  in  Paris,  and  never 
goes  to  look  after  his  forges.  An  individual  who  takes  it  into 
his  head  to  live  at  the  Hotel  du  Louvre,  in  the  midst  of  a  con- 
stantly changing  crowd,  is  a  fellow  difficult  to  watch.  Through 
you  I  will  keep  an  eye  upon  him.  He  has  a  carriage,  which 
you  will  have  to  drive :  you  will  soon  be  able  to  give  me 
an  account  of  his  manner  of  life,  and  of  the  sort  of  people 
with  whom  he  associates." 

"You  shall  be  obeyed,  my  chief." 

"Another  thing.  M.  de  Clameran  is  irritable  and  suspicious. 
You  will  be  presented  to  him  under  the  name  of  Joseph  Dubois. 
He  will  ask  for  certificates  of  your  good  character.  Here  are 
three,  which  state  that  you  have  lived  with  the  Marquis  de 
Sairmeuse  and  the  Count  de  Commarin,  and  that  you  have  just 


994  FILE    NUMBER    113 

left  the  Baron  de  Wortschen,  who  went  to  Germany  the  other 
day.  Now  keep  your  eyes  open;  be  careful  of  your  get-up  and 
manners.  Be  polite,  but  not  excessively  so.  And,  above  all 
things,  don't  be  too  honest:  it  might  arouse  suspicion." 

"I  understand,  my  chief.    Where  shall  I  report  to  you?" 

"I  will  see  you  daily.  Until  I  tell  you  differently,  don't  put 
foot  in  this  house;  you  might  be  followed.  If  anything  impor- 
tant should  happen,  send  a  telegram  to  your  wife,  and  she  will 
inform  me.     Go,  and  be  prudent." 

The  door  closed  on  Fanferlot  as  M.  Lecoq  passed  into  his 
bedroom.  In  the  twinkling  of  an  eye  the  latter  divested  himself 
of  the  appearance  of  chief  detective.  He  took  off  his  stiff 
cravat  and  gold  spectacles  and  removed  the  close  wig  from  his 
thick  black  hair.  The  official  Lecoq  had  disappeared,  leaving 
in  his  place  the  genuine  Lecoq  whom  nobody  knew — a  good- 
looking  young  man,  with  a  bold,  determined  manner,  and  bril- 
liant, piercing  eyes.  But  he  only  remained  himself  for  an  in- 
stant. Seated  before  a  dressing-table  covered  with  more  cos- 
metics, paints,  perfumes,  false  hair,  and  other  shams  than  are 
to  be  found  on  the  toilet-tables  of  our  modern  belles,  he  began 
to  undo  the  work  of  nature  and  to  make  himself  a  new  face. 
He  worked  slowly,  handling  his  brushes  with  great  care.  But 
in  an  hour  he  had  accomplished  one  of  his  daily  masterpieces. 
When  he  had  finished,  he  was  no  longer  Lecoq:  he  was  the 
stout  gentleman  with  red  whiskers  whom  Fanferlot  had  failed 
to  recognize. 

"Well,"  he  said,  casting  a  last  look  in  the  mirror,  "I  have 
forgotten  nothing :  I  have  left  nothing  to  chance.  All  my  plans 
are  fixed;  and  I  shall  make  some  progress  to-day,  provided  the 
Squirrel  does  not  waste  time." 

But  Fanferlot  was  too  happy  to  waste  even  a  minute.  He 
did  not  run,  he  flew,  toward  the  Palais  de  Justice.  At  last  he 
was  able  to  convince  some  one  that  he,  Fanferlot,  was  a  man 
of  wonderful  perspicacity.  As  to  acknowledging  that  he  was 
about  to  obtain  a  triumph  with  the  ideas  of  another  man,  he 
never  thought  of  such  a  thing.  It  is  generally  in  perfect  good 
faith  that  the  jackdaw  struts  about  in  the  peacock's  feathers. 

Fanferlot's  hopes  were  not  deceived.  If  the  magistrate  was 
not  absolutely  convinced,  he  admired  the  ingenuity  and  shrewd- 
ness of  the  whole  proceeding.  "This  decides  me,"  he  said,  as 
he  dismissed  Fanferlot.  "I  will  draw  up  a  favorable  report 
to-day;   and   it   is   highly   probable   that   the   accused   will    be 


FILE    NUMBER    113 


995 


released  to-morrow."  He  began  at  once  to  write  out  one  of 
those  terrible  decisions  of  "Not  proven,"  which  restores  liberty, 
but  not  honor,  to  the  accused  man ;  which  says  that  he  is  not 
guilty,  but  does  not  say  that  he  is  innocent. 

"Whereas  sufficient  proofs  are  wanting  against  the  accused, 
Prosper  Bertomy,  in  pursuance  of  Article  128  of  the  Criminal 
Code,  we  hereby  declare  that  no  grounds  at  present  exist  for 
prosecuting  the  aforesaid  prisoner ;  and  we  order  that  he  be 
released  from  the  prison  where  he  is  confined,  and  set  at 
liberty  by  the  jailer,"  etc. 

"Well,"  said  he  to  the  clerk,  "here  we  have  another  of  those 
crimes  which  justice  can  not  clear  up.  The  mystery  remains  to 
be  solved.  There  is  another  file  to  be  stowed  away  among  the 
police  records."  And  with  his  own  hand  he  wrote  on  the  cover 
of  the  bundle  of  papers  relating  to  Prosper's  case  its  number 
of  rotation :  File  Number  113. 


OROSPER  had  been  languishing  in  his  cell  for  nine  days, 
*■  when  one  Thursday  morning  the  jailer  came  to  apprise 
him  of  the  magistrate's  decision.  He  was  conducted  before  the 
officer  who  had  searched  him  when  he  was  arrested :  and  his 
watch,  penknife,  and  several  small  articles  of  jewelry  were  re- 
stored to  him ;  then  he  was  told  to  sign  a  large  sheet  of  paper, 
which  he  did. 

He  was  next  led  across  a  dark  passage,  and  almost  pushed 
through  a  door,  which  was  abruptly  shut  upon  him.  He  found 
himself  on  the  quay:  he  was  alone;  he  was  free. 

Free !  Justice  had  confessed  her  inability  to  convict  him  of 
the  crime  of  which  he  was  accused.  Free !  He  could  walk 
about,  he  could  breathe  the  fresh  air;  but  ever)'  door  would  be 
closed  against  him.  Only  acquittal  after  due  trial  would  re- 
store him  to  his  former  position  among  men.  A  decision  of 
"Not  proven"  had  left  him  exposed  to  continual  suspicion. 

The  torments  inflicted  by  public  opinion  are  more  fearful  than 
those  endured  in  a  prison  cell.     At  the  moment  of  his  restora- 


996  FILE   NUMBER    113 

tion  to  liberty,  Prosper  suffered  so  cruelly  from  the  horror  of 
his  situation  that  he  could  not  repress  a  cry  of  rage  and  despair. 
"I  am  innocent!  God  knows  I  am  innocent!"  he  cried  out. 
But  of  what  use  was  his  anger?  Two  strangers,  who  were 
passing,  stopped  to  look  at  him,  and  said  pityingly:  "The  poor 
fellow  is  crazy." 

The  Seine  was  at  his  feet.  A  thought  of  suicide  crossed  his 
mind.  "No,"  he  said,  "no !  I  have  not  even  the  right  to  kill 
myself.    No :  I  will  not  die  until  I  have  proved  my  innocence !" 

Often,  day  and  night,  had  Prosper  repeated  these  words,  as 
he  walked  his  cell.  With  a  heart  filled  with  a  bitter,  deter- 
mined thirst  for  vengeance,  which  gives  a  man  the  force  and 
patience  to  destroy  or  wear  out  all  obstacles  in  his  way,  he 
would  say :  "Oh !  why  am  I  not  at  liberty  ?  I  am  helpless, 
caged  up ;  but  let  me  once  be  free !"  Now  he  was  free ;  and 
for  the  first  time  he  saw  the  difficulties  of  the  task  before  him. 
For  each  crime,  justice  requires  a  criminal;  he  could  not  estab- 
lish his  own  innocence  without  producing  the  guilty  individual; 
how  was  he  to  find  the  thief  and  hand  him  over  to  the  law? 

Despondent,  but  not  discouraged,  Prosper  turned  in  the  direc- 
tion of  his  apartments.  He  was  beset  by  a  thousand  anxieties. 
What  had  taken  place  during  the  nine  days  that  he  had  been 
cut  off  from  all  intercourse  with  his  friends?  No  news  of  them 
had  reached  him.  He  had  heard  no  more  of  what  was  going 
on  in  the  outside  world  than  if  his  secret  cell  had  been  a  tomb. 
He  walked  slowly  along  the  streets,  with  his  eyes  cast  down, 
dreading  to  meet  some  familiar  face.  He,  who  had  always  been 
so  haughty,  would  now  be  pointed  at  with  the  finger  of  scorn. 
He  would  be  greeted  with  cold  looks  and  averted  faces.  Men 
would  refuse  to  shake  hands  with  him.  Still,  if  he  could  count 
on  only  one  true  friend !  Yes,  only  one.  But  what  friend  would 
believe  him  when  his  father,  who  should  have  been  the  last  to 
suspect  him,  had  refused  to  believe  him? 

In  the  midst  of  his  sufferings,  when  he  felt  almost  over- 
whelmed by  the  sense  of  his  wretched,  lonely  condition,  Pros- 
per thought  of  Nina  Gipsy.  He  had  never  loved  the  poor  girl : 
indeed,  at  times  he  almost  hated  her ;  but  now  he  felt  a  longing 
to  see  her,  because  he  knew  that  she  loved  him,  and  that  noth- 
ing would  make  her  think  him  guilty;  because,  too,  woman 
remains  true  and  firm  in  her  belief,  and  is  always  faithful  in 
the  hour  of  adversity,  although  she  sometimes  fails  in  prosperity. 

On  reaching  his  house  in  the  Rue  Chaptal,  Prosper  hesitated 


FILE    NUMBER    113  997 

at  the  moment  he  was  about  to  cross  the  threshold.  He  suf- 
fered from  the  timidity  which  an  honest  man  always  feels  when 
he  knows  he  is  regarded  with  suspicion.  He  dreaded  meeting 
any  one  whom  he  knew ;  still  he  could  not  remain  in  the  street, 
so  he  entered.  When  the  concierge  saw  him,  he  uttered  an 
exclamation  of  glad  surprise,  and  said :  "Ah,  here  you  are  at 
last,  sir.  I  told  every  one  you  would  come  out  as  wMte  as 
snow ;  and,  when  I  read  in  the  papers  that  you  were  arrested 
for  robbery,  I  said :  'My  third-floor  lodger  a  thief !  Never 
would  I  believe  such  a  thing,  never !'  " 

The  congratulations  of  this  ignorant  man  were  sincere,  and 
came  from  pure  kindness  of  heart;  but  they  impressed  Prosper 
painfully  and  he  cut  them  short  by  abruptly  exclaiming:  "Ma- 
dame, of  course,  has  left ;  can  you  tell  me  where  she  has  jone  ?" 

"Dear  me,  no,  I  can  not.  The  day  of  your  arrest,  she  sent 
for  a  cab  and  left  with  her  trunks,  and  no  one  has  seen  or  heard 
of  her  since." 

This  was  another  blow  to  the  unhappy  cashier.  "And  where 
are  my  servants?" 

"Gone,  sir.  Your  father  paid  them  their  wages  and  dis- 
charged them." 

"I  suppose,  then,  you  have  my  key?" 

"No,  sir;  when  your  father  left  here  this  morning  at  eight 
o'clock,  he  told  me  that  a  friend  of  his  would  take  charge  of 
your  rooms  until  you  returned.  Of  course  you  know  who  he 
is — a  stout  gentleman  with  red  whiskers." 

Prosper  was  astounded.  What  could  be  the  meaning  of  one 
of  his  father's  friends  occupying  his  rooms?  He  did  not,  how- 
ever, betray  his  surprise,  but  quietly  said :  "Yes,  I  know  who 
it  is." 

He  quickly  ran  up  the  stairs,  and  knocked  at  his  door,  which 
was  at  once  opened  by  his  father's  friend.  He  had  been  ac- 
curately described  by  the  concierge.  A  stout  man,  with  a  red 
face,  full  lips,  sharp  eyes,  and  of  rather  coarse  manners,  3tood 
bowing  to  Prosper,  who  had  never  seen  him  before.  "Delighted 
to  make  your  acquaintance,  sir,"  said  he. 

He  seemed  to  be  perfectly  at  home.  On  the  talle  lay  a  book, 
which  he  had  taken  from  the  bookcase ;  and  he  appeared  ready 
to  do  the  honors  of  the  place. 

"I  must  say,  sir,"  began  Prosper. 
.  "That  you  are  surprised  to  find   me  here?     So   I   suppose. 
Your  father  intended  introducing  me  to  you;  but  he  was  com- 


998  FILE   NUMBER    113 

pelled  to  return  to  Beaucaire  this  morning;  and  let  me  add 
that  he  departed  thoroughly  convinced,  as  I  myself  am,  that 
you  never  took  a  sou  from  M.  Fauvel." 

At  this  unexpected  good  news,  Prosper's  face  lit  up  with 
pleasure. 

"Here  is  a  letter  from  your  father,  which  I  hope  will  serve 
as  an  introduction  between  us." 

Prosper  opened  the  letter;  and  as  he  read  his  eyes  grew 
brighter,  and  a  slight  color  returned  to  his  pale  face.  When 
he  had  finished  he  held  out  his  hand  to  the  stout  gentleman, 
and  said :  "My  father  tells  me,  sir,  that  you  are  his  best  friend ; 
he  advises  me  to  have  absolute  confidence  in  you,  and  to  follow 
your  advice." 

"Exactly.  This  morning  your  father  said  to  me:  'Verduret' 
— that  is  my  name — 'Verduret,  my  son  is  in  great  trouble,  and 
must  be  helped  out  of  it/  I  replied :  T  am  both  ready  and  will- 
ing,' and  here  I  am  to  assist  you.  Now  the  ice  is  broken,  is  it 
not?  Then  let  us  go  to  work  at  once.  What  do  you  intend 
aoing? 

This  question  revived  Prosper's  slumbering  rage.  His  eyes 
flashed.  "What  do  I  intend  doing?"  said  he  angrily.  "What 
should  I  do  but  seek  the  villain  who  has  ruined  me?" 

"So  I  supposed;  but  have  you  any  means  of  success?" 

"None;  yet  I  shall  succeed,  because,  when  a  man  devotes 
his  whole  life  to  the  accomplishment  of  an  object,  he  is  certain 
to  achieve  it." 

"Well  said,  M.  Prosper;  and,  to  be  frank,  I  fully  expected 
that  this  would  be  your  purpose.  I  have  therefore  already 
begun  to  think  and  act  for  you.  I  have  a  plan".  In  the  first 
place,  you  will  sell  this  furniture,  and  disappear  from  the 
neighborhood." 

"Disappear!"  cried  Prosper  indignantly;  "disappear!  Why, 
sir !  do  you  not  see  that  such  a  step  would  be  a  confession  of 
guilt,  would  authorize  the  world  to  say  that  1  am  hiding  so 
as  to  enjoy  undisturbed  the  stolen  three  hundred  and  fifty 
thousand  francs?" 

"Well,  what  then?"  said  the  man  with  the  red  whiskers;  "did 
you  not  say  just  now  that  the  sacrifice  of  your  life  is  made? 
The  expert  swimmer  thrown  into  the  river,  after  being  robbed, 
is  careful  not  to  rise  to  the  surface  immediately:  on  the  con- 
trary, he  plunges  beneath,  and  remains  there  as  long  as  his 
breath  holds  out.     He  comes  up  again  at  a  great  distance  off, 


FILE   NUMBER    113  999 

and  lands  out  of  sight;  then,  when  he  is  supposed  to  be  dead, 
he  suddenly  reappears  and  has  his  revenge.  You  have  an 
enemy?  Some  petty  imprudence  will  betray  him.  But,  while 
he  sees  you  standing  by  on  the  watch,  he  will  be  on  his  guard." 

It  was  with  a  sort  of  amazed  submission  that  Prosper  lis- 
tened to  this  man,  who,  though  a  friend  of  his  father,  was  an 
utter  stranger  to  himself.  He  submitted  unconsciously  to  the 
ascendency  of  a  nature  so  much  more  energetic  and  forcible 
than  his  own.  In  his  helpless  condition  he  was  grateful  for 
friendly  assistance,  and  said:  "I  will  follow  your  advice,  sir." 

"I  was  sure  you  would,  my  dear  fellow.  Let  us  reflect  upon 
the  course  you  oug1  to  pursue.  And  remember  that  you  will 
need  every  franc  of  he  proceeds  of  the  sale.  Have  you  any 
ready  money?  no,  but  you  must  have  some.  Knowing  that  you 
would  need  this  at  once,  I  have  already  spoken  to  an  uphol- 
sterer ;  and  he  will  give  you  twelve  thousand  francs  for  every- 
thing minus  the  pictures." 

The  cashier  could  not  refrain  from  shrugging  his  shoulders, 
which  M.  Verduret  observed.  "Well,"  said  he,  "it  is  rather 
hard,  I  admit,  but  it  is  a  necessity.  Now  listen:  you  are  the 
invalid,  and  I  am  the  doctor  charged  to  cure  you;  if  I  cut  to 
the  quick,  you  will  have  to  endure  it.  It  is  the  only  way  to 
save  you." 

"Cut  away  then,"  answered  Prosper. 

"Well,  we  will  make  haste,  for  time  presses.  You  have  a 
friend,  M.  de  Lagors?" 

"Raoul  ?    Yes,  he  is  an  intimate  friend  of  mine." 

"Now  tell  me,  who  is  this  fellow?" 

The  term  "fellow"  seemed  to  offend  Prosper.  "M.  de  La- 
gors," he  said  haughtily,  "is  M.  Fauvel's  nephew ;  he  is  a 
wealthy  young  man,  handsome,  intelligent,  cultivated,  and  the 
best  friend  I  have." 

"Hum !"  said  M.  Verduret,  "I  shall  be  delighted  to  make  the 
acquaintance  of  one  adorned  by  so  many  charming  qualities. 
I  must  let  you  know  that  I  wrote  him  a  note  in  your  name  ask- 
ing him  to  come  here,  and  he  sent  word  that  he  would  come." 

"What !  do  you  suppose — " 

"Oh,  I  suppose  nothing!  Only  I  must  see  this  young  man. 
Also  I  have  arranged  and  will  submit  to  you  a  little  plan  of 
conversation — "  A  ring  at  the  outer  door  interrupted  M.  Ver- 
duret. "The  deuce!"  exclaimed  he;  "adieu  to  my  plan;  here 
he  is !    Where  can  I  hide  so  as  to  both  hear  and  see  ?" 


1000  FILE   NUMBER    113 

"There,  in  my  bedroom ;  leave  the  door  open  and  the  curtain 
down." 

A  second  ring  was  heard.  "Now  remember,  Prosper,"  said 
M.  Verduret  in  a  warning  tone,  "not  one  word  to  this  man 
about  your  plans,  or  about  me.  Pretend  to  be  discouraged, 
helpless,  and  undecided  what  to  do."  And  he  disappeared  be- 
hind the  curtain  as  Prosper  ran  to  open  the  door. 

Prosper's  portrait  of  M.  de  Lagors  was  no  exaggerated  one. 
Such  an  open  and  handsome  countenance  and  manly  figure 
could  belong  only  to  a  noble  character.  Although  Raoul  said 
that  he  was  twenty-four,  he  appeared  to  be  not  more  than 
twenty.  He  had  a  fine  figure,  well  knit  and  supple;  an  abun- 
dance of  light  chestnut-colored  hair,  curled  over  his  intelligent- 
looking  forehead,  and  his  large  blue  eyes,  v/hich  beamed  with 
candor.  His  first  impulse  was  to  throw  himself  into  Prosper's 
arms.    "My  poor,  dear  friend  !"  he  said,  "my  poor  Prosper !" 

But  beneath  these  affectionate  demonstrations  there  was  a 
certain  constraint,  which,  if  it  escaped  the  perception  of  the 
cashier,  was  noticed  by  M.  Verduret.  "Your  letter,  my  dear 
Prosper,"  said  Raoul,  "made  me  almost  ill,  I  was  so  frightened  by 
it.  I  asked  myself  if  you  could  have  lost  your  mind.  Then  I  put 
aside  everything,  to  hasten  to  your  assistance ;  and  here  I  am." 

Prosper  did  not  seem  to  hear  him;  his  thoughts  were  occu- 
pied with  the  letter  which  he  had  not  written.  What  were  its 
contents?  Who  was  this  stranger  whose  assistance  he  had 
accepted  ? 

"You  must  not  feel  discouraged,"  continued  M.  de  Lagors; 
"you  are  young  enough  to  commence  life  anew.  Your  friends 
are  still  left  to  you.  I  have  come  to  say  to  you:  'Rely  upon 
me ;  I    am  rich,  half  of  my  fortune  is  at  your  disposal." 

This  generous  offer,  made  at  a  moment  like  this  with  such 
frank  simplicity,  deeply  touched  Prosper.  "Thanks,  Raoul,"  he 
said  with  emotion,  "thank  you !  But  unfortunately  all  the 
money  in  the  world  would  be  of  no  use  now." 

"Why  so?  What,  then,  are  you  going  to  do?  Do  you  pro- 
pose to  remain  in  Paris?" 

"I  know  not,  Raoul.  I  have  formed  no  plans  yet.  My  mind 
is  too  confused  for  me  to  think." 

"I  will  tell  you  what  to  do,"  resumed  Raoul  quickly;  "you 
must  start  afresh ;  until  this  mysterious  robbery  is  explained 
you  must  keep  away  from  Paris.  Excuse  my  frankness,  but  it 
will  never  do  for  you  to  remain  here." 


FILE    NUMBER    113  1001 

"And  suppose  it  never  should  be  explained?" 

"Only  the  more  reason  for  your  remaining  in  oblivion.  I 
have  been  talking  about  you  to  De  Clameran.  'If  I  were  in 
Prosper's  place,'  he  said,  'I  would  turn  everything  into  money, 
and  embark  for  America ;  there  I  would  make  a  fortune,  and 
return  to  crush  with  my  millions  those  who  have  suspected  me." 

This  advice  offended  Prosper's  pride,  but  he  interposed  no 
kind  of  objection.  He  was  recalling  to  mind  what  his  unknown 
visitor  had  said  to  him.  "I  will  think  it  over,"  he  finally  ob- 
served. "I  will  see.  I  should  like  to  know  what  M.  Fauvel 
says." 

"My  uncle?  I  suppose  you  know  that  I  have  declined  the 
offer  he  made  me  to  enter  his  banking-house,  and  we  have 
almost  quarreled.  I  have  not  set  foot  in  his  house  for  over  a 
month ;  but  I  hear  of  him  occasionally." 

"Through  whom?" 

"Through  your  friend  Cavaillon.  My  uncle,  they  say,  is 
more  distressed  by  this  affair  than  you  are.  He  does  not  attend 
to  his  business,  and  seems  as  though  he  had  just  recovered  from 
some  serious  illness." 

"And  Madame  Fauvel,  and — "  Prosper  hesitated — "and  Made- 
moiselle Madeleine,  how  are  they?" 

"Oh,"  said  Raoul  lightly,  "my  aunt  is  as  pious  as  ever;  she 
has  mass  said  for  the  benefit  of  the  sinner.  As  to  my  hand- 
some, icy  cousin,  she  can  not  bring  herself  down  to  common 
matters,  because  she  is  entirely  absorbed  in  preparing  for  the 
fancy  ball  to  be  given  the  day  after  to-morrow  by  MM.  Jan- 
didier.  She  has  discovered,  so  one  of  her  friends  told  me,  a 
wonderful  dressmaker,  a  stranger  who  has  suddenly  appeared 
from  no  one  knows  where,  and  who  is  making  for  her  a  cos- 
tume of  one  of  Catherine  de  Medicis's  maids  of  honor.  I  hear 
it  is  to  be  a  marvel  of  beauty." 

Excessive  suffering  brings  with  it  a  kind  of  dull  insensibility 
and  stupor;  but  this  last  remark  of  M.  de  Lagors's  touched 
Prosper  to  the  quick,  and  he  murmured  faintly :  "Madeleine ! 
Oh,  Madeleine!" 

M.  de  Lagors,  pretending  not  to  have  heard  him,  rose  from 
his  chair,  and  said :  "I  must  leave  you  now,  my  dear  Prosper ; 
on  Saturday  I  shall  see  these  ladies  at  the  ball,  and  bring  you 
news  of  them.  Now,  take  courage,  and  remember  that,  what- 
ever happens,  you  have  a  friend  in  me." 

Raoul  shook  Prosper  by  the  hand  and  departed,  leaving  the 


1002  FILE    NUMBER    113 

latter  standing  immovable  and  overcome  by  disappointment. 
He  was  aroused  from  his  gloomy  reverie  by  hearing  the  red- 
whiskered  man  say  in  a  bantering  tone:  "So  that  is  one  of 
your  friends?" 

"Yes,"  said  Prosper  with  bitterness.  "Yet  you  heard  him 
offer  me  half  of  his  fortune?" 

M.  Verduret  shrugged  his  shoulders  with  an  air  of  compassion. 
"That  was  very  stingy  on  his  part,"  said  he;  "why  did  he  not 
offer  the  whole?  Offers  cost  nothing;  although  I  have  no 
doubt  that  this  sweet  youth  would  cheerfully  give  ten  thousand 
francs  to  put  the  ocean  between  you  and  him." 

"What  reason,  sir,  would  he  have  for  doing  this?" 

"Who  knows?  Perhaps  for  the  same  reason  that  he  told 
you  he  had  not  set  foot  in  his  uncle's  house  for  a  month." 

"But  that  is  the  truth,  I  am  sure  of  it." 

"Naturally,"  said  M.  Verduret  with  a  provoking  smile. 
"But,"  continued  he  with  a  serious  air,  "we  have  devoted 
enough  time  to  this  Adonis,  whose  measure  I  have  taken.  Now, 
be  good  enough  to  change  your  dress,  and  we  will  go  and  call 
on  M.  Fauvel." 

This  proposal  aroused  Prosper's  anger.  "Never!"  he  ex- 
claimed excitedly;  "no,  never  will  I  voluntarily  set  eves  on 
that  wretch !" 

This  resistance  did  not  surprise  M.  Verduret.  "I  can  under- 
stand your  feelings  toward  him,"  said  he;  "but  at  the  same 
time  I  hope  you  will  change  your  mind.  For  the  same  reason 
that  I  wished  to  see  M.  de  Lagors  I  desire  to  see  M.  Fauvel; 
it  is  necessary,  you  understand.  Are  you  so  very  weak  that 
you  can  not  constrain  yourself  for  five  minutes?  I  shall  intro- 
duce myself  as  one  of  your  relatives,  and  you  need  not  open 
your  lips." 

"If  it  is  positively  necessary,"  said  Prosper,  "if — " 

"It  is  necessary;  so  come  on.  You  must  have  confidence, 
and  put  on  a  brave  face.  Hurry  and  make  yourself  trim ;  it 
is  getting  late,  and  I  am  hungry.  We  will  lunch  on  our  way 
there." 

Prosper  had  hardly  passed  into  his  bedroom  when  the  bell 
rang  again.  M.  Verduret  opened  the  door.  It  was  the  con- 
cierge, who  handed  him  a  bulky  letter,  and  said:  "This  letter 
was  left  this  morning  for  M.  Bertomy;  I  was  so  flustered  when 
he  came  that  I  forgot  to  hand  it  to  him.  It  is  a  very  odd- 
looking  letter;  is  it  not,  sir?" 


FILE    NUMBER    113  1003 

It  was  indeed  a  most  peculiar  missive.  The  address  was  not 
written,  but  formed  of  printed  letters,  carefully  cut  from  a 
book,  and  pasted  on  the  envelope. 

"Oh,  ho!  what  is  this!"  cried  M.  Verduret;  then  turning 
toward  the  man  he  said:  "Wait  a  moment."  He  -went  into  the 
next  room,  and  closed  the  door  behind  him.  There  he  found 
Prosper,  anxious  to  know  what  was  going  on.  "Here  is  a 
letter  for  you,"  observed  M.  Verduret. 

Prosper  at  once  tore  open  the  envelope.  Some  bank-notes 
dropped  out ;  he  counted  them ;  there  were  ten.  The  cashier 
turned  very  red.     "What  does  this  mean?"  he  asked. 

"We  will  read  the  letter  and  find  out,"  replied  Verduret. 

The  letter,  like  the  address,  was  composed  of  printed  words 
cut  out  and  pasted  on  a  sheet  of  paper.  It  was  short  but 
explicit : 

"My  dear  Prosper — A  friend,  who  knows  the  horror  of  your 
situation,  sends  you  this  succor.  There  is  one  heart,  be  as- 
sured, that  shares  your  sufferings.  Go  away — leave  France. 
You  are  young;  the  future  is  before  you.  Go,  and  may  this 
money  bring  you  happiness  !" 

As  M.  Verduret  read  the  note,  Prosper's  rage  increased.  He 
was  angry  and  perplexed,  for  he  could  not  explain  the  rapidly 
succeeding  events  which  were  so  calculated  to  mystify  his  al- 
ready confused  brain.  "Everybody  wishes  me  to  go  away,"  he 
cried ;  "there  is  evidently  a  conspiracy  against  me." 

M.  Verduret  smiled  with  satisfaction.  "At  last  you  begin  to 
open  your  eyes,  you  begin  to  understand.  Yes,  there  are  people 
who  hate  you  because  of  the  wrong  they  have  done  you ;  there 
are  people  to  whom  your  presence  in  Paris  is  a  constant  danger, 
and  who  will  not  feel  safe  till  they  are  rid  of  you." 

"But  who  are  these  people?  Tell  me,  who  dares  send  this 
money?" 

"If  I  knew,  my  dear  Prosper,  my  task  would  be  at  an  end, 
for  then  I  should  know  who  committed  the  robbery.  Rut  we 
will  continue  our  researches.  I  have  finally  procured  evidence 
which  will  sooner  or  later  become  convincing  proof.  I  have 
heretofore  only  made  deductions  more  or  less  probable :  I  now 
possess  knowledge  which  proves  that  I  was  not  mistaken.  I 
walked  in  darkness:  now  I  have  a  light  to  guide  me." 

As  Prosper  listened  to  M.  Verduret's  reassuring  words,  he 
felt  hope  rising  in  his  breast. 


1004  FILE   NUMBER    113 

"Now,"  said  M.  Verduret,  "we  must  take  advantage  of  this 
evidence,  gained  by  the  imprudence  of  our  enemies,  without 
delay.    We  will  begin  with  the  concierge." 

He  opened  the  door,  and  called  out:  "I  say,  my  good  man, 
step  here  a  moment." 

The  concierge  entered,  looking  very  much  surprised  at  the 
authority  exercised  over  his  lodger  by  this  stranger. 

"Who  gave  you  this  letter?"  asked  M.  Verduret. 

"A  messenger,  who  said  he  was  paid  for  bringing  it." 

"Do  you  know  him?" 

"I  know  him  well;  he  is  the  commissionaire  whose  post  is  at 
the  corner  of  the  Rue  Pigalle." 

"Go  and  bring  him  here." 

After  the  concierge  had  gone,  M.  Verduret  drew  his  diary 
from  his  pocket  and  compared  a  page  of  it  with  the  notes  which 
he  had  spread  over  the  table.  "These  notes  were  not  sent  by 
the  thief,"  he  said,  after  an  attentive  examination  of  them. 

"Do  you  think  so?" 

"I  am  confident  of  it;  that  is,  unless  he  is  endowed  with 
extraordinary  penetration  and  forethought.  One  thing  is  cer- 
tain: these  ten  thousand  francs  are  not  part  of  the  three  hun- 
dred and  fifty  thousand  which  were  stolen  from  the  safe." 

"Yet,"  said  Prosper,  who  could  not  account  for  this  certainty 
on  the  part  of  his  protector,  "yet — " 

"There  is  no  yet  about  it:  I  have  the  numbers  of  all  the 
stolen  notes." 

"What!     When  even  I  did  not  know  them  myself?" 

"But  the  bank  did,  fortunately.  When  we  undertake  an 
affair  we  must  anticipate  everything,  and  forget  nothing.  It  is 
a  poor  excuse  for  a  man  to  say,  'I  did  not  think  of  it,'  when 
he  commits  some  oversight.    I  thought  of  the  bank." 

If  in  the  beginning  Prosper  had  felt  some  repugnance  about 
confiding  in  his  father's  friend,  the  feeling  had  now  disappeared. 
He  understood  that  alone,  scarcely  master  of  himself,  governed 
only  by  the  inspirations  of  inexperience,  he  would  never  have 
had  the  patient  perspicacity  of  this  singular  man. 

Verduret  continued,  talking  to  himself,  as  if  he  had  absolutely 
forgotten  Prosper's  presence:  "Then,  as  this  missive  did  not 
come  from  the  thief,  it  can  only  come  from  the  other  person, 
who  was  near  the  safe  at  the  time  of  the  robbery,  but  could 
not  prevent  it,  and  now  feels  remorse.  The  probability  of  two 
persons  assisting  at  the  robbery,  a  probability  suggested  by  the 


FILE    NUMBER   113  1005 

scratch,  is  now  converted  into  a  certainty.  Ergo,  I  was  right." 
Prosper,  listening  attentively,  tried  hard  to  comprehend  this 
monologue,  which  he  dared  not  interrupt. 

"Let  us  seek,"  the  stout  man  went  on  to  say,  "this  second 
person,  whose  conscience  pricks  him,  and  yet  who  dares  not 
reveal  anything."  Here  he  read  the  letter  over  several  times, 
scanning  the  sentences,  and  weighing  every  word.  "Evidently 
this  letter  was  composed  by  a  woman,"  he  finally  said.  "Never 
would  a  man  doing  another  man  a  Service,  and  sending  him 
money,  use  the  word  'succor.'  A  man  would  have  said  loan, 
money,  or  some  other  equivalent,  but  succor,  never.  No  one 
but  a  woman,  ignorant  of  masculine  susceptibilities,  would  have 
naturally  made  use  of  this  word  to  express  the  idea  it  represents. 
As  to  the  sentence,  'There  is  one  heart,'  and  so  on,  it  could 
only  have  been  written  by  a  woman." 

"You  are  mistaken,  sir,  I  think,"  said  Prosper;  "no  woman 
is  mixed  up  in  this  affair." 

M.  Verduret  paid  no  attention  to  this  interruption;  perhaps 
he  did  not  hear  it,  perhaps  he  did  not  care  to  argue  the  matter. 
"Now,  let  us  see  if  we  can  discover  whence  the  printed  words 
were  taken  to  compose  this  letter." 

He  went  to  the  window,  and  began  to  study  the  pasted  words 
with  all  the  scrupulous  attention  which  an  antiquary  would 
devote  to  an  old,  half-effaced  manuscript.  "Small  type,"  he 
said,  "very  slender  and  clear;  the  paper  is  thin  and  glossy. 
Consequently,  these  words  have  not  been  cut  from  a  news- 
paper, magazine,  or  even  a  novel.  Yet  I  have  seen  type  like 
this — I  recognize  it,  I  am  sure  Didot  often  uses  it,  so  does 
Mame  of  Tours." 

He  suddenly  stopped,  his  mouth  open,  and  his  eyes  fixed, 
appealing  as  though  anxiously  to  his  memory.  Suddenly  he 
struck  his  forehead  exultingly.  "Now  I  have  it!"  he  cried; 
"now  I  have  it !  Why  did  I  not  see  it  at  once  ?  These  words 
have  all  been  cut  from  a  prayer-book.  We  will  look,  at  least, 
and  then  we  shall  be  certain." 

He  moistened  one  of  the  words  pasted  on  the  paper  with  his 
tongue,  and  when  it  was  sufficiently  softened,  he  detached  it 
with  a  pin.  On  the  other  side  of  this  word  was  the  Latin  word, 
Dens. 

"Ah,  ah!"  he  exclaimed  with  a  little  laugh  of  satisfaction, 
"I  knew  it.  Old  Tabaret  would  be  pleased  to  see  this.  But 
what  has  become  of  the  mutilated  prayer-book?     Can  it  have 


1006  FILE    NUMBER    113 

been  burned?     No,  because  a  heavy-bound  book  is  not  easily 
burned.    It  has  been  thrown  aside  in  some  corner." 

He  was  here  interrupted  by  the  concierge,  who  returned  with 
the  commissionaire  from  the  Rue  Pigalle. 

"Ah,  here  you  are,"  said  M.  Verduret,  encouragingly.  Then 
he  showed  him  the  envelope  of  the  letter,  and  asked:  "Do  you 
remember  bringing  this  letter  here  this  morning?" 

"Perfectly,  sir.  I  took  particular  notice  of  the  direction;  we 
don't  often  see  anything  like  it." 

"Who  told  you  to  bring  it? — a  gentleman  or  a  lady?" 

"Neither,  sir,  it  was  a  commissionaire." 

This  reply  made  the  concierge  laugh  very  much,  but  not  a 
muscle  of  M.  Verduret's  face  moved. 

"A  commissionaire?  Well,  do  you  know  this  colleague  of 
yours?" 

"I  never  saw  him  before." 

"What  was  he  like?" 

"He  was  neither  tall  nor  short;  he  wore  a  green  velvet 
jacket  and  his  badge." 

"Your  description  is  so  vague  that  it  would  suit  every  com- 
missionaire in  the  city;  but  did  your  colleague  tell  you  who 
sent  the  letter  ?" 

"No,  sir.  He  simply  put  ten  sous  in  my  hand,  and  said: 
'Here,  carry  this  to  No.  39  Rue  Chaptal ;  a  cabman  on  the 
boulevard  handed  it  to  me.'  Ten  sous !  I  warrant  you  he  made 
more  than  that  by  it." 

This  answer  seemed  to  disconcert  M.  Verduret.  The  taking 
of  so  many  precautions  to  send  this  letter  disturbed  him  and 
upset  all  his  plans. 

"Do  you  think  you  would  recognize  the  commissionaire 
again?"  he  asked. 

"Yes,  sir,  if  I  saw  him." 

"How  much  do  you  gain  a  day  as  a  commissionaire?" 

"I  can't  exactly  tell ;  but  mine  is  a  good  corner,  and  I  am 
busy  going  errands  nearly  all  day.  I  suppose  I  make  from 
eight  to  ten  francs." 

"Very  well :  I  will  give  you  ten  francs  a  day  if  you  will  walk 
about  the  streets  and  look  for  the  commissionaire  who  gave  you 
this  letter.  Every  evening,  at  eight  o'clock,  come  to  the  Grand 
Archangel,  on  the  Quai  Saint  Michel,  to  give  me  a  report  of 
your  search  and  receive  your  pay.  Ask  for  M.  Verduret.  If 
you  find  the  man  I  will  give  you  fifty  francs.     Do  you  agree?" 


FILE   NUMBER   113 


10U7 


"I  should  rather  think  I  do." 

"Then  don't  lose  a  minute.    Start  off!" 

Although  ignorant  of  M.  Verduret's  plans,  Prosper  began  to 
comprehend  the  sense  of  his  investigations.  His  fate  depended 
upon  their  success,  and  yet  he  almost  forgot  this  fact  in  his 
admiration  of  this  singular  man;  for  his  energy,  his  bantering 
coolness  when  he  wished  to  discover  anything,  the  certainty  of 
his  deductions,  the  fertility  of  his  expedients,  and  the  rapidity 
of  his  movements,  were  astonishing. 

"Do  you  still  think,  sir,"  said  Prosper  when  the  man  had  left 
the  room,  "you  see  a  woman's  hand  in  this  affair  ?" 

"More  than  ever;  and  a  pious  woman  too,  who  has  at  least 
two  prayer-books,  since  she  could  cut  up  one  to  write  to  you.'' 

"And  you  hope  to  find  the  mutilated  book?" 

"I  do,  thanks  to  the  opportunity  I  have  of  making  an  imme- 
diate search ;  which  I  will  set  about  at  once." 

Saying  this,  he  sat  down,  and  rapidly  scratched  off  a  few 
lines  on  a  slip  of  paper,  which  he  folded  up,  and  put  in  his 
waistcoat  pocket.  "Are  you  ready  to  go  to  M.  Fauvel's?"  he 
then  asked.  "Yes?  Come  on,  then;  we  have  certainly  earned 
our  lunch  to-day." 


\\7  HEN  Raoul  de  Lagors  spoke  of  M.  Fauvel's  extraordi- 
nary  dejection,  he  had  been  guilty  of  no  exaggeration. 
Since  the  fatal  day  when,  upon  his  denunciation,  his  cashier 
had  been  arrested,  the  banker,  this  active,  energetic  man  of 
business,  had  been  a  prey  to  the  most  gloomy  melancholy,  and 
ceased  to  take  any  interest  in  the  affairs  of  his  banking-house. 
He,  who  had  always  been  so  devoted  to  his  family,  never 
came  near  them  except  at  meals,  when  as  soon  as  he  had  swal- 
lowed a  few  mouthfuls,  he  would  hastily  leave  the  room.  Shut 
up  in  his  study,  he  would  deny  himself  to  visitors.  His  anxious 
countenance,  his  indifference  to  everybody  and  everything,  his 
constant  reveries  and  fits  of  abstraction,  betrayed  the  presence 
of  some  fixed  idea  or  of  some  hidden  sorrow. 


1008  FILE    NUMBER   113 

The  day  of  Prosper's  release,  about  three  o'clock,  M.  Fauvel 
was,  as  usual,  seated  in  his  study,  with  his  elbows  resting  on 
the  table,  and  his  face  buried  in  his  hands,  when  his  valet 
abruptly  entered,  and,  with  a  frightened  look,  said: 

"M.  Bertomy,  the  former  cashier,  is  here,  sir,  with  one  of 
his  relatives;  he  says  he  must  see  you." 

At  these  words  the  banker  jumped  up  as  if  he  had  been  shot 
at.  "Prosper!"  he  cried  in  a  voice  choked  by  anger,  "what! 
does  he  dare — "  Then  remembering  that  he  ought  to  control 
himself  before  his  servant,  he  waited  a  few  moments,  and  said, 
in  a  tone  of  forced  calmness:  "Ask  the  gentlemen  to  walk  in." 

If  M.  Verduret  had  counted  upon  witnessing  a  strange  and 
affecting  scene,  he  was  not  disappointed.  Nothing  could  be 
more  terrible  than  the  attitude  of  these  two  men  as  they  stood 
confronting  each  other.  The  banker's  face  was  almost  purple 
with  suppressed  anger,  and  he  looked  as  if  he  were  about  to 
be  seized  with  a  fit  of  apoplexy.  Prosper  was  pale  and  motion- 
less as  a  corpse.  Silent  and  immovable,  they  stood  glaring  at 
each  other  with  mortal  hatred. 

M.  Verduret  watched  these  two  enemies  with  the  indifference 
and  coolness  of  a  philosopher,  who,  in  the  most  violent  outbursts 
of  human  passion,  merely  see  subjects  for  meditation  and  study. 
Finally,  the  silence  becoming  more  and  more  threatening,  he 
decided  to  break  it  by  speaking  to  the  banker: 

"I  suppose  you  know,  sir,"  said  he,  "that  my  young  relative 
has  just  been  released  from  prison." 

"Yes,"  replied  M.  Fauvel,  making  an  effort  to  control  him- 
self, "yes,  for  want  of  sufficient  proof." 

"Exactly  so,  sir;  and  this  want  of  proof,  as  stated  in  the 
decision  of  'Not  proven,'  ruins  the  prospects  of  my  relative,  and 
compels  him  to  leave  here  at  once  for  America." 

On  hearing  this  statement,  M.  Fauvel's  features  relaxed  as  if 
he  had  been  relieved  of  some  fearful  agony.  "Ah,  he  is  going 
away,"  he  kept  repeating,  "he  is  going  abroad."  There  was  no 
mistaking  the  insulting  intonation  of  the  words,  "going  away !" 

M.  Verduret  took  no  notice  of  M.  Fauvel's  manner.  "It 
appears  to  me,"  he  continued  in  an  easy  tone,  "that  Prosper's 
determination  is  a  wise  one.  I  merely  wished  him,  before  leav- 
ing Paris,  to  come  and  pay  his  respects  to  his  former  chief." 

The  banker  smiled  bitterly.  "M.  Bertomy  might  have  spared 
us  both  this  painful  meeting.  I  have  nothing  to  say  to  him,  and 
of  course  he  can  have  nothing  to  tell  me." 


FILE   NUMBER    113  1009 

This  was  a  formal  dismissal ;  and  M.  Verduret,  understand- 
ing it  thus,  bowed  to  M.  Fauvel  and  left  the  room,  accompanied 
by  Prosper,  who  had  not  opened  his  lips. 

They  had  reached  the  street  before  Prosper  recovered  the  use 
of  his  tongue.  "I  hope  you  are  satisfied,  sir,"  said  he  in  a 
gloomy  tone.  "You  exacted  this  painful  s'ep,  and  I  could  but 
acquiesce.  Have  I  gained  anything  by  adding  this  humiliation 
to  the  others  which  I  have  had  to  suffer?" 

"You  have  not,  but  I  have,"  replied  M.  Verduret.  "I  could 
find  no  way  of  gaining  access  to  M.  Fauvel  save  through  you; 
and  now  I  have  found  out  what  I  wanted  to  know.  I  am  con- 
vinced that  M.  Fauvel  had  nothing  to  do  with  the  robbery." 

"But  you  know,  sir,  innocence  can  be  feigned,"  objected 
Prosper. 

"Certainly,  but  not  to  this  extent.  And  this  is  not  all.  I 
wished  to  find  out  if  M.  Fauvel  would  be  accessible  to  certain 
suspicions.    I  can  now  confidently  reply  'yes.'  " 

Prosper  and  his  companion  had  stopped  to  talk  more  at  their 
ease  near  the  corner  of  Rue  Lafitte,  in  the  middle  of  a  large 
space  which  had  lately  been  cleared  by  pulling  down  an  old 
house.  M.  Verduret  seemed  to  be  anxious,  and  was  constantly 
looking  around  as  if  he  expected  some  one.  He  soon  uttered 
an  exclamation  of  satisfaction.  At  the  other  end  of  the  vacant 
space  he  saw  Cavaillon,  who  was  bareheaded  and  running. 

The  latter  was  so  excited  that  he  did  not  even  stop  to  shake 
hands  with  Prosper,  but  darted  up  to  M.  Verduret,  and  said: 
"They  have  gone,  sir !" 

"How  long  since?" 

"They  went  about  a  quarter  of  an  hour  ago." 

"The  deuce  they  did !    Then  we  have  not  an  instant  to  lose." 

He  handed  Cavaillon  the  note  he  had  written  some  hours 
before  at  Prosper's  house. 

"Here,  pass  this  on,  and  then  return  at  once  to  your  desk; 
you  might  be  missed.  It  was  very  imprudent  of  you  to  come 
out  without  your  hat." 

Cavaillon  ran  off  as  quickly  as  he  had  come.  Prosper  was 
astounded.     "What!"  he  exclaimed.     "You  know  Cavaillon?" 

"So  it  seems,"  answered  M.  Verduret  with  a  smile.  "But 
we  have  no  time  to  talk ;  come  on,  we  must  hurry !" 

"Where  are  we  going  now?" 

"You  will  soon  know;  let  us  walk  fast!"  And  he  set  the 
example   by   striding  rapidly  toward  the   Rue   Lafayette.     As 

Gab. — Vol.  IV  e 


1010  FILE   NUMBER    113 

they  went  along  he  continued  talking  more  to  himself  than  to 
Prosper. 

"Ah,"  said  he,  "it  is  not  by  putting  both  feet  in  one  shoe 
that  one  wins  a  race.  The  trace  once  found,  we  should  never 
rest  an  instant.  When  the  savage  discovers  the  footprints  of 
an  enemy  he  follows  it  persistently,  knowing  that  falling  rain 
or  a  gust  of  wind  may  efface  the  footprints  at  any  moment. 
It  is  the  same  with  us ;  the  most  trifling  incident  may  destroy 
the  traces  we  are  following  up." 

M.  Verduret  suddenly  stopped  before  a  door  bearing  the 
number  81.  "We  are  going  in  here,"  he  said  to  Prosper;  "come 
along." 

They  went  upstairs,  and  stopped  on  the  second  floor  before  a 
door  over  which  was  inscribed,  "Modes  and  Confections."  A 
handsome  bell-rope  was  hanging  against  the  wall,  but  M.  Ver- 
duret did  not  touch  it.  He  tapped  with  the  ends  of  his  fingers 
in  a  peculiar  way,  and  the  door  instantly  opened,  as  if  some 
one  had  been  watching  for  his  signal  on  the  other  side. 

A  neatly  dressed  woman  of  about  forty  received  Verduret 
and  Prosper,  and  quietly  ushered  them  into  a  small  dining-room 
with  several  doors  opening  into  it.  This  woman  bowed  respect- 
fully to  M.  Verduret,  as  if  he  were  some  superior  being.  He 
scarcely  noticed  her  salutation,  but  questioned  her  with  a  look, 
which  asked,  "Well?" 

She  nodded  affirmatively,  "Yes." 

"In  there?"  asked  M.  Verduret  in  a  low  tone,  pointing  to 
one  of  the  doors. 

"No,"  replied  the  woman  in  the  same  tone;  "there,  in  the 
little  parlor." 

M.  Verduret  opened  the  door  of  the  room  indicated,  and 
pushed  Prosper  forward,  whispering  as  he  did  so,  "Go  in,  and 
keep  your  presence  of  mind." 

But  this  injunction  was  useless.  The  instant  he  cast  his 
eyes  round  the  room  into  which  he  had  so  unceremoniously  been 
pushed  without  any  warning,  Prosper  exclaimed  in  a  startled 
voice :  "Madeleine !" 

It  was  indeed  M.  Fauvel's  niece,  looking  more  beautiful  than 
ever.  Hers  was  that  calm,  dignified  beauty  which  imposes  ad- 
miration and  respect.  Standing  in  the  middle  of  the  room,  near 
a  table  covered  with  silks  and  satins,  she  was  arranging  a  skirt 
of  red  velvet  embroidered  in  gold;  probably  the  dress  she  was 
to  wear  as  maid  of  honor  to  Catherine  de  Medicis.     At  sight 


FILE   NUMBER    113  1011 

of  Prosper,  all  the  blood  rushed  to  her  face,  and  her  beautiful 
eyes  half  closed,  as  if  she  were  about  to  faint ;  she  clung  to  the 
table  to  prevent  herself  from  falling. 

Prosper  well  knew  that  Madeleine  was  not  one  of  those  cold- 
hearted  women  whom  nothing  could  disturb,  and  who  feel  sen- 
sations, but  never  a  true  sentiment.  Of  a  tender,  dreamy  nature, 
she  betrayed  in  the  minute  details  of  her  life  the  most  exquisite 
delicacy.  But  she  was  also  proud,  and  incapable  in  any  way  of 
violating  her  conscience.     When  duty  spoke,  she  obeyed. 

She  recovered  from  her  momentary  weakness,  and  the  soft 
expression  of  her  eyes  changed  to  one  of  haughty  resentment. 
In  an  offended  tone  she  said:  "What  has  emboldened  you,  sir, 
to  be  watching  my  movements?  Who  gave  you  permission  to 
follow  me — to  enter  this  house?" 

Prosper  was  certainly  innocent.  He  longed  with  a  word  to 
explain  what  had  just  happened,  but  he  was  powerless  to  do  so, 
and  could  only  remain  silent. 

"You  promised  me  upon  your  honor,  sir,"  continued  Made- 
leine, "that  you  would  never  again  seek  my  presence.  Is  this 
the  way  you  keep  your  word?" 

"I  did  promise,  mademoiselle,  but — "    He  stopped. 

"Oh,  speak!" 

"So  many  things  have  happened  since  that  terrible  day  that 
I  think  I  am  excusable  in  forgetting  for  one  hour  an  oath  torn 
from  me  in  a  moment  of  blind  weakness.  It  is  to  chance,  at 
least  to  another  will  than  my  own,  that  I  am  indebted  for  the 
happiness  of  once  more  finding  myself  near  you.  Alas !  the 
instant  I  saw  you  my  heart  bounded  with  joy.  I  did  not  think — 
no,  I  could  not  think — that  you  would  prove  more  pitiless  than 
strangers  have  been,  that  you  would  cast  me  off  when  I  am  so 
miserable  and  heartbroken." 

Had  not  Prosper  been  so  agitated  he  could  have  read  in 
Madeleine's  eyes — those  beautiful  eyes  which  had  so  long  been 
the  arbiters  of  his  destiny — the  signs  of  a  great  inward  struggle. 

It  was,  however,  in  a  firm  voice  that  she  replied :  "You  know 
me  well  enough,  Prosper,  to  be  sure  that  no  blow  can  strike  you 
without  reaching  me  at  the  same  time.  You  suffer,  I  suffer  with 
you :  I  pity  you  as  a  sister  would  pity  a  beloved  brother." 

"A  sister !"  said  Prosper  bitterly.  "Yes.  that  was  the  word 
you  used  the  day  you  banished  me  from  your  presence.  A  sis- 
ter !  Then  why  during  three  years  did  you  delude  me  with 
vain  hopes  ?    Was  I  a  brother  to  you  the  day  we  went  to  Notre 


1012  FILE    NUMBER    113 

Dame  de  Fourvieres — that  day  when,  at  the  foot  of  the  altar, 
we  swore  to  love  each  other  forever  and  ever,  and  you  fast- 
ened around  my  neck  a  holy  relic,  and  said,  'Wear  this  always 
for  my  sake;  never  part  from  it,  and  it  will  bring  you  good 
fortune?'" 

Madeleine  attempted  to  interrupt  him  by  a  supplicating  ges- 
ture ;  but  he  did  not  heed  it,  and  continued  with  increased  bit- 
terness :  "One  month  after  that  happy  day — a  year  ago — you 
gave  me  back  my  promise,  told  me  to  consider  myself  free  from 
any  engagement,  and  never  to  come  near  you  again.  If  I 
could  have  discovered  in  what  way  I  had  offended  you — but 
no,  you  refused  to  explain.  You  drove  me  away,  and  to  obey 
you  I  let  every  one  suppose  that  I  had  left  you  of  my  own 
accord.  You  told  me  that  an  invincible  obstacle  had  arisen 
between  us,  and  I  believed  you,  fool  that  I  was !  The  obstacle 
was  your  own  heart,  Madeleine.  I  have  always  worn  the  relic ; 
but  it  has  not  brought  me  happiness  or  good  fortune." 

Pale  and  motionless  as  a  statue,  Madeleine  listened  with 
bowed  head  and  weeping  eyes  to  these  passionate  reproaches. 

"I  told  you  to  forget  me."  she  murmured. 

"Forget !"  exclaimed  Prosper  excitedly,  "forget !  Can  I  for- 
get ?  Is  it  in  my  power  to  stop,  by  an  effort  of  will,  the  circula- 
tion of  my  blood  ?  Ah  !  you  have  never  loved  !  To  forget,  as  to 
stop  the  beatings  of  the  heart,  there  is  but  one  means — death !" 

This  word,  uttered  with  the  fixed  determination  of  a  desperate, 
reckless  man,  caused  Madeleine  to  shudder. 

"Miserable  man !"  she  exclaimed. 

"Yes,  miserable  man.  and  a  thousand  times  more  miserable 
than  you  can  imagine !  You  can  never  understand  the  tor- 
tures I  have  suffered,  when  for  a  year  past  I  have  awoke  every 
morning,  and  said  to  myself,  'It  is  all  over,  she  has  ceased  to 
love  me!'  This  great  sorrow  stares  me  in  the  face  day  and 
night  in  spite  of  all  my  efforts  to  dispel  it.  And  you  speak  of 
forgetting !  I  sought  it  in  poisoned  cups,  but  found  it  not. 
I  tried  to  extinguish  this  memory  of  the  past,  which  burns 
within  me  like  a  devouring  flame,  but  in  vain.  When  my  body 
succumbed,  my  pitiless  thoughts  still  survived.  Do  you  wonder, 
then,  that  I  should  seek  that  rest  which  can  only  be  obtained 
by  suicide?" 

"I  forbid  you  to  utter  that  word." 

"You  forget,  Madeleine,  that  you  have  no  right  to  forbid  me 
now  you  love  me  no  more." 


FILE   NUMBER   113  1013 

With  an  imperious  gesture,  Madeleine  interrupted  him  as 
if  she  wished  to  speak,  and  perhaps  to  explain  all,  to  exculpate 
herself.  But  a  sudden  thought  arrested  her;  she  clasped  her 
hands  despairingly,  and  cried :  "My  God  !  this  suffering  is  heyond 
endurance !" 

Prosper  seemed  to  misconstrue  her  words.  "Your  pity  comes 
too  late,"  he  said.  "There  is  no  happiness  in  store  for  one 
like  myself,  who  has  had  a  glimpse  of  divine  felicity,  has  had 
the  cup  of  bliss  held  to  his  lips,  and  then  dashed  to  the  ground. 
There  is  nothing  left  to  attach  me  to  life.  You  have  destroyed 
my  holiest  belief.  I  come  forth  from  prison  disgraced  by  my 
enemies;  what  is  to  become  of  me?  Vainly  do  I  question  the 
future ;  for  me  there  is  no  hope  of  happiness.  I  look  around  me 
to  see  nothing  but  abandonment,  ignominy,  and  despair !" 

"Prosper,  my  brother,  my  friend,  if  you  only  knew — " 

"I  know  but  one  thing,  Madeleine,  which  is,  that  you  no 
longer  love  me,  and  that  I  love  you  more  madly  than  ever. 
Oh,  Madeleine,  God  only  knows  how  I  love  you !" 

He  was  silent.  He  hoped  for  an  answer.  None  came.  But 
suddenly  the  silence  was  broken  by  a  stifled  sob.  It  was  Made- 
leine's maid,  who,  seated  in  a  corner,  was  weeping  bitterly. 
Madeleine  had  forgotten  her  presence. 

Prosper  on  entering  the  room  was  so  amazed  on  finding  him- 
self in  the  presence  of  Madeleine,  that  he  noticed  nothing  else. 
With  a  feeling  of  surprise,  he  turned  and  looked  at  the  weep- 
ing woman.  He  was  not  mistaken ;  this  neatly  dressed  waiting- 
maid  was  Nina  Gipsy. 

Prosper  was  so  startled  that  he  became  perfectly  dumb.  He 
stood  there  with  ashy  lips,  and  a  chilly  sensation  creeping 
through  his  veins.  He  was  terrified  at  the  position  in  which 
he  found  himself.  He  was  there,  between  the  two  women 
who  had  ruled  his  fate;  between  Madeleine,  the  proud  heiress 
who  spurned  his  love,  and  Nina  Gipsy,  the  poor  girl  whose 
devotion  to  him  he  had  so  disdainfully  rejected.  And  she  had 
heard  all !  Poor  Nina  had  heard  the  passionate  avowal  of  her 
lover,  had  heard  him  swear  that  he  could  never  love  any  woman 
but  Madeleine,  that  if  his  love  were  not  reciprocated  he  would 
kill  himself,  as  he  had  nothing  else  to  live  for. 

Prosper  could  judge  of  her  sufferings  by  his  own.  For  she 
was  wounded  not  only  in  the  present,  but  in  the  past.  What 
must  be  her  humiliation  and  anger  on  hearing  the  miserable 
part  which  he,  in  his  disappointed  love,  had  imposed  upon  her? 


1014  FILE    NUMBER   113 

He  was  astonished  that  Nina — violence  itself — remained  silently 
weeping,  instead  of  rising  and  bitterly  denouncing  him. 

Meanwhile  Madeleine  had  succeeded  in  recovering  her  usual 
calmness.  Slowly  and  almost  unconsciously  she  had  put  on 
her  bonnet  and  mantle,  which  were  lying  on  the  sofa.  Then 
she  approached  Prosper,  and  said:  "Why  did  you  come  here? 
We  both  have  need  of  all  the  courage  we  can  command.  You 
are  unhappy,  Prosper :  I  am  more  than  unhappy,  I  am  most 
wretched.  You  have  a  right  to  complain:  I  have  not  the  right 
to  shed  a  tear.  While  my  heart  is  slowly  breaking,  I  must  wear 
a  smiling  face.  You  can  seek  consolation  in  the  bosom  of  a 
friend :  I  can  have  no  confidant  but  God." 

Prosper  tried  to  murmur  a  reply,  but  his  pale  lips  refused 
to  articulate;  he  was  stifling.  "I  wish  to  tell  you,"  continued 
Madeleine,  "that  I  have  forgotten  nothing.  But  oh !  let  not 
this  knowledge  give  you  any  hope:  the  future  is  blank  for  us; 
but  if  you  love  me  you  will  live.  You  will  not,  I  know,  add 
to  my  already  heavy  burden  of  sorrow  the  agony  of  mourn- 
ing your  death.  For  my  sake,  live;  live  the  life  of  a  good 
man,  and  perhaps  the  day  will  come  when  I  can  justify  myself 
in  your  eyes.  And  now,  O  my  brother,  O  my  only  friend,  adieu  ! 
adieu !"  She  pressed  a  kiss  upon  his  brow,  and  rushed  from 
the  room,  followed  by  Nina  Gipsy ! 

Prosper  was  alone.  He  seemed  to  be  awaking  from  a  troubled 
dream.  He  tried  to  think  over  what  had  just  happened,  and 
asked  himself  if  he  were  losing  his  mind,  or  whether  he  had 
really  spoken  to  Madeleine  and  seen  Nina?  He  was  obliged 
to  attribute  all  this  to  the  mysterious  power  of  the  strange  man 
whom  he  had  seen  for  the  first  time  that  very  morning.  How 
did  this  individual  gain  this  wonderful  power  of  controlling 
events  1o  suit  his  own  purposes?  He  seemed  to  anticipate  every- 
thing, Jo  know  everything.  He  was  acquainted  with  Cavaillon, 
he  knew  all  Madeleine's  movements;  he  had  made  even  Nina 
become  humble  and  submissive. 

While  thinking  over  this,  Prosper  had  reached  such  a  degree 
of  exasperation,  that  when  M.  Verduret  entered  the  little  par- 
lor, he  strode  toward  him  white  with  rage,  and,  in  a  threaten- 
ing voice,  exclaimed : 

"Who  are  you?" 

The  stout  man  did  not  manifest  any  surprise  at  this  burst 
of  anger,  but  quietly  answered:  "A  friend  of  your  father's; 
did  you  not  know  it  ?" 


FILE   NUMBER    113  1015 

"That,  sir,  is  no  answer;  I  have  been  surprised  into  being 
influenced  by  a  stranger,  but  now — " 

"Do  you  want  my  biography — what  I  have  been,  what  I  am, 
and  what  I  may  be?  What  difference  does  it  make  to  you? 
I  told  you  that  I  would  save  you ;  the  main  point  is  that  I  am 
saving  you." 

"Still  I  have  the  right  to  ask  by  what  means  you  are 
saving  me." 

"What  good  will  it  do  you  to  know  what  my  plans  are?" 

"In  order  to  decide  whether  I  will  accept  or  reject  them." 

"But  suppose  I  guarantee  success?" 

"That  is  not  sufficient.  I  do  not  choose  to  be  any  longer 
deprived  of  my  own  free  will — to  be  exposed,  without  warning, 
to  trials  like  those  I  have  undergone  to-day.  A  man  of  my  age 
must  know  what  he  is  doing." 

"A  man  of  your  age,  Prosper,  when  he  is  blind,  takes  a  guide, 
and  does  not  undertake  to  point  out  the  way  to  his  leader." 

The  half-bantering,  half-commiserating  tone  of  M.  Verduret 
was  not  calculated  to  calm  Prosper's  irritation. 

"That  being  the  case,  sir,"  he  exclaimed,  "I  will  thank  you 
for  your  past  services,  and  decline  them  for  the  future,  as  I 
have  no  need  of  them.  If  I  attempted  to  defend  my  honor  and 
my  life,  it  was  because  I  hoped  that  Madeleine  would  be  re- 
stored to  me.  I  have  been  convinced  to-day  that  all  is  at  an 
end  between  us;  I  retire  from  the  struggle,  and  care  not  what 
becomes  of  me  now." 

Prosper  was  so  decided  that  M.  Verduret  seemed  alarmed. 
"You  must  be  mad,"  he  firmly  said. 

"No,  unfortunately  I  am  not.  Madeleine  has  ceased  to  love 
me,  and  of  what  importance  is  anything  else?" 

His  heartbroken  tone  aroused  M.  Verduret's  sympathy,  and 
he  said  in  a  kind,  soothing  voice:  "Then  you  suspect  nothing? 
You  did  not  fathom  the  meaning  of  what  she  said  ?" 

"You  were  listening?"  cried  Prosper  fiercely. 

"I  certainly  was." — "Sir  !" 

"Yes.  It  was  a  presumptuous  thing  to  do,  perhaps,  but  the 
end  justified  the  means  in  this  instance.  I  am  glad  I  did  listen, 
because  it  enables  me  to  say  to  you :  Take  courage,  Prosper ; 
Mademoiselle  Madeleine  loves  you — she  has  never  ceased  to 
love  you." 

Like  a  dying  man  who  eagerly  listens  to  deceitful  promises 
of  recovery,  although  he  feels  himself  sinking  into  the  grave, 


1016  FILE   NUMBER   113 

Prosper  felt  his  sad  heart  cheered  by  M.  Verduret's  assertion. 
"Oh,"  he  murmured,  suddenly  calmed,  "if  I  only  could  hope !" 

"Rely  upon  me,  I  am  not  mistaken.  Ah,  I  could  see  the 
torture  endured  by  this  generous  girl  while  she  struggled  be- 
tween her  love  and  what  she  believed  to  be  her  duty.  Were  you 
not  convinced  of  her  love  when  she  bade  you  farewell?" 

"She  loves  me,  she  is  free,  and  yet  she  shuns  me." 

"No,  she  is  not  free!  In  breaking  off  her  engagement  with 
you,  she  was  governed  by  some  powerful,  irrepressible  event. 
She  is  sacrificing  herself— for  whom?  We  shall  soon  know; 
and  the  secret  of  her  self-sacrifice  will  reveal  to  us  the  secret 
of  the  plot  against  you." 

As  M.  Verduret  spoke,  Prosper  felt  his  resolutions  of  revolt 
slowly  melting  away,  and  their  place  occupied  by  confidence  and 
hope.     "If  what  you  say  were  only  true!"  he  mournfully  said. 

"Foolish  young  man!  Why  do  you  persist  in  obstinately 
shutting  your  eyes  to  the  proof  I  place  before  you?  Can  you 
not  see  that  Mademoiselle  Madeleine  knows  who  the  thief  is? 
Yes,  you  need  not  look  so  shocked;  she  knows  the  thief,  but 
no  human  power  can  tear  it  from  her.  She  sacrifices  you, 
but  then  she  almost  has  the  right,  since  she  first  sacrificed 
herself." 

Prosper  was  almost  convinced;  and  it  nearly  broke  his  heart 
to  leave  the  little  apartment  where  he  had  seen  Madeleine. 
"Alas!"  he  said,  pressing  M.  Verduret's  hand,  "you  must  think 
me  a  ridiculous  fool !  but  you  don't  know  how  I  suffer." 

The  man  with  the  red  whiskers  sadly  shook  his  head,  and 
his  voice  sounded  very  unsteady  as  he  replied  in  a  low  tone: 
"What  you  suffer,  I  have  suffered.  Like  you,  I  loved,  not  a 
pure,  noble  girl,  yet  a  girl  fair  to  look  upon.  For  three  years 
I  was  at  her  feet,  a  slave  to  her  every  whim,  when  one  day 
she  suddenly  deserted  me  who  adored  her,  to  throw  herself  into 
the  arms  of  a  man  who  despised  her.  Then,  like  you,  I  wished 
to  die.  Neither  threats  nor  entreaties  could  induce  her  to  return 
to  me.     Passion  never  reasons,  and  she  loved  my  rival." 

"And  did  you  know  who  this  rival  was?" 

"Yes,  I  knew." 

"And  you  did  not  seek  revenge?" 

"No,"  replied  M.  Verduret.  And  with  a  singular  expression 
he  added:  "For  fate  charged   itself  with  my  vengeance." 

For  a  minute  Prosper  was  silent;  then  he  said:  "I  have 
finally  decided.     My  honor  is  a  sacred  trust  for  which  I  must 


FILE   NUMBER    113 


1017 


account  to  my  family.     I  am  ready  to  follow  you  to  the  end 
of  the  world;  dispose  of  me  as  you  judge  proper." 

That  same  day  Prosper,  faithful  to  his  promise,  sold  his 
furniture,  and  wrote  to  his  friends  announcing  his  intended 
departure  for  San  Francisco.  In  the  evening  he  and  M.  Ver- 
duret  installed  themselves  at  the  hotel  of  the  Grand  Archangel. 

Madame  Alexandre  gave  Prosper  her  prettiest  room,  but  it 
was  very  ugly  compared  with  the  coquettish  little  drawing-room 
in  the  Rue  Chaptal.  His  state  of  mind  did  not  permit  him, 
however,  to  notice  the  difference  between  his  former  and  pres- 
ent quarters.  He  lay  on  an  old  sofa,  meditating  upon  the  events 
of  the  day,  and  feeling  a  bitter  satisfaction  in  his  isolated  con- 
dition. About  eleven  o'clock  he  thought  he  would  open  the 
window  and  let  the  cool  air  fan  his  burning  brow ;  as  he  did 
so,  a  piece  of  paper  was  blown  from  among  the  folds  of  the 
window-curtain  and  lay  at  his  feet  on  the  floor. 

Prosper  mechanically  picked  it  up  and  looked  at  it.  It  was 
covered  with  writing,  the  handwriting  of  Nina  Gipsy;  he 
could  not  be  mistaken  about  that.  It  was  the  fragment  of  a 
torn  letter;  and  if  the  half  sentences  did  not  convey  any  clear 
meaning,  they  were  sufficient  to  lead  the  mind  into  all  sorts 
of  conjectures. 

The  fragment  read  as  follows : 
"of  M.  Raoul,  I  have  been  very  im  .  .  .  plotted  against  him, 
of  whom  never  .  .  .  warn  Prosper,  and  then  .  .  .  best  friend, 
he  .  .  .  hand  of  Mademoiselle  Ma  .  .  ." 

Prosper  never  closed  his  eyes  all  that  night. 


"\[OT  far  from  the  Palais  Royal,  in  the  Rue  St.  Honore,  is 
■^  the  sign  of  "La  Bonne  Foi,"  a  small  establishment,  half 
cafe  and  half  fruiterer's  shop,  much  frequented  by  the  work- 
people of  the  neighborhood. 

It  was  in  this  modest  cafe  that  Prosper,  the  day  after  his 
release,  awaited  M.  Verduret,  who  had  promised  to  meet  him 
at  four  o'clock.    Just  as  the  clock  struck  the  hour,  M.  Verduret, 


1018  FILE   NUMBER    113 

who  was  punctuality  itself,  appeared.  He  was  more  red-faced 
and  self-satisfied,  if  possible,  than  on  the  day  before.  As  soon 
as  the  waiter,  of  whom  he  ordered  a  glass  of  beer,  had  left 
them,  M.  Verduret  said  to  Prosper:  "Well,  are  all  our  com- 
missions executed?" 

"Yes,  every  one." 

"Have  you  seen  the  costumier?" 

"I  gave  him  your  letter,  and  everything  you  ordered  will  be 
sent  to  the  Grand  Archangel  to-morrow." 

"Very  good;  you  have  not  lost  time,  neither  have  I.  I  have 
a  lot  of  news  for  you." 

The  "Bonne  Foi"  is  almost  deserted  at  four  o'clock.  The 
hour  of  coffee  is  passed,  and  the  hour  for  absinthe  has  not  yet 
come.  M.  Verduret  and  Prosper  could  therefore  talk  at  their 
ease  without  fear  of  being  overheard  by  listening  neighbors. 
The  former  drew  forth  his  precious  diary,  which,  like  the  en- 
chanted book  in  the  fairy-tale,  had  an  answer  for  every  ques- 
tion. "While  awaiting  our  emissaries  whom  I  appointed  to 
meet  me  here,"  said  he,  "let  us  devote  a  little  time  to  M.  de 
Lagors." 

At  this  name  Prosper  did  not  protest,  as  he  had  done  the 
previous  day.  Like  those  imperceptible  insects  which  having 
once  penetrated  the  root  of  a  tree  devour  it  in  a  single  night, 
suspicion,  when  it  invades  our  minds,  soon  develops  itself  and 
destroys  our  firmest  beliefs.  De  Lagors's  visit  and  the  frag- 
ment of  Gipsy's  letter  had  filled  Prosper  with  suspicions  which 
had  grown  stronger  and  more  settled  as  time  went  on. 

"Do  you  know,  my  dear  friend,"  asked  M.  Verduret,  "what 
part  of  France  this  devoted  friend  of  yours  comes  from?" 

"He  was  born  at  St.  Remy,  which  is  also  Madame  Fauvel's 
native  town." 

"Are  you  certain  of  that?" 

"Oh,  perfectly !  He  has  not  only  often  told  me  so,  but  I 
have  heard  him  tell  M.  Fauvel;  and  he  would  talk  to  Madame 
Fauvel  by  the  hour  about  his  mother,  who  was  cousin  to 
Madame  Fauvel,  and  dearly  beloved  by  her." 

"Then  you  think  there  is  no  possible  doubt  or  error  about 
this  part  of  his  story?" 

"None  in  the  least." 

"Well,  things  are  assuming  a  queer  appearance,"  said  M.  Ver- 
duret. And  he  began  to  whistle  between  his  teeth,  which,  with 
him,  was  a  sign  of  intense  inward  satisfaction. 


FILE    NUMBER    113  1019 

"What  do  you  refer  to?"  inquired  Prosper. 

"To  what  I  have  just  discovered — to  what  I  have  all  along 
expected.  Good  people !"  he  exclaimed,  imitating  the  manner 
of  a  showman  at  a  fair,  "it  is  a  lovely  town,  St.  Remy,  with 
six  thousand  inhabitants,  charming  boulevards  on  the  site  of 
the  old  fortifications,  handsome  town  hall,  numerous  fountains, 
large  charcoal  market,  silk  factories,  famous  hospital,  and 
so  on." 

Prosper  was  on  thorns.  "Please  be  so  good,"  said  he,  "as 
to  explain  what  you — " 

"It  also  contains,"  continued  M.  Verduret,  "a  Roman  tri- 
umphal arch,  which  is  of  unparalleled  beauty,  and  a  Greek 
mausoleum ;  but  no  De  Lagors.  St.  Remy  is  the  native  town 
of  Nostradamus,  but  not  of  your  friend." 

"Yet  I  have  had  proofs." 

"Naturally.  But  proofs  can  be  fabricated ;  relatives  can  be 
improvised.  Your  evidence  is  open  to  suspicion.  My  informa- 
tion is  undeniable,  perfectly  authenticated.  While  you  were 
pining  in  prison,  I  was  preparing  my  batteries  and  collecting 
ammunition  to  open  fire.  I  wrote  to  St.  Remy,  and  received 
answers  to  my  questions." 

"Will  you  not  let  me  know  what  they  were?" 

"Have  patience,"  said  M.  Verduret  as  he  turned  over  the 
leaves  of  his  dairy.  "Ah,  here  is  number  one.  Bow  to  it 
respectfully,  'tis  official."     He  then  read: 

"  'De  Lagors — Very  old  family,  originally  from  Maillane,  set- 
tled at  St.  Remy  about  a  century  ago — '  " 

"I  told  you  so,"  cried  Prosper. 

"Pray  allow  me  to  finish,"  said  M.  Verduret. 

"'The  last  of  the  De  Lagors  (Jules  Rene  Henri),  bearing 
without  clear  authority  the  title  of  count,  married  in  1829  Made- 
moiselle Rosalie  Clarisse  Fontanet  of  Tarascon ;  died  December. 
1848,  leaving  two  daughters,  but  no  male  issue.  The  town 
registers  make  no  mention  of  any  person  in  the  district  bearing 
the  name  of  De  Lagors.'  " 

"Now  what  do  you  think  of  this  information?"  asked  the 
stout  man  with  a  triumphant  smile. 

Prosper  was  astounded.  "But  why,  then,  does  M.  Fauvel 
treat  Raoul  as  his  nephew?"  he  asked. 

"Ah,  you  mean  as  his  wife's  nephew !  Let  us  examine  note 
number  two:  it  is  not  official,  but  it  throws  a  valuable  light 
upon  your  friend's  income  of  twenty  thousand  francs. 


1020  FILE   NUMBER    113 

"  'Jules  Rene  Henri  de  Lagors,  last  of  his  name,  died  at  St. 
Remy  on  the  29th  of  December,  1848,  in  a  state  verging  on 
poverty.  He  at  one  time  was  possessed  of  a  moderate  fortune, 
but  invested  it  in  a  nursery  for  silkworms,  and  lost  it  all. 

"  'He  had  no  son,  but  left  two  daughters,  one  of  whom  is 
a  teacher  at  Aix,  and  the  other  married  to  a  small  tradesman 
at  Orgon.  His  widow,  who  lives  at  Montagnette,  is  supported 
entirely  by  one  of  her  relatives,  the  wife  of  a  rich  banker  in 
Paris.  No  person  of  the  name  of  De  Lagors  lives  in  the 
district  of  Aries.'  " 

"That  is  all,"  said  M.  Verduret;  "do  you  think  it  enough?" 

"Really,  sir,  I  don't  know  whether  I  am  awake  or  dreaming." 

"You  will  be  awake  after  awhile.  Now,  I  wish  to  mention 
one  thing.  Some  people  may  assert  that  the  widow  of  De 
Lagors  had  a  child  born  after  her  husband's  death.  This 
objection  is  destroyed  by  the  age  of  your  friend.  Raoul  is 
twenty-four,  and  M.  de  Lagors  has  not  been  dead  twenty 
years." 

"But,"  observed  Prosper,  thoughtfully,  "who  then  can 
Raoul  be?" 

"I  don't  know.  The  fact  is,  I  am  more  perplexed  to  find 
out  who  he  is  than  to  know  who  he  is  not.  There  is  one  man 
who  could  give  us  all  the  information  we  seek,  but  he  will 
take  good  care  to  keep  his  mouth  shut." 

"You  mean  M.  de  Clameran?" 

"Him,  and  no  one  else." 

"I  have  always  felt  the  most  inexplicable  aversion  toward 
him.    Ah,  if  we  could  only  get  an  account  of  his  life!" 

"I  have  been  furnished  with  a  few  notes  concerning  the  De 
Clameran  family  by  your  father,  who  knew  them  well;  they 
are  brief,  but  I  expect  more." 

"What  did  my  father  tell  you?" 

"Nothing  favorable,  you  may  be  sure.  I  will  read  you  the 
synopsis  of  his  information : 

"  'Louis  de  Clameran  was  born  at  the  Chateau  de  Clameran, 
near  Tarascon.  He  had  an  elder  brother  named  Gaston,  who, 
in  consequence  of  an  affray  in  which  he  had  the  misfortune  to 
kill  a  man  and  badly  wound  another,  was  compelled  to  fly  the 
country  in  1842.  Gaston  was  an  honest,  noble  youth,  univer- 
sally beloved.  Louis,  on  the  contrary,  was  a  wicked,  despicable 
fellow,  detested  by  all  who  knew  him. 

"  'Upon  the  death  of  his  father,  Louis  came  to  Paris,  and 


FILE    NUMBER   113  1021 

in  less  than  two  years  had  squandered  not  only  his  own  patri- 
mony, but  also  the  share  of  his  exiled  brother.  Ruined  and 
harassed  by  debt,  Louis  entered  the  army,  but  behaved  so  dis- 
gracefully that  he  was  constantly  being  punished.  After  leav- 
ing the  army  we  lose  sight  of  him ;  all  that  is  known  is  that  he 
went  to  England,  and  thence  to  a  German  gambling  resort, 
where  he  became  notorious  for  his  scandalous  conduct. 

"  'In  1865  we  find  him  again  in  Paris.  He  was  in  great 
poverty,  and  his  associates  were  among  the  most  depraved 
classes.  But  he  suddenly  heard  of  the  return  of  his  brother 
Gaston  to  France.  Gaston  had  made  a  fortune  in  Mexico ;  but 
being  still  a  young  man,  and  accustomed  to  a  very  active  life, 
he  purchased  near  Olcoron  an  iron  foundry,  intending  to  spend 
the  remainder  of  his  life  in  working  it.  Six  months  ago  he 
died  in  the  arms  of  his  brother  Louis.  His  death  provided 
our  De  Clameran  with  an  immense  fortune,  and  the  title  of 
marquis.'  " 

"Then,"  said  Prosper,  "from  all  this  I  judge  that  M.  de 
Clameran  was  very  poor  when  I  met  him  for  the  first  time  at 
M.  Fauvel's?" 

"Evidently." 

"And  shortly  afterward  De  Lagors  arrived  from  the  country  ?" 

"Precisely." 

"And  about  a  month  after  his  appearance,  Madeleine  sud- 
denly dismissed  me?" 

"Good,"  exclaimed  M.  Verduret,  "I  am  glad  you  are  begin- 
ning to  understand  the  state  of  affairs."  He  was  here  inter- 
rupted by  the  entrance  of  a  stranger.  The  newcomer  was  a 
dandified-looking  coachman,  with  elegant  black  whiskers,  shin- 
ing boots  with  light  tops,  a  yellow  cap,  and  a  red  and  black 
striped  waistcoat.  After  cautiously  looking  round  the  room,  he 
walked  straight  up  to  the  table  where  M.  Verduret  sat. 

"What  is  the  news,  Master  Joseph  Dubois?"  asked  the  stout 
man  eagerly. 

"Ah,  my  chief,  don't  ask  me !"  answered  the  man.  "Things 
are  getting  warm,  very  warm." 

Prosper  concentrated  all  his  attention  upon  this  superb  ser- 
vant. He  thought  he  recognized  his  face.  He  had  certainly 
somewhere  seen  that  retreating  forehead  and  those  little  rest- 
less black  eyes,  but  where  and  when  he  could  not  remember. 
Meanwhile  Master  Joseph  had  taken  a  seat  at  a  table  adjoin- 
ing the  one  occupied  by  M.  Verduret  and  Prosper;  and,  having 


1022  FILE    NUMBER    113 

called  for  some  absinthe,  was  preparing  it  by  holding  the  water 
aloft  and  slowly  dropping  it  into  the  glass. 

"What  have  you  to  tell  me?"  inquired  M.  Verduret. 

"In  the  first  place,  my  chief,  I  must  say  that  the  position 
of  valet  and  coachman  to  M.  de  Clameran  is  by  no  means  a 
bed  of  roses." 

"Go  on;  come  to  the  point.     You  can  complain  to-morrow." 

"Very  good.  Yesterday  my  master  walked  out  at  two  o'clock. 
I.  of  course,  followed  him.  Do  you  know  where  he  went? 
The  thing  was  as  good  as  a  farce.  He  went  to  the  Grand 
Archangel  to  see  Madame  Nina  Gipsy." 

"Well,  make  haste.  They  told  him  she  was  gone.  What 
then?" 

"What  then?  Ah!  he  was  not  at  all  pleased,  I  can  tell 
you.  He  hurried  back  to  the  hotel  where  the  other,  M.  de 
Lagors,  awaited  him.  He  swore  like  a  trooper,  and  M.  Raoul 
asked  him  what  had  happened  to  put  him  in  such  a  bad  humor. 
'Nothing,'  replied  my  master,  'except  that  the  little  devil  has 
run  off,  and  no  one  knows  where  she  is ;  she  has  slipped  through 
our  fingers.'  Then  they  both  appeared  to  be  vexed  and  uneasy. 
De  Lagors  asked  if  she  knew  anything  serious.  'She  knows 
nothing  but  what  I  told  you,'  replied  De  Clameran;  'but  this 
nothing,  falling  into  the  ear  of  a  man  with  any  suspicions,  will 
be  more  than  enough  to  work  on.' " 

M.  Verduret  smiled  like  a  man  who  had  his  reasons  for 
appreciating  at  their  just  value  De  Clameran's  fears.  "Well, 
your  master  is  not  without  sense  after  all,"  said  he;  "don't  you 
think  he  showed  it  by  saying  that?" 

"Yes,  my  chief.  Then  De  Lagors  exclaimed:  'If  it  is  as 
serious  as  that,  we  must  get  rid  of  the  little  beggar!'  But  my 
master  shrugged  his  shoulders,  and,  laughing  loudly,  said :  'You 
talk  like  an  idiot ;  when  one  is  annoyed  by  a  woman  of  this  sort, 
one  must  take  measures  to  get  rid  of  her  administratively.' 
This  idea  seemed  to  amuse  them  both  very  much." 

"I  can  understand  their  being  entertained  by  it,"  said  M. 
Verduret;  "it  is  an  excellent  idea;  but  the  misfortune  is,  it  is 
too  late  to  carry  it  out.  The  nothing  which  made  De  Clameran 
uneasy  has  already  fallen  into  a  knowing  ear." 

With  breathless  curiosity,  Prosper  listened  to  this  report, 
every  word  of  which  seemed  to  throw  light  upon  past  events. 
Now,  he  thought,  he  understood  the  fragment  of  Gipsy's  letter. 
He  saw  that  this  Raoul,  in  whom  he  had  confided  so  deeply, 


FILE    NtJMBER    113  1023 

was  nothing  better  than  a  scoundrel.  A  thousand  little  circum- 
stances, unnoticed  at  the  time,  now  recurred  to  his  mind,  and 
made  him  wonder  how  he  could  have  remained  blind  so  long. 

Master  Joseph  Dubois  continued  his  report: 

"Yesterday,  after  dinner,  my  master  decked  himself  out  like 
a  bridegroom.  I  shaved  him,  curled  his  hair,  and  perfumed  him 
with  especial  care,  after  which  I  drove  him  to  the  Rue  de 
Provence  to  call  on  Madame  Fauvel." 

"What!"  exclaimed  Prosper,  "after  the  insulting  language 
he  used  the  day  of  the  robbery,  did  he  dare  to  visit  the  house  ?" 

"Yes,  my  young  gentleman;  he  not  only  dared  this,  but  he 
also  stayed  there  until  nearly  midnight,  to  my  great  discom- 
fort ;  for  I  got  thoroughly  drenched  while  waiting  for  him." 

"How  did  he  look  when  he  came  out?"  asked  M.  Verduret. 

"Well,  he  certainly  looked  less  pleased  than  when  he  went 
in.  After  putting  up  my  carriage,  and  rubbing  down  my  horse, 
I  went  to  see  if  he  wanted  anything;  I  found  the  door  locked, 
and  he  abused  me  without  stint  through  the  keyhole." 

And  to  assist  the  digestion  of  this  insult,  Master  Joseph  here 
gulped  down  a  mouthful  of  absinthe. 

"Is  that  all  ?"  questioned  M.  Verduret. 

"All  that  occurred  yesterday,  my  chief;  but  this  morning  my 
master  rose  late,  still  in  a  horribly  bad  humor.  At  noon  Raoul 
arrived,  also  in  a  rage.  They  at  once  began  to  dispute,  and 
there  was  such  a  row !  Why,  the  most  abandoned  thieves 
would  have  blushed  at  their  foul  language.  At  one  time  my 
master  seized  the  other  by  the  throat  and  shook  him  like  a 
reed.  But  Raoul  was  too  quick  for  him,  and  saved  himself  from 
strangulation  by  drawing  out  a  sharp-pointed  knife,  the  sight  of 
which  made  my  master  drop  him  in  a  hurry,  I  can  tell  you." 

"But  what  was  it  that  they  said?" 

"Ah,  there  is  the  rub,  my  chief,"  replied  Joseph  in  a  piteous 
tone;  "the  scamps  spoke  English,  so  I  could  not  understand 
them.    But  I  am  sure  they  were  disputing  about  money." 

"How  do  you  know  that?" 

"Because  in  view  of  the  Exhibition  I  learned  the  word  money 
in  every  language,  and  it  constantly  recurred  in  their  con- 
versation." 

M.  Verduret  sat  with  knit  brows,  talking  in  an  undertone  to 
himself;  and  Prosper,  who  was  watching  him,  wondered  if  he 
was  trying  to  divine  the  subject  of  the  dispute  by  the  mere 
force  of  reflection. 


1024  FILE   NUMBER   113 

"When  they  had  done  fighting,"  continued  Joseph,  "the  ras- 
cals began  to  talk  in  French  again;  but  they  only  spoke  of  a 
fancy  ball  which  is  to  be  given  by  some  banker.  When  Raoul 
was  leaving,  my  master  said:  'Since  this  thing  is  inevitable,  and 
must  take  place  to-day,  you  had  better  remain  at  home,  at 
Vesinet,  this  evening.'     Raoul  replied :  'Of  course.' " 

Evening  was  approaching,  and  the  cafe  was  gradually  filling 
with  customers,  who  were  all  together  calling  for  either  absinthe 
or  bitters.  The  waiters,  mounting  on  stools,  lit  the  gas-burners 
placed  round  the  room.  "It  is  time  to  go,"  said  M.  Verduret  to 
Joseph,  "your  master  may  want  you;  besides,  here  is  some  one 
come  for  me.    I  will  see  you  to-morrow." 

The  newcomer  was  no  other  than  Cavaillon,  more  troubled 
and  frightened  than  ever.  He  looked  uneasily  around,  as  if  he 
expected  a  posse  of  policemen  to  make  their  appearance,  and 
carry  him  off  to  prison.  He  did  not  sit  down  at  M.  Verduret's 
table,  but  stealthily  gave  his  hand  to  Prosper,  and,  after  assur- 
ing himself  that  no  one  was  observing  them,  handed  M.  Ver- 
duret a  parcel,  saying:  "She  found  this  in  the  cupboard." 

It  was  a  handsomely  bound  prayer-book.  M.  Verduret  rap- 
idly turned  over  the  leaves,  and  soon  found  the  pages  from 
which  the  words  pasted  on  Prosper's  letter  had  been  cut.  "I 
had  moral  proofs,"  he  said,  handing  the  book  to  Prosper,  "but 
here  is  material  proof  sufficient  in  itself  to  save  you." 

When  Prosper  looked  at  the  book,  he  turned  as  pale  as  a 
ghost.  He  recognized  it  instantly.  He  had  given  it  to  Made- 
leine in  exchange  for  the  relic.  He  opened  it,  and  on  the  fly- 
leaf Madeleine  had  written  "Souvenir  of  Notre  Dame  de 
Fourvieres,  17th  January,  1866."  "This  book  belongs  to  Made- 
leine," he  cried. 

M.  Verduret  did  not  reply,  but  walked  toward  a  young  man 
dressed  like  a  wine  cooper,  who  had  just  entered  the  cafe. 
Glancing  at  a  note  which  this  person  handed  to  him,  he  has- 
tened back  to  the  table,  and  said  in  an  agitated  voice:  "I  think 
we  have  got  them  now !" 

Throwing  a  five-franc  piece  on  the  table,  and  without  saying 
a  word  to  Cavaillon,  M.  Verduret  seized  Prosper's  arm,  and 
hurried  from  the  room.  "What  a  fatality!"  he  said,  as  he  has- 
tened along  the  street:  "we  may  perhaps  miss  them.  We  shall 
certainly  reach  the  St.  Lazare  station  too  late  for  the  St.  Ger- 
main train." 

"For  heaven's  sake,  where  are  you  going?"  asked  Prosper. 


FILE    NUMBER    113 


1025 


"Never  mind,  we  can  talk  after  we  start.     Hurry !" 

On  arriving  at  the  Place  du  Palais  Royal,  M.  Verduret 
stopped  in  front  of  one  of  the  cabs  stationed  there,  and  ex- 
amined the  horses  at  a  glance.  "How  much  will  you  want  for 
driving  us  to  Vesinet?"  he  asked  the  driver. 

"I  don't  know  the  road  very  well,"  replied  the  cabman. 

The  name  of  Vesinet  was  enough  for  Prosper.  "I  will  point 
out  the  road,"  he  quickly  said. 

"Well,"  said  the  driver,  "at  this  time  of  night,  in  such  dread- 
ful weather,  it  ought  to  be — twenty-five  francs — " 

"And  to  drive  very  fast?" 

"Bless  my  soul !  Why,  I  leave  that  to  your  honor's  generos- 
ity; but  if  you  put  it  at  thirty-five  francs — " 

"You  shall  have  a  hundred,"  interrupted  M.  Verduret,  "if 
you  overtake  a  vehicle  which  has  half  an  hour's  start  of  us." 

"By  Jingo!"  cried  the  delighted  driver;  "jump  in  quick:  we 
are  losing  time !"  And  whipping  up  his  lean  horses,  he  gal- 
loped them  down  the  Rue  de  Valois  at  a  fearful  speed. 


/"\N  quitting  the  little  station  of  Vesinet,  we  come  upon  two 
^^  roads.  One,  to  the  left,  macadamized  and  kept  in  perfect 
repair,  leads  to  the  village,  and  along  it  glimpses  are  here  and 
there  obtained  of  the  new  church  through  the  openings  between 
the  trees.  The  other  road,  newly  laid  out  and  scarcely  leveled, 
leads  through  the  woods.  Along  the  latter,  which  before  the 
lapse  of  five  years  will  be  a  busy  street,  are  a  few  houses,  taste- 
less in  design,  rising  here  and  there  out  of  the  foliage :  rural 
retreats  of  Paris  tradesmen,  occupied  only  during  the  summer. 

It  was  at  the  junction  of  these  two  roads  that  Prosper  stopped 
the  cab.  The  driver  had  gained  his  hundred  francs.  The 
horses  were  completely  worn  out,  but  they  had  accomplished 
all  that  was  expected  of  them ;  M.  Verduret  could  distinguish 
the  lamps  of  another  cab,  about  fifty  yards  ahead  of  him. 

M.  Verduret  jumped  out.  and  handing  the  driver  a  hundred- 
franc  note,  said:  "Here  is  what  I  promised  you.     Go  to  the 


1026  FILE    NUMBER    113 

first  tavern  on  the  right-hand  side  of  the  road  as  you  enter  the 
village.  If  we  do  not  meet  you  there  in  an  hour,  you  will  be 
at  liberty  to  return  to  Paris." 

The  driver  was  overwhelming  in  his  thanks;  but  neither 
Prosper  nor  his  friend  heard  them.  They  had  already  started 
along  the  new  road.  The  weather,  which  had  been  inclement 
when  they  set  out,  was  now  fearful.  The  rain  fell  in  torrents, 
and  a  furious  wind  howled  dismally  through  the  woods.  The 
intense  darkness  was  rendered  more  dreary  by  the  occasional 
glimmer  of  the  lamps  of  the  distant  railway  station,  and  which 
seemed  about  to  be  extinguished  by  every  fresh  gust  of  wind. 

M.  Verduret  and  Prosper  had  been  running  along  the  muddy 
road  for  about  five  minutes,  when  suddenly  the  latter  stopped 
and  said :  "This  is  Raoul's  house." 

Before  the  iron  gate  of  an  isolated  house  was  the  cab  which 
M.  Verduret  had  followed.  In  spite  of  the  pouring  rain,  the 
driver,  wrapped  in  a  thick  cloak,  and  leaning  back  on  his  seat, 
was  already  fast  asleep,  while  waiting  for  the  person  whom  he 
had  brought  to  the  house  a  few  minutes  ago. 

M.  Verduret  pulled  his  cloak,  and  said,  in  a  low  voice :  "Wake 
up,  my  good  man." 

The  driver  started,  and  mechanically  gathering  up  his  reins, 
yawned  out:  "I  am  ready;  jump  in!"  But  when,  by  the  light 
of  his  lamps,  he  caught  sight  of  two  men  in  this  lonely  spot, 
he  concluded  they  meant  to  rob  him,  and  perhaps  to  take  his 
life.  "I  am  engaged !"  he  cried  out,  as  he  shook  his  whip ;  "I 
am  waiting  here  for  some  one." 

"I  know  that,  you  fool,"  replied  M.  Verduret,  "and  only 
wish  to  ask  you  a  question,  which  you  can  gain  five  francs  by 
answering.     Did  you  not  bring  a  middle-aged  lady  here?" 

This  question,  with  the  promise  of  five  francs,  far  from  re- 
assuring the  cabman,  only  increased  his  alarm.  "I  have  already 
told  you  I  am  waiting  for  some  one,"  he  said ;  "and  if  you  don't 
go  away  and  leave  me  alone,  I  will  call  out  for  help." 

M.  Verduret  drew  back  quickly.  "Come  away,"  he  whis- 
pered to  Prosper,  "the  fool  will  do  as  he  says;  and  the  alarm 
once  given,  farewell  to  our  projects.  We  must  find  some  other 
entrance  than  by  the  gate." 

They  then  went  along  the  wall  surrounding  the  garden,  in 
search  of  a  place  where  it  was  possible  to  scale  it.  This  was 
difficult  to  discover,  the  wall  being  twelve  feet  high,  and  the 
night  very  dark.    Fortunately,  M.  Verduret  was  very  agile ;  and, 


FILE    NUMBER    113  1027 

having  decided  upon  the  spot  to  be  scaled,  he  drew  back  a  few 
paces,  and  making  a  sudden  spring,  seized  hold  of  one  of  the 
projecting  stones  on  the  top;  then  drawing  himself  up  by  the 
aid  of  his  hands  and  feet,  soon  found  himself  astride  the  wall. 

It  was  now  Prosper's  turn  to  climb  up;  but,  though  much 
younger  than  his  companion,  he  had  not  his  agility  and  strength, 
and  would  never  have  succeeded  if  M.  Verduret  had  not  pulled 
him  up  and  then  helped  him  down  on  the  other  side. 

Once  in  the  garden,  M.  Verduret  looked  about  him  to  study 
the  situation.  The  house  occupied  by  M.  de  Lagors  stood  in 
the  middle  of  a  large  garden.  It  was  narrow,  two  stories  high, 
and  had  attics.  In  only  one  window,  on  the  second  story,  was 
there  any  light. 

"As  you  have  often  been  here,"  said  M.  Verduret,  "you  must 
know  all  about  the  arrangement  of  the  house :  what  room  is 
that  where  we  see  the  light?" 

"That  is  Raoul's  bedchamber." 

"Very  good.     What  rooms  are  on  the  ground  floor?" 

"The  kitchen,  pantry,  billiard-room,  and  dining-room." 

"And  on  the  floor  above?" 

"Two  drawing-rooms,  separated  by  folding-doors  and  a 
study." 

"Where  do  the  servants  sleep?" 

"Raoul  has  none  at  present.  He  is  waited  on  by  a  man  and 
his  wife,  who  live  at  Vesinet ;  they  come  in  the  morning,  and 
leave  after  dinner." 

M.  Verduret  rubbed  his  hands  gleefully.  "That  suits  our 
plans  exactly,"  he  said;  "it  will  be  strange  if  we  do  not  hear 
what  Raoul  has  to  say  to  this  person  who  has  come  from  Paris 
at  this  time  of  night  to  see  him.    Let  us  go  in." 

Prosper  seemed  averse  to  this,  and  said :  "That  would  be  a 
serious  thing  for  us  to  do." 

"Bless  my  soul!  what  else  did  we  come  here  for?"  exclaimed 
M.  Verduret.  "Did  you  think  ours  was  a  pleasure  trip,  merely 
to  enjoy  this  lovely  weather?"  continued  he  in  a  bantering  tone. 

"But  we  might  be  discovered." 

"Suppose  we  are?  If  the  least  noise  betrays  our  presence, 
you  have  only  to  advance  boldly  as  a  friend  come  to  visit  a 
friend,  and  who,  finding  the  door  open,  walked  in." 

But  unfortunately  the  heavy  oak  door  was  locked.  M.  Ver- 
duret shook  it  in  vain.  "How  foolish  !"  he  said  with  vexation. 
"I  ought  to  have  brought  my  instruments  with  me.    A  common 


1028  FILE    NUMBER    113 

lock  which  could  be  opened  with  a  nail,  and  I  have  not  even  a 
piece  of  wire !"  Seeing  it  useless  to  attempt  the  door,  he  tried 
successively  every  window  on  the  ground  floor.  Alas !  each 
shutter  was  securely  fastened  on  the  inside. 

M.  Verduret  was  provoked.  He  prowled  round  the  house  like 
a  fox  round  a  hen-roost,  seeking  an  entrance,  but  finding  none. 
Despairingly  he  came  back  to  the  spot  in  front  of  the  house, 
whence  he  had  the  best  view  of  the  lighted  window.  "If  I 
could  only  look  in,"  he  said.  "To  think  that  in  there,"  and  he 
pointed  to  the  window,  "is  the  solution  of  the  mystery ;  and  we 
are  cut  off  from  it  by  thirty  feet  or  so  of  wall !" 

Prosper  was  more  surprised  than  ever  at  his  companion's 
strange  behavior.  The  latter  seemed  perfectly  at  home  in  this 
garden,  and  ran  about  it  without  any  precaution.  One  would 
have  supposed  him  accustomed  to  such  expeditions,  especially 
when  he  spoke  of  picking  the  lock  of  an  occupied  house,  as 
coolly  as  though  he  were  talking  of  opening  a  snuff-box.  He 
was  utterly  indifferent  to  the  rain  and  sleet  driven  in  his  face 
by  the  gusts  of  wind  as  he  splashed  about  in  the  mud  trying 
to  find  some  means  of  entrance.  "I  must  get  a  peep  into  that 
window,"  he  said,  "and  I  will  certainly  do  so,  cost  what  it  may  !" 

Prosper  seemed  suddenly  remember  something.  "There 
is  a  ladder  here,"  he  remarked  in  an  undertone. 

"Why  did  you  not  tell  me  that  before?    Where  is  it?" 

"At  the  end  of  the  garden,  under  the  trees." 

They  ran  to  the  spot,  and  in  a  fevr  minutes  the  ladder  was 
standing  against  the  house.  But  to  their  annoyance  they  found 
it  five  feet  too  short.  Five  long  feet  of  wall  between  the  top 
of  the  ladder  and  the  lighted  window  was  a  discouraging  sight 
to  Prosper,  who  exclaimed:  "We  can  not  reach  it." 

"We  can  reach  it,"  cried  M.  Verduret  triumphantly.  And 
quickly  seizing  the  ladder,  he  cautiously  raised  it,  and  rested 
the  bottom  round  on  his  shoulders,  holding,  at  the  same  time, 
the  two  uprights  firmly  and  steadily  with  his  hands.  The 
obstacle  was  overcome.  "Now  mount,"  he  said  to  his  com- 
panion. 

Prosper  did  not  hesitate.  Enthusiasm  at  seeing  difficulties 
so  skilfully  conquered,  and  the  hope  of  triumph,  gave  him  a 
strength  and  agility  which  he  had  never  imagined  he  possessed. 
He  climbed  up  gently  till  he  reached  the  lower  rounds,  then 
quickly  mounted  the  ladder,  which  swayed  and  trembled  beneath 
his  weight. 


FILE    NUMBER    113  1029 

But  he  had  scarcely  looked  in  at  the  lighted  window  when 
he  uttered  a  cry,  which  was  drowned  in  the  roaring  tempest, 
and  sliding  part  way  down  the  ladder,  he  dropped  like  a  log  on 
the  wet  grass,  exclaiming:  "The  villain!  the  villain!" 

With  wonderful  promptitude  and  vigor  M.  Verduret  laid  the 
ladder  on  the  ground,  and  ran  toward  Prosper,  fearing  he  was 
dangerously  injured.  "Are  you  hurt?  What  did  you  see?"  he 
asked. 

But  Prosper  had  already  risen.  Although  he  had  had  a  vio- 
lent fall,  he  felt  nothing;  he  was  in  that  state  when  mind 
governs  matter  so  absolutely  that  the  body  is  insensible  to  pain. 
"I  saw,"  he  answered  in  a  hoarse  voice,  "I  saw  Madeleine 
— do  you  understand,  Madeleine  ? — in  that  room,  alone  with 
Raoul." 

M.  Verduret  was  confounded.  Was  it  possible  that  he,  the 
infallible  expert,  had  been  mistaken  in  his  deductions? 

He  well  knew  that  M.  de  Lagors's  visitor  was  a  woman ;  but 
his  own  conjectures,  and  the  note  which  Madame  Gipsy  had 
sent  to  him  at  the  cafe,  had  caused  him  to  believe  that  this 
woman  was  Madame  Fauvel. 

"You  must  be  mistaken,"  he  said  to  Prosper. 

"No,  sir,  no.  Never  could  I  mistake  another  for  Madeleine. 
Ah  !  you  who  heard  what  she  said  to  me  yesterday,  tell  me : 
was  I  to  have  expected  such  infamous  treason  as  this?  You 
said  to  me  then:  'She  loves  you,  she  loves  you!'  What  do  you 
think  now?     Speak!" 

M.  Verduret  did  not  answer.  He  had  been  completely  bewil- 
dered by  his  mistake,  and  was  now  racking  his  brain  to  dis- 
cover the  cause  of  it,  which  was  soon  discerned  by  his  pene- 
trating mind. 

"This  is  the  secret  discovered  by  Nina,"  continued  Prosper. 
"Madeleine,  this  pure  and  noble  Madeleine,  whom  I  believed 
to  be  as  immaculate  as  an  angel,  is  the  mistress  of  this  thief, 
who  has  even  stolen  the  name  he  bears.  And  I,  trusting  fool 
that  I  was,  made  this  scoundrel  my  best  friend.  I  confided  to 
him  all  my  hopes  and  fears ;  and  he  was  her  lover !  Of  course 
they  amused  themselves  by  ridiculing  my  silly  devotion  and 
blind  confidence !" 

He  stopped,  overcome  by  his  violent  emotions.  Wounded 
vanity  is  the  worst  of  miseries.  The  certainty  of  having  been 
so  shamefully  deceived  and  betrayed  made  Prosper  almost  in- 
sane with  rage.     "This  is  the  last  humiliation  I  shall  submit 


1030  FILE   NUMBER    113 

to,"  he  fiercely  cried.  "It  shall  not  be  said  that  I  was  coward 
enough  to  let  an  insult  like  this  go  unpunished." 

He  started  toward  the  house ;  but  M.  Verduret  seized  his 
arm,  and  said: 

"What  are  you  going  to  do?" 

"To  have  my  revenge  !  I  will  break  down  the  door ;  what 
do  I  care  for  the  noise  and  scandal,  now  that  I  have  nothing 
to  lose?  I  shall  not  attempt  to  creep  into  the  house  like  a 
thief,  but  as  a  master — as  one  who  has  a  right  to  enter;  as  a 
man  who,  having  received  a  deadly  insult,  comes  to  demand 
satisfaction." 

"You  will  do  nothing  of  the  sort,  Prosper." 

"Who  will  prevent  me?" 

"I  will!" 

*'You  ?  Do  not  hope  that  you  will  be  able  to  deter  me.  I 
will  appear  before  them,  put  them  to  the  blush,  kill  them  both, 
and  then  put  an  end  to  my  own  wretched  existence.  That  is 
what  I  intend  tc  do,  and  nothing  shall  hinder  me !" 

If  M.  Verduret  had  not  held  Prosper  with  a  vise-like  grip, 
he  would  have  escaped,  and  attempted  to  carry  out  his  threat. 
"If  you  make  any  noise,  Prosper,  or  raise  an  alarm,  all  your 
hopes  are  ruined,"  said  M.  Verduret. 

"I  have  no  hopes  now." 

"Raoul,  put  on  his  guard,  will  escape  us,  and  you  will  remain 
dishonored  forever." 

"What  is  that  to  me?" 

"It  is  everything  to  me.  I  have  sworn  to  prove  your  inno- 
cence. A  man  of  your  age  can  easily  find  a  wife,  but  can  never 
restore  lustre  to  a  tarnished  name.  Let  nothing  interfere  with 
the  establishing  of  your  innocence." 

Genuine  passion  is  uninfluenced  by  surrounding  circum- 
stances. M.  Verduret  and  Prosper  stood  foot-deep  in  mud,  wet 
to  the  skin,  with  the  rain  pouring  down  on  their  heads,  and 
yet  still  continued  their  dispute.  "I  will  be  avenged,"  repeated 
Prosper,  with  the  persistency  of  a  fixed  idea:  "I  will  be 
avenged." 

"Well,  avenge  yourself  then  like  a  man,  and  not  like  a  child !" 
said  M.  Verduret  angrily. 

"Sir !" 

"Yes,  I  repeat  it,  like  a  child.  What  will  you  do  after  you 
get  into  the  house?  Have  you  any  arms?  No.  You  rush 
upon  Raoul,   and  a  struggle  ensues;   and  while  you   two   are 


FILE   NUMBER   113  1081 

fighting,  Madeleine  jumps  in  the  cab  and  drives  off.     What 
then?    Which  is  the  stronger,  you  or  Raoul?" 

Overcome  by  the  sense  of  how  powerless  he  was,  Prosper 
remained  silent. 

"And  of  what  use  would  arms  be?"  continued  M.  Verduret. 
"It  would  be  the  height  of  folly  to  shoot  a  man  whom  you  can 
send  to  the  galleys." 

"What  then  shall  I  do?" 

"Wait.  Vengeance  is  a  delicious  fruit,  which  must  be  al- 
lowed to  ripen  in  order  that  it  may  be  fully  enjoyed." 

Prosper  was  unsettled  in  his  resolution;  M.  Verduret,  seeing 
this,  advanced  his  last  and  strongest  argument.  "How  do  we 
know,"  said  he,  "that  Mademoiselle  Madeleine  is  here  on  her 
own  account  ?  Did  we  not  come  to  the  conclusion  that  she  was 
sacrificing  herself  for  the  benefit  of  some  one  else  ?  That  supe- 
rior will  which  compelled  her  to  banish  you  may  have  con- 
strained this  step  to-night." 

Whatever  coincides  with  our  secret  wishes  is  always  eagerly 
welcomed,  and  this  apparently  improbable  supposition  struck 
Prosper  as  being  possibly  correct. 

"That  might  be  the  case,"  he  murmured,  "who  knows?" 

"I  would  soon  know,"  said  M.  Verduret,  "if  I  could  only  see 
them  together  in  that  room." 

"Will  you  promise  me,  sir,  to  tell  me  the  truth,  exactly  what 
you  yourself  think,  no  matter  how  painful  it  may  be  for  me?" 

"I  swear  it,  upon  my  word  of  honor." 

At  these  words  Prosper,  with  a  strength  which  a  few  min- 
utes before  he  would  not  have  believed  himself  possessed  of, 
raised  the  ladder,  placed  the  last  round  on  his  shoulders,  and 
said  to  M.  Verduret: 

"Mount!" 

M.  Verduret  rapidly  ascended  the  ladder,  scarcely  shaking  it. 
and  soon  had  his  head  on  a  level  with  the  window.  Prosper 
had  seen  but  too  well.  There  was  Madeleine,  at  this  hour  of 
the  night,  alone  with  Raoul  de  Lagors  in  his  bedchamber ! 

M.  Verduret  noticed  that  she  still  wore  her  bonnet  and  man- 
tle. She  was  standing  in  the  middle  of  the  room,  talking  with 
great  animation.  Her  look  and  gestures  betrayed  indignant 
scorn.  There  was  an  expression  of  ill-disguised  loathing  upon 
her  beautiful  face.  Raoul  was  seated  in  a  low  chair  by  the 
fire,  stirring  up  the  embers  with  a  pair  of  tongs.  Every  now 
and  then  he  would  shrug  his  shoulders,  like  a  man  resigned  to 


1032  FILE   NUMBER   113 

everything  he  heard,  and  had  no  answer  to  make  beyond:  "I 
can  not  help  it.     I  can  do  nothing  for  you." 

M.  Verduret  would  willingly  have  given  the  handsome  ring 
on  his  finger  to  be  able  to  hear  what  was  being  said;  but  the 
roaring  wind  completely  drowned  the  voices  of  the  speakers, 
and  he  dared  not  place  his  ear  close  to  the  window  for  fear  of 
being  perceived.  "They  are  evidently  quarreling,"  he  thought; 
"but  it  is  certainly  not  a  lovers'  quarrel." 

Madeleine  continued  talking;  and  it  was  by  closely  watching 
Raoul's  face,  clearly  revealed  by  the  lamp  on  the  chimney- 
piece,  that  M.  Verduret  hoped  to  discover  the  meaning  of  the 
scene  before  him.  Now  and  again  De  Lagors  would  start 
and  tremble  in  spite  of  his  pretended  indifference;  or  else  he 
would  strike  at  the  fire  with  the  tongs,  as  if  giving  vent  to  his 
rage  at  some  reproach  uttered  by  Madeleine.  Finally,  Made- 
leine changed  her  threats  into  entreaties,  and,  clasping  her 
hands,  almost  fell  on  her  knees.  Raoul  turned  away  his  head, 
and  refused  to  answer  save  in  monosyllables. 

Several  times  she  was  about  to  leave  the  room,  but  each  time 
returned,  as  if  asking  a  favor,  and  unable  to  make  up  her  mind 
to  quit  the  house  till  she  had  obtained  it.  At  last  she  seemed 
to  have  uttered  some'thing  decisive;  for  Raoul  quickly  rose  and 
took  from  a  desk  near  the  fireplace  a  bundle  of  papers,  which 
he  handed  to  her. 

"Well,"  thought  M.  Verduret,  "this  looks  bad.  Can  it  be  a 
compromising  correspondence  which  the  young  lady  wants  to 
secure !" 

Madeleine  took  the  papers,  but  was  apparently  still  dissatis- 
fied. She  seemed  to  entreat  Raoul  to  give  her  something  else, 
but  he  refused ;  and  she  then  threw  the  papers  on  the  table. 
These  papers  puzzled  M.  Verduret  very  much,  as  he  gazed  at 
them  through  the  window.  "I  am  not  blind,"  he  said,  "and  I 
certainly  am  not  mistaken;  those  red,  green,  and  gray  papers 
are  evidently  pawn  tickets !" 

Madeleine  turned  over  the  papers  as  if  looking  for  some  par- 
ticular ones.  She  selected  three,  which  she  put  in  her  pocket, 
disdainfully  pushing  the  others  aside.  She  was  now  evidently 
preparing  to  take  her  departure,  and  said  a  few  words  to  Raoul, 
who  took  up  the  lamp  as  if  to  escort  her  downstairs. 

There  was  nothing  more  for  M.  Verduret  to  see.  He  care- 
fully descended  the  ladder,  muttering  to  himself:  "Pawn  tickets! 
What  infamous  mystery  lies  at  the  bottom  of  all  this?"     The 


FILE    NUMBER    113  1033 

first  thing  to  be  done  was  to  hide  the  ladder.  Raoul  might 
take  it  into  his  head  to  look  round  the  garden,  when  he  came 
to  the  door  with  Madeleine,  and  if  he  did  so  the  ladder  could 
scarcely  fail  to  attract  his  attention.  M.  Verduret  and  Pros- 
per hastily  laid  it  on  the  ground,  regardless  of  the  shrubs  which 
they  destroyed  in  doing  so,  and  then  concealed  themselves 
among  the  trees,  whence  they  could  watch  at  once  the  front 
door  and  the  outer  gate. 

Madeleine  and  Raoul  appeared  in  the  doorway.  Raoul  placed 
the  lamp  on  the  floor,  and  offered  his  hand  to  the  girl ;  but  she 
refused  it  with  haughty  contempt,  which  somewhat  soothed 
Prosper's  lacerated  heart.  This  scornful  behavior  did  not, 
however,  seem  to  surprise  or  hurt  Raoul,  who  simply  answered 
by  an  irenical  gesture  which  implied,  "As  you  please  I"  He 
followed  Madeleine  to  the  gate,  which  he  opened  and  closed 
after  her;  then  he  hurried  back  to  the  house,  while  the  cab 
drove  rapidly  away. 

"Now,"  said  Prosper,  "you  must  tell  me  what  you  think. 
You  promised  to  let  me  know  the  truth  no  matter  how  bitter 
it  might  be.     Speak ;  I  can  bear  it,  be  it  what  it  may !" 

"You  will  have  only  joy  to  bear,  my  friend.  Within  a  month 
you  will  bitterly  regret  your  suspicions  of  to-night.  You  will 
blush  to  think  that  you  ever  imagined  Mademoiselle  Madeleine 
to  have  been  the  mistress  of  a  man  like  De  Lagors." 

"But,  sir,  appearances — " 

"It  is  precisely  against  appearances  that  we  must  be  on  our 
guard.  Always  distrust  them.  A  suspicion,  false  or  just,  is 
necessarily  based  on  something.  But  we  must  not  stay  here 
forever;  and  as  Raoul  has  fastened  the  gate,  we  shall  have  to 
climb  over  the  wall." 

"But  there  is  the  ladder." 

"Let  it  stay  where  it  is ;  as  we  can  not  efface  our  footprints, 
he  will  think  thieves  have  been  trying  to  get  into  the  house." 
They  scaled  the  wall,  and  had  not  walked  fifty  steps  when 
they  heard  the  noise  of  a  gate  being  unlocked.  They  stood 
aside  and  waited ;  a  man  soon  passed  by  on  his  way  to  the 
station. 

"That  is  Raoul,"  said  M.  Verduret,  "and  Joseph  will  report 
to  us  that  he  has  been  to  tell  De  Clameran  what  has  just  taken 
place.  If  they  are  only  kind  enough  to  speak  French  !"  M. 
Verduret  walked  along  quietly  for  some  time,  trying  to  connect 
the    broken    chain   of   his   deductions.      "Why   the   deuce."   he 

Gab. —  \  oi.  1\  F 


1034  FILE    NUMBER    113 

abruptly  asked,  "did  this  Raoul,  who  is  devoted  to  gay  society, 
come  to  choose  a  lonely  country  house  like  this  to  live  in?" 

"I  suppose  it  was  because  M.  Fauvel's  villa  is  only  fifteen 
minutes'  ride  from  here,  on  the  banks  of  the  Seine." 

"That  accounts  for  his  staying  here  in  the  summer;  but  in 
winter?" 

"Oh,  in  winter  he  has  a  room  at  the  Hotel  du  Louvre,  and 
all  the  year  round  keeps  up  an  apartment  in  Paris." 

This  did  not  enlighten  M.  Verduret  much;  he  hurried  his 
pace.  "I  hope  our  driver  has  not  gone,"  said  he.  "We  can 
not  take  the  train  which  is  about  to  start,  as  Raoul  would  see 
us  at  the  station." 

Although  it  was  more  than  an  hour  since  M.  Verduret  and 
Prosper  left  the  cab,  where  the  road  turned  off,  they  found  it 
wafting  for  them  in  front  of  the  tavern. 

The  driver,  being  unable  to  resist  the  desire  to  change  his 
bank-note,  had  ordered  supper,  and  finding  the  wine  very  good. 
he  was  in  no  hurry  to  leave. 

While  delighted  at  the  idea  of  having  a  fare  back  to  Paris, 
he  could  not  refrain  from  remarking  on  M.  Verduret  and  Pros- 
pers altered  appearance.  "Well,  you  are  in  a  strange  state  !" 
he  exclaimed. 

Prosper  replied  that  they  had  been  to  see  a  friend,  and  losing 
their  way,  had  fallen  into  a  quagmire ;  as  if  there  were  such 
things  in  Vesinet  wood. 

"So  that's  the  way  you  got  covered  with  mud,  is  it !"  ex- 
claimed the  driver,  who,  though  apparently  contented  with  this 
explanation,  strongly  suspected  that  his  two  customers  had 
been  engaged  in  some  nefarious  transaction.  This  opinion 
seemed  to  be  entertained  by  the  people  present,  for  they 
looked  at  Prosper's  muddy  clothes  and  then  at  each  other  in 
a  knowing  way. 

But  M.  Verduret  put  an  end  to  all  further  comment  by  say- 
ing: "Come  on  !" 

"All  right,  your  honor:  get  in  while  I  settle  my  bill;  I  will 
be  with  you  in  a  minute." 

The  drive  back  was  silent  and  seemed  interminably  long. 
Prosper  at  first  tried  to  draw  his  strange  companion  into  con- 
versation, but  as  he  received  nothing  but  monosyllables  in  re- 
ply, he  held  his  peace  for  the  rest  of  the  journey.  He  was 
again  beginning  to  feel  irritated  at  the  absolute  empire  exer- 
cised over  him  by  this   man.     Physical  discomfort  was  added 


FILE    NUMBER    113  1035 

to  his  other  troubles.  He  was  stiff  and  numb;  every  bone  in 
him  ached  with  the  cold.  Although  mental  endurance  may  be 
unlimited,  bodily  strength  must  in  the  end  give  way.  A  violent 
effort  is  always  followed  by  reaction. 

Lying  back  in  a  corner  of  the  cab,  with  his  feet  upon  the 
front  seat,  M.  Verduret  seemed  to  be  enjoying  a  nap;  yet  he 
was  never  more  wide  awake.  He  was  in  a  perplexed  state  of 
mind.  This  expedition,  which  he  had  been  confident  would 
solve  all  his  doubts,  had  only  added  mystery  to  mystery.  His 
chain  of  evidence,  which  he  thought  so  strongly  linked,  was 
completely  broken.  For  him  the  facts  remained  the  same,  but 
circumstances  had  changed.  He  could  not  imagine  what  com- 
mon motive,  what  moral  or  material  complicity,  what  influ- 
ences, existed  to  cause  the  four  actors  in  his  drama,  Madame 
Fauvel,  Madeleine,  Raoul,  and  De  Clameran,  to  have  appar- 
ently the  same  object  in  view.  He  was  seeking,  in  his  fertile 
mind,  that  encyclopedia  of  craft  and  subtlety,  for  some  combi- 
nation which  would  throw  light  on  the  problem  before  him. 

Midnight  struck  as  they  reached  the  Grand  Archangel,  and 
for  the  first  time  M.  Verduret  remembered  that  he  had  not 
dined.  Fortunately  Madame  Alexandre  was  still  up,  and  in  the 
twinkling  of  an  eye  had  improvised  a  tempting  supper.  It  was 
more  than  attention,  more  than  respect,  that  she  showed  her 
guest.  Prosper  observed  that  she  gazed  admiringly  at  M.  Ver- 
duret all  the  while  that  he  was  eating. 

"You  will  not  see  me  during  the  daytime  to-morrow,"  said 
M.  Verduret  to  Prosper,  when  he  had  risen  to  leave  the  room ; 
"but  I  will  be  here  about  this  time  at  night.  Perhaps  I  shall 
discover  what  I  am  seeking  at  Jandidiers'  ball." 

Prosper  was  almost  dumb  with  astonishment.  What !  would 
M.  Verduret  venture  to  appear  at  a  fancy  dress  ball  given  by 
the  wealthiest  and  most  fashionable  bankers  in  Paris?  This 
accounted  for  his  sending  to  the  costumier.  "Then  you  are 
invited  to  this  ball?"  he  presently  asked. 

The  expressive  eyes  of  M.  Verduret  sparkled  with  amuse- 
ment.    "Not  yet,"  he  said;  "but  I  shall  be." 

Oh,  the  inconsistency  of  the  human  mind  !  Prosper  was  tor- 
mented by  the  most  serious  reflections.  He  looked  sadly  round 
his  chamber,  and  as  he  thought  of  M.  Verduret's  projected 
pleasure  at  the  ball,  exclaimed :  "Ah,  how  fortunate  he  is  !  To- 
morrow he  will  see  Madeleine  more  lovely  than  ever." 


1036 


FILE    NUMBER   113 


ABOUT  the  middle  of  the  Rue  St.  Lazare  are  the  almost 
•**■  regal  residences  of  the  brothers  Jandidier,  two  celebrated 
financiers,  who,  if  deprived  of  the  prestige  of  immense  wealth, 
would  still  be  looked  up  to  as  remarkable  men.  Why  can  not 
the  same  be  said  of  all  men? 

These  two  mansions,  which  were  regarded  as  marvels  of  mag- 
nificence at  the  time  they  were  built,  are  entirely  distinct  from 
each  other,  but  so  planned  as  to  form  a  single  building  when 
this  is  desired.  When  the  brothers  Jandidier  give  grand  parties, 
they  have  the  movable  partitions  taken  away,  and  thus  obtain 
the  most  superb  suite  of  drawing-rooms  in  Paris.  Princely 
magnificence,  lavish  hospitality,  and  an  elegant,  graceful  man- 
ner of  receiving  their  guests,  make  the  entertainments  given 
by  the  brothers  eagerly  sought  after  by  the  fashionable  circles 
of  the  capital.  On  the  Saturday  the  Rue  St.  Lazare  was  blocked 
up  by  a  file  of  carriages,  whose  fair  occupants  impatiently 
awaited  their  turn  to  alight.  Dancing  commenced  at  ten  o'clock. 
The  ball  was  a  fancy  dress  one,  and  the  majority  of  the  cos- 
tumes were  superb ;  many  were  in  the  best  taste,  and  some  were 
quite  original.  Among  the  latter  was  that  of  a  merry-andrew. 
Everything  about  the  wearer  was  in  perfect  keeping:  the  inso- 
lent eye,  coarse  lips,  inflamed  cheek-bones,  and  a  beard  so  red 
that  it  seemed  to  emit  fire  in  the  reflection  of  the  dazzling 
lights. 

He  carried  in  his  left  hand  a  canvas  banner,  upon  which 
were  six  or  eight  coarsely  painted  pictures,  like  those  seen  at 
country  fairs.  In  his  right  he  waved  a  little  switch,  with  which 
he  would  every  now  and  then  strike  his  banner,  after  the  fash- 
ion of  a  showman  seeking  to  attract  the  attention  of  the  crowd. 
A  compact  group  gathered  round  him  in  the  expectation  of 
hearing  some  witty  speeches;  but  he  remained  silent,  near  the 
door. 

About  half-past  ten  he  quitted  his  post.  M.  and  Madame 
Fauvel,   followed  by  their  niece  Madeleine,   had  just  entered. 


FILE    NUMBER    113  1037 

During  the  last  ten  days  the  affair  of  the  Rue  de  Provence 
had  been  the  general  topic  of  conversation;  and  friends  and 
enemies  were  alike  glad  to  seize  this  opportunity  of  approach- 
ing the  banker  to  tender  their  sympathy,  or  to  offer  equivocal 
condolence,  which  of  all  things  is  the  most  exasperating  and 
insulting. 

Belonging  to  the  class  of  men  of  a  serious  turn,  M.  Fauvel 
had  not  assumed  a  fancy  costume,  but  had  merely  thrown  over 
his  shoulders  a  short  silk  cloak.  On  his  arm  leaned  Madame 
Fauvel,  nee  Valentine  de  la  Verberie,  bowing  and  gracefully 
greeting  her  numerous  friends. 

She  had  once  been  remarkably  beautiful ;  and  to-night,  in 
the  artificial  light,  her  very  becoming  dress  seemed  to  have 
restored  all  her  youthful  freshness  and  comeliness.  No  one 
would  have  supposed  her  to  be  forty-eight  years  old.  She  wore 
a  robe  of  embroidered  satin  and  black  velvet,  of  the  later  years 
of  Louis  XIV's  reign,  magnificent  and  severe,  without  the  adorn- 
ment of  a  single  jewel.  She  looked  superb  and  grand  in  her 
court  dress  and  her  powdered  hair,  as  became  a  La  Verberie, 
so  some  ill-natured  people  remarked,  who  had  made  the  mistake 
of  marrying  a  man  of  money. 

Madeleine,  too,  on  her  part  was  the  object  of  universal  ad- 
miration, so  dazzlingly  beautiful  and  queen-like  did  she  appear 
in  her  costume  of  maid  of  honor,  which  seemed  to  have  been 
especially  invented  to  set  forth  her  beautiful  figure.  Her  love- 
liness expanded  in  the  perfumed  atmosphere  and  dazzling  light 
of  the  ballroom.  Never  had  her  hair  looked  so  brilliant  a 
black,  her  complexion  so  exquisite,  or  her  large  eyes  so  spar- 
kling. Having  greeted  their  hosts,  Madeleine  took  her  aunt's 
arm,  while  M.  Fauvel  wandered  about  in  search  of  the  card- 
tables,  the  usual  refuge  of  bored  men  who  find  themselves 
enticed  into  a  ballroom. 

Dancing  was  now  at  its  height.  Two  orchestras,  led  by 
Strauss  and  one  of  his  lieutenants,  filled  the  saloons  with  in- 
toxicating sounds.  The  motley  crowd  whirled  in  the  waltz, 
presenting  a  curious  confusion  of  velvets,  satins,  laces,  and 
diamonds.  Almost  every  head  and  bosom  sparkled  with  jewels; 
the  palest  cheeks  became  rosy ;  heavy  eyes  now  shone  like 
stars;  and  the  glistening  shoulders  of  fair  women  were  like 
drifted  snow  in  an  April  sun. 

Forgotten  by  the  crowd,  the  merry-andrew  had  taken  refuge 
in  the  embrasure  of  a  window,  and  seemed  to  be  meditating 


1038  FILE    NUMBER   113 

upon  the  gay  scene  before  him;  at  the  same  time  he  kept  his 
eyes  upon  a  couple  not  far  distant.  It  was  Madeleine,  leaning 
on  the  arm  of  a  gorgeously  attired  doge,  that  attracted  his 
gaze,  and  the  doge  was  the  Marquis  de  Clameran,  who  appeared 
radiant,  rejuvenated,  and  whose  attentions  to  his  partner  had 
an  air  of  triumph.  At  an  interval  in  the  quadrille,  he  leaned 
over  her  and  whispered  compliments  of  unbounded  admiration ; 
and  she  seemed  to  listen,  if  not  with  pleasure,  at  least  with- 
out repugnance.  She  now  and  then  smiled,  and  coquettishly 
shrugged  her  shoulders. 

"Evidently,"  muttered  the  merry-andrew,  "this  noble  scoun- 
drel is  paying  court  to  the  banker's  niece;  so  I  was  right  yes- 
terday. But  how  can  Mademoiselle  Madeleine  resign  herself 
so  graciously  to  his  insipid  flattery?  Fortunately,  Prosper  is 
not  here  now." 

He  was  interrupted  by  an  elderly  man  wrapped  in  a  Vene- 
tian mantle,  who  said  to  him:  "You  remember,  M.  Verduret" — 
this  name  was  uttered  half-seriously,  half-banteringly — "what 
you  promised  me?" 

The  merry-andrew  bowed  with  great  respect,  but  not  the 
slightest  shade  of  humility.     "I  remember,"  he  replied. 

"But  do  not  be  imprudent,  I  beg  you." 

"Monsieur  le  Comte  need  not  be  uneasy ;  he  has  my  promise." 

"Very  good.  I  know  its  value."  The  comte  walked  off ;  but 
during  this  short  colloquy  the  quadrille  had  ended,  and  M.  de 
Clameran  and  Madeleine  were  lost  to  sight. 

"I  shall  find  them  near  Madame  Fauvel,"  thought  the  merry- 
andrew.    And  he  at  once  started  in  search  of  the  banker's  wife. 

Incommoded  by  the  stifling  heat  of  the  room,  Madame  Fauvel 
had  sought  a  little  fresh  air  in  the  grand  picture  gallery,  which, 
thanks  to  the  talisman  called  gold,  was  now  transformed  into 
a  fairy-like  garden,  filled  with  orange  trees,  japonicas,  oleanders, 
and  white  lilacs,  the  delicate  bunches  of  which  hung  in  grace- 
ful clusters.  The  merry-andrew  saw  her  seated  near  the  door 
of  the  card-room.  Upon  her  right  was  Madeleine,  and  on  her 
left  stood  Raoul  de  Lagors,  dressed  in  a  costume  of  the  time 
of  Henry  III. 

"I  must  confess."  muttered  the  merry-andrew  from  his  post 
of  observation,  "that  the  young  scamp  is  a  handsome-looking 
fellow." 

Madeleine  appeared  very  sad.  She  had  plucked  a  camellia 
from  a  plant  near  by,  and  was  mechanically  pulling  it  to  pieces 


FILE   NUMBER    113  1039 

as  she  sat  with  her  eyes  cast  down.  Raoul  and  Madame  Fauvel 
were  engaged  in  earnest  conversation.  Their  faces  seemed  com- 
posed, but  the  gestures  of  the  one  and  the  trembling  of  the 
other  betrayed  that  a  serious  discussion  was  taking  place  be- 
tween them.  In  the  card-room  sat  the  doge,  M.  de  Clameran, 
so  placed  as  to  have  a  full  view  of  Madame  Fauvel  and  Made- 
leine, although  he  was  himself  concealed  by  an  angle  of  the 
apartment. 

"It  is  the  continuation  of  yesterday's  scene,"  thought  the 
merry-andrew.  "If  I  could  only  get  behind  those  camellias,  I 
might  hear  what  they  are  saying."  He  pushed  his  way  through 
the  crowd,  but  just  as  he  had  reached  the  desired  spot,  Made- 
leine rose,  and,  taking  the  arm  of  a  bejeweled  Persian,  walked 
away.  At  the  same  moment  Raoul  went  into  the  card-room 
and  whispered  a  few  words  to  De  Clameran. 

"There  they  go,"  muttered  the  merry-andrew.  "The  pair  of 
scoundrels  certainly  hold  these  poor  women  in  their  power;  and 
it  is  in  vain  that  they  struggle  to  free  themselves.  What  can 
be  the  secret  of  their  influence?" 

Suddenly  a  great  commotion  was  caused  in  the  picture  gallery 
by  the  announcement  of  a  wonderful  minuet  to  be  danced  in 
the  grand  saloon ;  then  by  the  arrival  of  the  Comtesse  de  Com- 
marin  as  Aurora ;  and  finally,  by  the  presence  of  the  Princess 
Korasoff,  with  her  superb  suite  of  emeralds,  reported  to  be  the 
finest  in  the  world.  In  an  instant  the  gallery  became  almost 
deserted. 

Only  a  few  forlorn-looking  people  remained ;  mostly  sulky 
husbands,  whose  wives  were  dancing  with  partners  they  were 
jealous  of,  and  some  melancholy  youths,  looking  awkward 
and  unhappy  in  their  gay  fancy  dresses.  The  merry-andrew 
thought  the  opportunity  favorable  for  carrying  out  his  designs. 
He  abruptly  left  his  corner,  brandishing  his  banner,  and  tap- 
ping upon  it  with  his  switch,  hammering  affectedly  all  the 
time,  as  though  about  to  speak.  Having  crossed  the  gallery. 
he  placed  himself  between  the  chair  occupied  by  Madame 
Fauvel  and  the  door.  As  soon  as  the  people  left  in  the  ?r.l- 
lery  had  collected  in  a  circle  round  him,  he  struck  a  comical 
attitude,  and  in  a  tone  of  great  buffoonery  proceeded  to  address 
them  as  follows: 

"Ladies  and  gentlemen,  this  morning  I  obtained  a  license 
from  the  authorities  of  this  city.  And  for  what?  Why.  gen- 
tlemen, for  the  purpose  of  exhibiting  to  you  a  spectacle  which 


1040  FILE   NUMBER   113 

has  already  excited  the  admiration  of  the  four  quarters  of  the 
globe,  and  of  several  other  academies.  Inside  this  booth,  ladies, 
is  about  to  commence  the  representation  of  a  most  unheard-of 
drama,  acted  for  the  first  time  at  Pekin,  and  translated  by  our 
most  famous  authors.  Gentlemen,  you  can  take  your  seats  at 
once ;  the  lamps  are  lighted,  and  the  actors  are  dressing." 

Here  he  stopped  speaking,  and  imitated  to  perfection  the 
screeching  sounds  which  mountebanks  educe  from  their  mu- 
sical instruments.  "Now,  ladies  and  gentlemen,"  he  resumed, 
"you  will  wish  to  know  what  I  am  doing  here  if  the  piece  is 
to  be  performed  inside  the  booth.  The  fact  is,  gentlemen,  that 
I  intend  to  give  you  a  foretaste  of  the  agitations,  sensations, 
emotions,  palpitations,  and  other  entertainments  which  you  may 
enjoy  for  the  small  sum  of  ten  sous.  You  see  this  superb 
picture?  Well,  it  represents  the  eight  most  thrilling  scenes  in 
the  drama.  Ah,  you  begin  to  shudder  already;  and  yet  this  is 
nothing  compared  to  the  play  itself.  This  splendid  picture  gives 
you  no  more  idea  of  the  actual  performance  than  a  drop  of 
water  gives  an  idea  of  the  sea,  or  a  spark  of  fire  of  the  sun. 
My  picture,  gentlemen,  is  merely  a  foretaste  of  what  takes  place 
inside,  like  the  odors  which  emanate  from  the  kitchen  of  a 
restaurant." 

"Do  you  know  the  fellow?"  asked  an  enormous  Turk  of  a 
melancholy  Punch. 

"No,  but  he  imitates  a  trumpet  splendidly." 
"Oh,  very  well  indeed!  But  what  is  he  driving  at?" 
He  was  endeavoring  to  attract  the  attention  of  Madame  Fau- 
vel,  who,  since  Raoul  and  Madeleine  had  left  her,  had  abandoned 
herself  to  a  mournful  reverie.  He  succeeded  in  his  object.  His 
shrill  voice  brought  the  banker's  wife  back  to  a  sense  of  reality; 
she  started  and  looked  quickly  about  her,  as  if  suddenly  awaken- 
ed ;  then  she  turned  toward  the  merry-andrew. 

He,  however,  continued :  "Now,  ladies,  we  are  in  China.  The 
first  of  the  eight  pictures  on  my  canvas,  here,  in  the  left  hand 
corner," — here  he  touched  the  top  daub, — "represents  the  cele- 
brated Mandarin  Li-F6,  in  the  bosom  of  his  family.  The  pretty 
young  lady  leaning  over  him  is  his  wife;  and  the  children 
playing  on  the  carpet  are  the  bonds  of  love  between  this  happy 
pair.  Do  you  not  inhale  the  odor  of  contentment  and  happi- 
ness emanating  from  this  admirable  picture,  gentlemen? 
Madame  Li-F6  is  the  most  virtuous  of  women,  adoring  her  hus- 
band and  idolizing  her  children.     Being  virtuous  she  is  happy, 


FILE   NUMBER    113  1041 

or  as  the  wise  Confucius  says,  'The  ways  of  virtue  are  more 
pleasant  than  the  ways  of  vice.'  " 

Madame  Fauvel  had  quitted  her  seat,  and  taken  another  nearer 
to  the  speaker. 

"Do  you  see  anything  on  the  banner  like  what  he  has  been  de- 
scribing?" asked  the  melancholy  Punch  of  his  neighbor. 

"No,  nothing.    Do  you?" 

The  fact  is,  that  the  daubs  of  paint  on  the  canvas  represented 
nothing  in  particular,  so  that  the  merry-andrew  could  pretend 
they  were  anything  he  pleased. 

"Picture  No.  2 !"  he  cried,  after  a  flourish  of  music.  "This 
old  lady,  seated  before  a  mirror  tearing  out  her  hair — especially 
the  gray  ones — you  have  seen  before;  do  you  recognize  her? 
No,  you  do  not.  Well,  she  is  the  fair  mandarine  of  the  first 
picture.  I  see  the  tears  in  your  eyes,  ladies  and  gentlemen. 
Ah,  you  have  cause  to  weep ;  for  she  is  no  longer  virtuous, 
and  her  happiness  has  departed  with  her  virtue.  Alas,  it  is  a 
sad  tale !  One  fatal  day  she  met  in  a  street  of  Pekin  a  young 
ruffian,  fiendish,  but  beautiful  as  an  angel,  and  she  loves  him — 
the  wretched  woman  loves  him  !" 

The  last  words  were  uttered  in  the  most  tragic  tone  as  he 
raised  his  clasped  hands  to  heaven.  During  this  tirade  he  had 
turned  slightly  round,  so  that  he  now  found  himself  facing  the 
banker's  wife,  whose  countenance  he  closely  watched  while  he 
was  speaking. 

"You  are  surprised,  gentlemen,"  he  continued ;  "I  am  not. 
The  great  Bilboquet,  my  master,  has  proved  to  us  that  the 
heart  never  grows  old,  and  that  the  most  vigorous  wall-flowers 
flourish  on  the  oldest  ruins.  This  unhappy  woman  is  nearly 
fifty  years  old — fifty  years  old,  and  in  love  with  a  youth ! 
Hence  this  heartrending  scene  which  should  serve  as  a  warn- 
ing to  us  all." 

"Really!"  grumbled  a  cook  dressed  in  white  satin,  who  had 
passed  the  evening  distributing  bills  of  fare,  which  no  one  read; 
"I  thought  he  would  be  more  amusing." 

"But,"  continued  the  merry-andrew,  "you  must  go  inside  the 
booth  to  witness  the  effects  of  the  mandarine's  folly.  At  times 
a  ray  of  reason  penetrates  her  diseased  brain,  and  then  the 
sight  of  her  anguish  would  soften  a  heart  of  stone.  Enter, 
and  for  the  small  sum  of  ten  sous  you  shall  hear  sobs  such  as 
the  Odeon  Theatre  never  echoed  in  its  halcyon  days.  The 
unhappy  woman  has  waked  up  to  the  absurdity  and  inanity  of 


1042  FILE    NUMBER    113 

her  blind  passion ;  she  confesses  to  herself  that  she  is  madly 
pursuing  a  fantom.  She  knows  but  too  well  that  he,  in  the 
vigor  and  beauty  of  youth,  can  not  love  a  faded  old  woman 
like  herself,  who  vainly  endeavors  to  retain  the  last  traces  of 
her  once  entrancing  beauty.  She  feels  that  the  sweet  words  he 
once  whispered  in  her  charmed  ear  were  deceitful  falsehoods. 
She  knows  that  the  day  is  near  when  she  will  be  left  alone, 
with  nothing  save  his  mantle  in  her  hand." 

As  the  merry-andrew  addressed  this  voluble  harangue  to  the 
crowd  around  him,  he  narrowly  watched  the  countenance  of  the 
banker's  wife.  But  nothing  he  had  said  seemed  to  affect  her. 
She  leaned  back  in  her  armchair,  perfectly  calm,  with  the  accus- 
tomed brightness  in  her  eyes  and  an  occasional  smile  upon 
her  lips. 

"Good  heavens !"  muttered  the  merry-andrew  uneasily,  "can 
I  be  on  the  wrong  track?"  Preoccupied,  however,  as  he  was, 
he  observed  an  addition  to  his  circle  of  listeners  in  the  person 
of  M.  de  Clameran.  "The  third  picture,"  said  he,  after  imi- 
tating a  roll  of  drums,  "depicts  the  old  mandarine  after  she 
has  dismissed  that  most  annoying  of  guests — remorse — from 
her  bosom.  She  promises  herself  that  interest  will  supply  the 
place  of  love  in  chaining  the  too  seductive  youth  to  her  side. 
It  is  with  this  object  that  she  invests  him  with  false  honors 
and  dignity,  and  introduces  him  to  the  chief  mandarins  of  the 
capital  of  the  Celestial  Empire ;  then,  since  so  handsome  a 
youth  must  cut  a  fine  figure  in  society,  and  as  a  fine  figure 
can  not  be  cut  without  money,  the  lady  sacrifices  all  she  pos- 
sesses for  his  sake.  Necklaces,  rings,  bracelets,  diamonds,  and 
pearls,  are  all  surrendered.  The  monster  carries  all  these 
jewels  to  the  pawnbrokers  in  the  Tien-Tsi  Street,  and  then 
has  the  cruelty  to  refuse  her  the  tickets,  by  means  of  which 
she  might  redeem  her  treasures." 

The  merry-andrew  thought  that  he  had  at  last  hit  the  mark. 
Madame  Fauvel  began  to  betray  signs  of  agitation.  Once  she 
made  an  attempt  to  rise  from  her  seat  and  to  retire,  but  it 
seemed  as  if  her  strength  failed  her,  and  she  sank  back,  forced 
to  listen  to  the  end. 

"Finally,  ladies  and  gentlemen,"  continued  the  merry-andrew, 
"the  richly  filled  jewel-cases  became  empty.  The  day  arrived 
when  the  mandarine  had  nothing  more  to  give.  It  was  then 
that  the  young  scoundrel  conceived  the  project  of  carrying  off 
the  jasper  button  belonging  to  the  mandarin  Li-F6 — a  splendid 


FILE   NUMBER    113  1043 

jewel  of  incalculable  value,  which,  being  the  badge  of  his  dig- 
nity, was  kept  in  a  granite  stronghold,  and  guarded  by  three 
soldiers  night  and  day.  Ah  !  the  mandarine  resisted  for  a  long 
time !  She  knew  the  innocent  soldiers  would  be  accused  and 
crucified,  as  is  the  custom  in  Pekin,  and  this  thought  restrained 
her.  But  her  lover  besought  her  so  tenderly  that  she  finally 
yielded  to  his  entreaties;  and — the  jasper  button  was  stolen. 
The  fourth  picture  represents  the  guilty  couple  stealthily  creep- 
ing down  the  private  staircase:  see  their  frightened  looks — 
see—" 

The  merry-andrew  abruptly  stopped.  Three  or  four  of  his 
auditors  rushed  to  the  assistance  of  Madame  Fauvel,  who 
seemed  about  to  faint;  and  at  the  same  moment  he  felt  his 
arm  roughly  seized  by  some  one  behind  him.  He  turned  round 
and  found  himself  face  to  face  with  M.  de  Clameran  and  Raoul 
de  Lagors,  both  of  whom  were  pale  with  anger. 

"What  do  you  require,  gentlemen?"  he  asked  politely. 

"To  speak  with  you,"  they  answered  in  a  breath. 

"I  am  at  your  service."  And  he  followed  them  to  the  end 
of  the  picture  gallery,  near  a  window  opening  on  to  a  balcony. 
Here  they  were  unobserved  except  by  the  man  in  the  Vene- 
tian cloak,  whom  the  merry-andrew  had  so  respectfully  ad- 
dressed as  "Monsieur  le  Comte."  The  minuet  having  ended, 
the  musicians  were  resting,  and  the  crowd  began  rapidly  to  fill 
the  gallery.  Madame  Fauvel's  sudden  faintness  had  passed  off 
unnoticed  save  by  a  few.  who  attributed  it  to  the  heat  of  the 
room.  M.  Fauvel  had  been  sent  for ;  but  when  he  came  hur- 
rying in,  and  found  his  wife  composedly  talking  to  Madeleine, 
his  alarm  was  dissipated,  and  he  returned  to  the  card-tables. 

Not  having  as  much  control  over  his  temper  as  Raoul.  M.  de 
Clameran  angrily  remarked  to  the  merry-andrew :  "In  the  first 
place,  sir,  I  should  like  to  know  whom  I  am  speaking  to." 

The  merry-andrew,  determined  to  answer  as  if  he  thought  the 
question  were  a  jest,  replied  in  the  bantering  tone  of  a  buf- 
foon: "You  want  my  passport,  do  you.  my  lord  doge?  I  left 
it  in  the  hands  of  the  city  authorities ;  it  contains  my  name, 
age,  profession,  domicile,  and  every  detail." 

With  an  angry  gesture,  M.  de  Clameran  interrupted  him. 
"You  have  just  committed  a  most  vile  action!" 

'T.  my  lord  doge?" 

"Yes,  you !  What  is  the  meaning  of  the  abominable  story 
you  have  been  relating?"  * 


1044  FILE    NUMBER    113 

"Abominable !  You  may  say  so,  if  you  like ;  but  I,  who  com- 
posed it,  entertain  a  different  opinion." 

"Enough,  sir;  you  might  at  least  have  the  courage  to  ac- 
knowledge that  your  allusions  conveyed  a  vile  insinuation 
against  Madame  Fauvel." 

The  merry-andrew  stood  with  his  head  thrown  back,  and 
mouth  wide  open,  as  if  astounded  at  what  he  heard.  But  any 
one  who  knew  him  would  have  detected  his  bright  black  eyes 
sparkling  with  malicious  satisfaction. 

"Bless  my  heart !"  he  cried,  as  if  speaking  to  himself.  "This 
is  the  strangest  thing  I  ever  heard  of !  How  can  my  drama 
of  the  Mandarine  Li-Fo  have  any  reference  to  Madame  Fauvel, 
whom  I  don't  know  from  Adam  or  Eve?  I  can't  think  how  the 
resemblance — unless — but  no,  that  is  impossible." 

"Do  you  pretend,"  said  M.  de  Clameran,  "to  be  ignorant  of 
M.  Fauvel's  misfortune?" 

The  merry-andrew  looked  very  innocent,  and  asked :  "A  mis- 
fortune?" 

"I  mean  the  robbery  of  which  M.  Fauvel  is  the  victim.  It  is 
in  every  one's  mouth,  and  you  must  have  heard  of  it." 

"Ah,  yes,  yes;  I  remember.  His  cashier  has  run  off  with 
three  hundred  and  fifty  thousand  francs.  Gracious  me !  It  is 
a  thing  that  almost  happens  daily.  But,  as  to  discovering  any 
connection  between  this  robbery  and  my  story,  that  is  quite 
another  matter." 

M.  de  Clameran  did  not  hasten  to  reply.  A  nudge  from 
De  Lagors  had  calmed  him  as  if  by  enchantment.  He  looked 
suspiciously  at  the  mountebank,  and  seemed  to  regret  having 
uttered  the  significant  words  forced  from  him  by  angry  ex- 
citement. "Very  well,"  he  finally  said  in  his  usual  haughty 
tone :  "I  must  have  been  mistaken.    I  accept  your  explanation." 

But  the  merry-andrew,  hitherto  so  humble  and  foolish-look- 
ing, seemed  to  take  offense  at  the  last  word,  and,  assuming  a 
defiant  attitude,  exclaimed :  "I  have  not  given,  nor  had  I  to  give, 
any  explanation." 

"Sir!"  began  De  Clameran. 

"Allow  me  to  finish,  if  you  please.  If,  unintentionally,  I  have 
offended  the  wife  of  a  man  whom  I  highly  esteem,  it  is,  I  fancy, 
his  business  to  seek  redress,  and  not  yours.  Perhaps  you  will 
tell  me  he  is  too  old  to  demand  satisfaction,  very  likely;  but 
he  has  sons,  and  I  have  just  seen  one  of  them  here.  You  ask 
who  I  am;  in  return  I  ask  you  who  are  you — you  who  under- 


FILE    NUMBER    113  1045 

take  to  act  as  Madame  Fauvel's  champion?  Are  you  her  rela- 
tive, friend,  or  ally?  What  right  have  you  to  insult  her  by 
pretending  to  discover  an  allusion  to  her  in  a  story  invented  for 
amusement?" 

There  was  nothing  to  be  said  in  reply  to  this.  M.  de  Clam- 
eran  sought  a  means  of  evading  a  complete  answer.  "I  am  a 
friend  of  M.  Fauvel's,"  he  said,  "and  this  title  gives  me  the 
right  to  be  as  jealous  of  his  reputation  as  if  it  were  my  own. 
If  you  do  not  think  this  a  sufficient  reason  for  my  interference, 
I  must  inform  you  that  his  family  will  shortly  be  mine." 

"Ah !" 

"Next  week,  sir,  my  marriage  with  Mademoiselle  Madeleine 
will  be  publicly  announced." 

This  news  was  so  unexpected,  so  strange,  that  for  a  moment 
the  merry-andrew  was  fairly  astounded.  But  he  soon  recovered 
himself,  and,  bowing  with  deference,  said,  with  covert  irony: 
"Permit  me  to  offer  you  my  congratulations,  sir.  Besides  being 
the  belle  of  to-night's  ball,  Mademoiselle  Madeleine  is  worth, 
I  hear,  half  a  million." 

Raoul  de  Lagors  had  anxiously  been  watching  the  people 
near  them,  to  see  if  they  overheard  this  conversation.  "We 
have  had  enough  of  this  gossip,"  he  said  in  a  disdainful  tone; 
"I  will  only  say  one  thing  to  you,  my  fine  fellow,  and  that  is, 
your  tongue  is  too  long." 

"Perhaps  it  is,  my  pretty  youth,  perhaps  it  is ;  but  my  arm 
is  still  longer." 

De  Clameran  here  interrupted  them  by  exclaiming:  "It  is 
impossible  to  have  an  explanation  with  a  man  who  conceals 
his  identity  under  the  guise  of  a  fool." 

"You  are  at  liberty,  my  lord  doge,  to  ask  the  master  of  the 
house  who  I  am — if  you  dare." 

"You  are,"  cried  Clameran,  "you  are — "  A  warning  look 
from  Raoul  checked  the  noble  iron-founder  from  using  an 
epithet  which  might  have  led  to  an  affray,  or  at  least  a 
scandalous  scene. 

The  merry-andrew  stood  by  with  a  sardonic  smile,  and,  after 
a  moment's  silence,  stared  M.  de  Clameran  steadily  in  the  face, 
and,  in  measured  tones,  said:  "I  was  the  best  friend,  sir,  that 
your  dead  brother  Gaston  ever  had.  I  was  his  adviser,  and  the 
confidant  of  his  last  hopes." 

These  words  came  like  a  clap  of  thunder  on  De  Clameran, 
who    turned    deadly    pale,    and    started    back    with    his    hands 


1046  FILE    NUMBER    113 

stretched  out  before  him,  as  if  shrinking  from  a  fantom.  He 
tried  to  answer,  to  protest,  to  say  something,  but  terror  froze 
the  words  upon  his  tongue. 

"Come,  let  us  go,"  said  De  Lagors,  who  had  remained  per- 
fectly self-possessed.  And  he  dragged  De  Clameran  away, 
half  supporting  him,  for  he  staggered  like  a  drunken  man, 
and  clung  to  every  object  he  passed,  to  prevent  himself  from 
falling. 

"Oh,  oh,  oh  !"  exclaimed  the  merry-andrew,  in  three  different 
tones.  He  was  almost  as  much  astonished  as  the  forge-master, 
and  remained  rooted  to  the  spot,  watching  the  latter  as  he 
slowly  left  the  room.  It  was  with  no  decided  object  in  view 
that  the  merry-andrew  had  ventured  to  use  the  last  myste- 
riously threatening  words,  but  he  had  been  inspired  to  do  so 
by  his  wonderful  instinct,  which  with  him  was  like  the  scent 
of  a  bloodhound.  "What  can  this  mean  ?"  he  murmured.  "Why 
was  he  so  frightened  ?  What  terrible  memory  have  I  awakened 
in  his  base  soul?  T  need  not  boast  of  my  penetration,  or  the 
subtlety  of  my  plans.  There  is  a  great  master,  who,  without 
any  effort,  in  an  instant  destroys  all  our  chimeras ;  he  is  called 
'Chance.'  " 

His  mind  had  wandered  far  from  the  present  scene,  when 
he  was  brought  back  to  his  situation  by  some  one  touching 
him  on  the  shoulder.  It  was  the  man  in  the  Venetian  cloak. 
"Are  you  satisfied,  M.  Verduret?"  he  inquired. 

"Yes  and  no,  Monsieur  the  Comte.     No,  because  I  have  not 

completely  achieved  the  object  I  had  in   view  when  I   asked 

you  to  obtain  an  invitation  for  me  here  to-night;  yes,  because 

these  two  rascals  behaved  in  a  manner  which  dispels  all  doubt." 

"And  yet  you  complain — " 

"I  do  not  complain,  sir;  on  the  contrary,  I  bless  chance,  or 
rather  Providence,  which  has  just  revealed  to  me  the  existence 
of  a  secret  that  I  did  not  before  even  suspect." 

Five  or  six  people  approached  the  comte,  and  he  went  off 
with  them  after  giving  M.  Verduret  a  friendly  nod.  The 
latter  instantly  threw  aside  his  banner,  and  started  in  pursuit 
of  Madame  Fauvel.  He  found  her  sitting  on  a  sofa,  in  the 
ball-room,  engaged  in  an  animated  conversation  with  Madeleine. 
"Of  course  they  are  talking  over  the  scene;  but  what  has 
become  of  De  Lagors  and  De  Clameran?"  thought  he.  He 
soon  caught  sight  of  them  wandering  among  the  groups  scat- 
tered about  the  room,  and  eagerly  asking  questions.     "I   will 


FILE   NUMBER    113  1047 

bet   my   head,"   he   muttered,   "these   honorable   gentlemen   are 
trying  to  find  out  who  T  am.    Ask  away,  my  friends,  ask  away  !" 

They  soon  gave  over  their  inquiries,  but  were  so  preoccupied, 
and  anxious  to  be  alone  in  order  to  reflect  and  deliberate,  that, 
without  waiting  for  the  supper,  they  took  leave  of  Madame 
Fauvel  and  her  niece,  saying  they  were  going  home.  The 
merry-andrew  saw  them  enter  the  cloak-room  to  fetch  their 
cloaks ;  and  in  a  few  minutes  they  left  the  house.  "I  have 
nothing  more  to  do  here,"  he  murmured;  "I  may  as  well  go  too." 

Completely  covering  his  dress  with  an  ample  overcoat,  he 
started  for  home,  thinking  the  cold  frosty  air  would  cool  his 
confused  brain.  He  lit  a  cigar  and,  walking  up  the  Rue  St. 
Lazare,  crossed  the  Rue  Notre  Dame  de  Lorette,  and  struck 
into  the  Faubourg  Montmartre.  A  man  suddenly  darted  out 
from  some  place  of  concealment,  and  rushed  upon  him  with  a 
dagger.  Fortunately  the  merry-andrew  had  a  cat-like  instinct, 
which  enabled  him  to  protect  himself  against  immediate  danger, 
and  detect  any  harm  which  threatened.  He  saw,  or  rather 
divined,  the  man  crouching  in  the  dark  shadow  of  a  house, 
and  had  the  presence  of  mind  to  step  back  and  spread  out  his 
arms  before  him,  and  so  ward  off  the  would-be  assassin.  This 
movement  certainly  saved  his  life,  for  he  received  in  the  arm 
a  furious  stab,  which  would  have  instantly  killed  him  had  it 
penetrated  his  breast.  Anger,  more  than  pain,  made  him  ex- 
claim: "Ah,  you  villain!"  and  recoiling  a  few  feet,  he  put 
himself  on  the  defensive.  The  precaution,  however,  was  use- 
less; for  seeing  his  blow  miss  the  mark,  the  assassin  did  not 
return  to  the  attack,  but  made  rapidly  off. 

"That  was  certainly  De  Lagors,"  thought  the  merry-andrew, 
"and  Dc  Clameran  must  be  somewhere  near.  While  I  walked 
round  one  side  of  the  church,  they  must  have  gone  the  other 
and  lain  in  wait  for  me." 

His  wound  began  to  pain  him  very  much,  and  he  stood  under 
a  gas-lamp  to  examine  it.  It  did  not  appear  to  be  dangerous, 
although  the  arm  was  cut  through  to  the  bone.  He  tore  his  hand- 
kerchief into  four  bands,  and  tied  his  arm  up  with  them  with 
the  dexterity  of  a  surgeon.  "I  must  be  on  the  track  of  some  great 
crime,"  said  he,  "since  these  fellows  are  resolved  upon  murder. 
When  such  cunning  rogues  are  only  in  danger  of  the  police 
court,  they  do  not  gratuitously  risk  the  chance  of  being  tried 
for  murder."  He  thought  that  by  enduring  a  great  deal  of 
pain  he  might  still  use  his  arm,  so  he  started  in  pursuit  of  his 


10^  FILE    NUMBER    113 

enemy,  taking  care  to  keep  in  the  middle  of  the  road,  and  to 
avoid  all  dark  corners.  Although  he  saw  no  one,  he  was  con- 
vinced that  he  was  being  followed.  He  was  not  mistaken. 
When  he  reached  the  Boulevard  Montmartre,  he  crossed  the 
street,  and.  as  he  did  so.  distinguished  two  shadows  which  he 
recognized.     They  also  crossed  the  street  a  little  higher  up. 

""I  have  to  deal  with  desperate  men."  he  muttered.  "They 
do  not  even  take  the  pains  to  conceal  their  pursuit  of  me.  They 
seem  to  be  accustomed  to  this  kind  of  adventure,  and  the  car- 
riage trick  which  fooled  Fanferlot  would  never  succeed  with 
them.  Besides,  my  light  hat  is  a  perfect  beacon  to  lead  them 
on  in  the  night."  He  continued  his  way  up  the  boulevard,  and. 
without  turning  his  head,  felt  sure  that  his  enemies  were  not 
more  than  thirty  paces  behind  him.  "I  must  get  rid  of  them 
somehow."  he  said  to  himself.  "I  can  neither  return  home  nor 
to  the  Grand  Archangel  with  these  devils  at  my  heels.  They 
are  following  me  now  to  find  out  where  I  live,  and  who  I  am. 
If  they  discover  the  merry-andrew  is  M.  Yerduret.  and  that 
If.  Yerduret  is  Iff.  Lecoq.  my  plans  will  be  ruined.  They  will 
escape  abroad  with  the  money,  and  I  shall  be  left  to  console  my- 
self with  a  wounded  arm.  A  pleasant  ending  to  all  my  ex- 
ertions !"' 

The  idea  of  Raoul  and  De  Clameran  escaping  him  so  exasper- 
ated him  that  for  an  instant  he  thought  of  having  them  arrested 
at  once.  This  was  easy  enough,  for  he  only  had  to  rush  upon 
them,  shout  for  help,  and  they  would  all  three  be  arrested, 
conducted  to  the  police  station  and  brought  before  the  com- 
missary. The  police  often  resort  to  this  ingenious  and  simple 
means  to  arrest  a  criminal  whom  they  may  meet  by  chance,  and 
whom  they  can  not  seize  without  a  warrant.  The  merry- 
andrew  had  sufficient  proof  to  sustain  him  in  the  arrest  of  De 
Lagors.  He  could  produce  the  letter  and  the  mutilated  prayer- 
book,  he  could  reveal  the  existence  of  the  pawnbroker's 
tickets  in  the  house  at  Yesinet.  he  could  show  his  wounded  arm. 
He  could,  if  necessary,  force  Raoul  to  confess  how  and  why 
he  had  assumed  the  name  of  De  Lagors.  and  what  his  motive 
was  in  passing  himself  off  as  a  relative  of  M.  Fauvel.  On  the 
other  hand,  in  acting  thus  hastily,  he  would  be.  perhaps,  in- 
suring the  safety  of  the  principal  plotter,  De  Clameran.  What 
absolute  proofs  had  he  against  him  ?  Not  one.  He  had  strong 
suspicions,  but  no  real  grounds  for  making  any  charge.  On 
reflection,   the   detective   decided  that  he   would   act   alone,   as 


FILE    NUMBER    113  1C49 

he  had  thus  far  done,  and  that  alone  and  unaided  he  would 
discover  the  truth  of  his  suspicions. 

Having  arrived  at  this  decision,  the  first  step  to  be  taken 
was  to  put  his  pursuers  on  the  wrong  scent.  He  walked  rapidly 
along  the  Boulevard  Sevastopol,  and.  reaching  the  square  of 
the  Arts  et  Metiers,  he  abruptly  stopped,  and  asked  some  in- 
significant questions  of  two  policemen,  who  were  standing 
talking  together.  This  maneuvre  had  the  result  he  expected ; 
Raoul  and  De  Clameran  stood  perfectly  still  about  twenty- 
steps  off,  not  daring  to  advance.  While  talking  with  the  consta- 
bles, the  merry-andrew  pulled  the  bell  of  the  door  before  which 
they  were  standing,  and  the  sound  that  ensued  apprised  him 
that  the  door  was  open.     He  bowed,  and  entered  the  house. 

A  minute  later  the  constables  had  passed  on,  and  De  Lagors 
and  De  Clameran  in  their  turn  rang  the  bell.  When  the  door 
was  opened,  they  roused  up  the  concierge  and  asked  who  it 
was  that  had  just  gene  in  disguised  as  a  merry-andrew.  They 
were  told  that  he  had  seen  no  such  person,  and  that  none  of 
the  lodgers  had  gone  out  in  fancy  costume  that  night.  '"How- 
ever," added  the  man,  "I  am  not  perfectly  sure,  for  this  house 
has  another  door  which  opens  on  the  Rue  St.  Denis." 

"We  are  tricked,"  interrupted  De  Lagors,  "and  will  never 
know  who  this  merry-andrew  is." 

"Unless  we  learn  it  too  soon  for  our  own  advantage,"  said 
De  Clameran  musingly. 

While  the  pair  were  lamenting  their  failure  in  discovering 
the  merry-andrew's  identity,  Yerduret  hurried  along  and 
reached  the  Grand  Archangel  as  the  clock  struck  three.  Pros- 
per, who  was  watching  from  his  window,  saw  him  in  the 
distance,  and  ran  down  to  open  the  door  for  him.  "What  have 
you  learned?"  he  asked:  "What  did  you  find  out?  Did  you  see 
Madeleine?     Were  Raoul  and  De  Clameran  at  the  ball?" 

But  M.  Yerduret  was  not  in  the  habit  of  discussing  private 
affairs  where  he  might  be  overheard.  "First  of  all,  let  us  go 
into  your  room."  said  he,  "and  then  get  me  some  water  to  wash 
this  cut,  which   burns  like  fire." 

"Heavens  !     Are  you  wounded  ?" 

"Yes,  it  is  a  little  souvenir  of  your  friend  Raoul.  Ah.  I  will 
soon  teach  him  the  danger  of  scratching  my  skin  !"  Prosper 
was  surprised  at  the  look  of  merciless  rage  on  his  friend's  face, 
as  he  calmly  washed  and  dressed  his  arm.  "Now,  Pros;  *T,  we 
will  talk  as  much  as  you  please,"  resumed  M.  Yerduret.    "Our 


1050  FILE    NUMBER    113 

enemies  are  on  the  alert,  and  we  must  crush  them  instantly.  I 
have  made  a  mistake.  I  have  been  on  the  wrong  track ;  it  is 
an  accident  liable  to  happen  to  any  man,  no  matter  how  intel- 
ligent he  may  be.  I  took  the  effect  for  the  cause.  The  day  I 
was  convinced  that  culpable  relations  existed  between  Raoul 
and  Madame  Fauvel,  I  thought  I  held  the  end  of  the  thread 
that  would  lead  us  to  the  truth.  I  ought  to  have  been  more 
mistrustful;  this  solution  was  too  simple,  too  natural." 
"Do  you  suppose  Madame  Fauvel  to  be  innocent?" 
"Certainly  not;  but  her  guilt  is  not  such  as  I  first  supposed. 
I  imagined  that,  infatuated  with  a  seductive  young  adventurer, 
Madame  Fauvel  had  bestowed  upon  him  the  name  of  one  of 
her  relatives,  and  then  introduced  him  to  her  husband  as  her 
nephew.  This  was  an  adroit  stratagem  to  gain  him  admission 
to  the  house.  She  began  by  giving  him  all  the  money  she 
could  dispose  of;  then  she  let  him  have  her  jewels  to  pawn; 
and  at  length  having  nothing  more  to  give,  she  allowed  him  to 
steal  the  money  from  her  husband's  safe.  That  is  what  I 
first  thought." 
"And  in  this  way  everything  was  explained?" 
"No,  this  did  not  explain  everything,  as  I  well  knew  at  the 
time,  and  should,  consequently,  have  studied  my  characters 
more  thoroughly.  How  is  De  Clameran's  ascendency  to  be 
accounted  for,  if  my  first  idea  was  the  correct  one?" 
"De  Clameran  is  De  Lagors's  accomplice,  of  course." 
"Ah,  there  is  the  mistake !  I  for  a  long  time  believed  De 
Lagors  to  be  the  person  principally  concerned,  whereas,  in 
fact,  he  is  nothing.  Yesterday,  in  a  dispute  between  them,  the 
forge-master  said  to  him:  And,  above  all,  my  young  friend,  I 
would  advise  you  not  to  resist  me,  for  if  you  do  I  will  crush 
you  to  atoms.'  That  explains  all.  The  elegant  De  Lagors  is 
not  Madame  Fauvel's  lover,  but  De  Clameran's  tool.  Besides, 
did  our  first  suppositions  account  for  Madeleine's  resigned 
obedience?  It  is  De  Clameran,  and  not  De  Lagors,  whom  she 
obeys." 

Prosper  began  to  remonstrate.  M.  Verduret  shrugged  his 
shoulders.  To  convince  him  he  had  only  to  tell  him  that  three 
hours  ago  De  Clameran  had  announced  his  approaching  mar- 
riage with  Madeleine;  but  he  refrained  from  doing  so.  "De 
Clameran,"  he  continued,  "De  Clameran  alone  has  Madame 
Fauvel  in  his  power.  Now,  the  question  is,  what  is  the  secret 
of  this  terrible  influence  he  has  gained  over  her?     I  have  posi- 


FILE    NUMBER    113  1051 

tive  proof  that  they  have  not  met  since  their  early  youth  until 
fifteen  months  ago;  and,  as  Madame  Fauvel's  reputation  has 
always  been  above  the  reach  of  slander,  we  must  seek  in  the 
past  for  the  cause  of  her  resigned  obedience  to  his  will." 

"We  shall  never  discover  it,"  said  Prosper  mournfully. 

"We  shall  know  it  as  soon  as  we  have  learned  the  history  of 
De  Clameran's  past  life.  Ah,  to-night  he  turned  as  white  as 
a  sheet  when  I  mentioned  his  brother  Gaston's  name.  And 
then  I  remembered  that  Gaston  died  suddenly,  while  his  brother 
Louis  was  on  a  visit  to  him." 

"Do  you  think  he  was  murdered?" 

"I  think  the  men  who  tried  to  assassinate  me  would  do  any- 
thing. The  robbery,  my  friend,  has  now  become  a  secondary 
affair.  It  is  easily  explained,  and,  if  that  were  all  that  had 
to  be  accounted  for,  I  would  say  to  you:  'My  task  is  done,  let 
us  go  and  ask  the  investigating  magistrate  for  a  warrant  of 
^rrest.' " 

Prosper  started  up  with  sparkling  eyes,  and  exclaimed : 
"What,  you  know  then — is  it  possible?" 

"Yes,  I  know  who  gave  the  key,  and  I  know  who  told  the 
secret  word." 

"The  key  may  have  been  M.  Fauvel's.     But  the  word — " 

"The  word,  unlucky  man,  you  gave  yourself.  You  have  for- 
gotten, I  suppose.  But,  fortunately,  Nina  remembered.  You 
know  that  a  couple  of  days  before  the  robbery,  you  took  De 
Lagors  and  two  other  friends  to  sup  with  Madame  Gipsy? 
Nina  was  sad,  and  reproached  you  for  not  being  more  de- 
voted to  her." 

"Yes,  I  remember  that." 

"But  do  you  remember  what  you  replied  to  her?" 

"No,  I  do  not,"  said  Prosper,  after  thinking  a  moment. 

"Well,  I  will  tell  you;  you  said:  'Nina,  you  are  unjust  in 
reproaching  me  with  not  thinking  constantly  of  you,  for  at  this 
very  moment  it  is  your  dear  name  that  guards  my  employer's 
safe.'  " 

The  truth  suddenly  burst  upon  Prosper  like  a  thunderclap. 
He  wrung  his  hands  despairingly  and  exclaimed :  "Yes,  oh,  yes ! 
I  remember  now." 

"Then  you  can  easily  understand  the  rest.  One  of  the  scoun- 
drels went  to  Madame  Fauvel,  and  compelled  her  to  give  up 
her  husband's  key;  then,  at  a  venture,  he  placed  the  movable 
buttons  on  the  name  of  Gipsy,  opened  the  safe,  and  took  from 


1052  FILE    NUMBER    113 

it  the  three  hundred  and  fifty  thousand  francs.  And  Madame 
Fauvel  must  have  been  terribly  frightened  before  she  yielded. 
The  day  after  the  robbery  the  poor  woman  was  near  dying; 
and  it  was  she  who  at  the  greatest  risk  sent  you  the  ten  thou- 
sand francs." 

"But  who  was  the  thief,  Raoul  or  De  Clameran?  What  en- 
ables them  to  thus  tyrannize  over  Madame  Fauvel?  And  how 
does  Madeleine  come  to  be  mixed  up  in  this  disgraceful  affair?" 

"These  questions,  my  dear  Prosper,  I  can  not  yet  answer; 
therefore  I  postpone  going  to  see  the  magistrate.  I  must  ask 
you  to  wait  ten  days ;  and,  if  in  that  time  I  can  not  discover  the 
solution  of  this  mystery,  I  will  return  and  we  will  go  together 
to  M.  Patrigent." 

"Are  you  then  going  away?" 

"In  an  hour  I  shall  be  on  the  road  to  Beaucaire.  It  was  from 
that  neighborhood  that  De  Clameran  came,  as  well  as  Madame 
Fauvel,  who  was  a  Mademoiselle  de  la  Verberie  before  her 
marriage." 

"Yes,  I  have  heard  of  both  families." 

"I  must  go  there  to  study  them.  Neither  Raoul  nor  De  Cla- 
meran can  escape  during  my  absence.  The  police  will  not  lose 
sight  of  them.  But  you,  Prosper,  must  be  prudent.  Promise 
me  to  remain  a  prisoner  here  while  I  am  away." 

All  that  M.  Verduret  asked,  Prosper  willingly  promised. 
But  he  could  not  let  him  depart  thus.  "Will  you  not  tell  me, 
sir,"  he  asked,  "who  you  are,  and  your  reasons  for  coming  to 
my  assistance?" 

M.  Verduret  smiled  sadly,  and  replied:  "I  will  tell  you  in 
the  presence  of  Nina,  on  the  day  before  your  marriage  with 
Madeleine  takes  place." 

Once  left  to  his  own  reflection,  Prosper  began  to  appre- 
ciate the  powerful  assistance  rendered  him  by  his  friend.  Re- 
calling the  field  of  investigation  gone  over  by  his  mysterious 
acquaintance,  he  was  amazed  at  its  extent.  How  many  facts 
had  been  discovered  in  a  week,  and  with  what  precision,  too, 
although  he  had  stated  he  was  on  the  wrong  track !  Verduret 
had  grouped  his  evidence,  and  reached  a  result  which  Prosper 
felt  he  never  could  have  hoped  to  have  attained  by  his  own 
exertions.  He  was  conscious  that  he  possessed  neither  M.  Ver- 
duret's  penetration  nor  his  subtlety,  still  less  the  art  of  exact- 
ing obedience,  of  creating  friends  at  every  step,  and  of  making 
men  and  circumstances  conduce  to  the  attainment  of  a  common 


FILE    NUMBER    113  1053 

result.  He  soon  began  to  regret  the  absence  of  this  friend,  who 
had  risen  up  in  the  hour  of  adversity.  He  missed  the  some- 
times rough  but  always  kindly  voice,  which  had  encouraged 
and  consoled  him.  He  felt  wofully  lost  and  helpless,  not  daring 
to  act  or  think  for  himself,  more  timid  than  a  child  when 
deserted  by  its  nurse.  He  had  at  least  the  good  sense  to  follow 
the  recommendations  of  his  mentor.  He  remained  shut  up  at 
the  Grand  Archangel,  not  even  showing  himself  at  the  win- 
dows. Twice  he  had  news  of  M.  Verduret.  The  first  time  he 
received  a  letter  in  which  this  friend  said  he  had  seen  his 
father,  and  had  a  long  talk  with  him.  Afterward,  Dubois,  M. 
de  Clameran's  valet,  came  to  tell  him  that  his  "chief"  reported 
everything  as  progressing  finely.  On  the  ninth  day  of  his  vol- 
untary seclusion,  Prosper  began  to  feel  restless,  and  at  ten 
o'clock  at  night  wished  to  go  for  a  walk,  thinking  the  fresh 
air  would  relieve  the  headache  which  had  kept  him  awake  the 
previous  night.  Madame  Alexandre,  who  seemed  to  have  some 
knowledge  of  M.  Verduret's  affairs,  begged  Prosper  to  remain 
at  home. 

"What  do  I  risk  by  taking  a  walk  at  this  hour,  in  a  quiet  part 
of  the  city?"  he  asked.  "I  can  certainly  stroll  as  far  as  the 
Jardin  des  Plantes  without  the  chance  of  meeting  any  one." 

Unfortunately  he  did  not  strictly  follow  this  programme ;  for, 
having  reached  the  Orleans  railway  station,  he  went  into  a 
cafe  near  by,  and  called  for  a  glass  of  beer.  As  he  sat  drink- 
ing it,  he  glanced  at  a  daily  paper,  "Le  Soleil,"  and  under  the 
heading  of  "Rumors  of  the  Day,"  read  the  following  paragraph : 
"We  understand  that  the  niece  of  one  of  our  most  prominent 
bankers,  M.  Andre  Fauvel.  will  be  shortly  married  to  the  Mar- 
quis Louis  de  Clameran,  a  Provencal  nobleman."  This  news, 
coming  upon  him  so  unexpectedly,  proved  to  Prosper  the  just- 
ness of  M.  Verduret's  calculations.  Alas !  why  did  not  this 
certainty  inspire  him  with  absolute  faith  ?  Why  did  it  not 
give  him  the  courage  to  wait,  the  strength  of  mind  to  refrain 
from  acting  on  his  own  responsibility?  Frenzied  by  distress  of 
mind,  he  already  saw  Madeleine  indissolubly  united  to  this  vil- 
lain, and,  thinking  that  M.  Verduret  would  perhaps  arrive  too 
late  to  be  of  use,  determined  at  all  risks  to  throw  an  obstacle 
in  the  way  of  the  marriage.  He  called  for  pen  and  paper,  and. 
forgetting  that  no  situation  can  excuse  the  mean  cowardice  of 
an  anonymous  letter,  wrote  in  a  disguised  hand  the  following 
lines  to  M.  Fauvel : 


1054  FILE    NUMBER    113 

"Dear  Sir — You  consigned  your  cashier  to  prison ;  you  acted 
rightly,  since  you  were  convinced  of  his  dishonesty  and  faith- 
lessness. But,  even  if  he  stole  three  hundred  and  fifty  thou- 
sand francs  from  your  safe,  does  it  follow  that  he  also  stole 
Madame  Fauvel's  diamonds,  and  took  them  to  the  pawnbroker's, 
where  they  now  are?  Warned  as  you  are,  were  I  you,  I  would 
not  be  the  subject  of  public  scandal,  but  I  would  watch  my  wife, 
and  would  soon  discover  that  one  should  ever  be  distrustful  of 
handsome  cousins.  Moreover,  before  signing  Mademoiselle 
Madeleine's  marriage  contract,  I  would  call  at  the  Prefecture  of 
Police,  and  obtain  some  information  concerning  the  noble  Mar- 
quis de  Clameran. — A  Friend." 

Prosper  hastened  off  to  post  his  letter.  Fearing  that  it  would 
not  reach  M.  Fauvel  in  time,  he  walked  to  one  of  the  head 
offices  in  the  Rue  Cardinal  Lemoine,  and  put  it  into  the  letter- 
box. Until  this  moment  he  had  not  doubted  the  propriety  of 
his  action.  But  now,  when  too  late,  when  he  heard  the  sound 
of  his  letter  falling  into  the  box,  a  thousand  scruples  filled  his 
mind.  Was  it  not  wrong  to  act  thus  hurriedly?  Would  not 
this  letter  interfere  with  all  M.  Verduret's  plans  ?  Upon  reach- 
ing the  hotel,  his  doubts  were  changed  into  bitter  regrets. 
Joseph  Dubois  was  waiting  for  him;  he  had  received  a  tele- 
gram from  his  chief  saying  that  his  business  was  finished,  and 
that  he  would  return  the  next  evening  at  nine  o'clock.  Prosper 
was  wretched.  He  would  have  given  all  he  had  to  recover 
the  anonymous  letter.  And  he  had  cause  for  regret.  For  at 
that  very  hour  M.  Verduret  was  taking  his  seat  in  the  train 
at  Tarascon,  and  meditating  upon  the  most  advantageous  plan 
to  be  adopted  in  pursuance  of  his  discoveries.  For  he  had  dis- 
covered everything. 

Adding  to  what  he  already  knew  the  story  of  an  old  servant 
of  Mademoiselle  de  la  Yerberie,  the  affidavit  of  an  old  footman 
who  had  always  lived  in  the  De  Clameran  family,  and  the  depo- 
sitions of  the  married  couple  in  the  service  of  De  Lagors  at 
his  Vesinet  country-house,  the  latter  having  been  sent  to  him 
by  Dubois  (Fanferlot),  with  a  good  deal  of  information  obtained 
from  the  Prefecture  of  Police,  he  had  worked  up  a  complete 
case,  and  could  now  act  upon  a  chain  of  evidence  without  a 
missing  link.  As  he  had  predicted,  he  had  been  compelled  to 
search  into  the  distant  past  for  the  first  causes  of  the  crime 
of  which  Prosper  had  been  the  victim.     The  following  is  the 


FILE    NUMBER    113  1055 

drama,  as  written  out  by  him  for  the  benefit  of  the  examining 
magistrate  with  the  certainty  that  it  contained  sufficient  grounds 
for  preferring  an  indictment. 


ABOUT  six  miles  from  Tarascon,  on  the  left  bank  of  the 
Rhone,  not  far  from  Messrs.  Audibert's  wonderful  gardens, 
stood  the  chateau  of  Clameran,  a  weather-stained,  neglected, 
but  massive  structure.  Here  lived,  in  1841,  the  old  Marquis  de 
Clameran  and  his  two  sons,  Gaston  and  Louis.  The  marquis 
was  an  eccentric  old  man.  He  belonged  to  the  race  of  nobles, 
now  almost  extinct,  whose  watches  stopped  in  1789,  and  who 
keep  the  time  of  a  past  century.  More  attached  to  his  illu- 
sions than  to  his  life,  the  old  marquis  insisted  upon  consider- 
ing all  the  stirring  events  which  had  happened  since  the  first 
revolution  as  a  series  of  deplorable  practical  jokes.  Emigrating 
in  the  suite  of  the  Comte  d'Artois,  he  did  not  return  to  France 
until  181 5,  with  the  allies.  He  should  have  been  thankful  to 
heaven  for  the  recovery  of  a  portion  of  his  immense  family 
estates;  a  comparatively  small  portion,  it  is  true,  but  still  suf- 
ficient to  support  him  honorably.  He  said,  however,  that  he 
did  not  think  the  few  paltry  acres  worth  thanking  heaven  for. 
At  first  he  tried  every  means  to  obtain  an  appointment  at  court  ■ 
but,  finding  all  his  efforts  fail,  he  resolved  to  retire  to  his  cha- 
teau, which  he  did,  after  cursing  and  pitying  his  king,  whom  he 
worshiped,  and  whom,  at  the  bottom  of  his  heart,  he  regarded 
as  a  thorough  Jacobin. 

The  Marquis  de  Clameran  soon  became  accustomed  to  the 
free  and  indolent  life  of  a  country  nobleman.  Possessing  about 
fifteen  thousand  francs  a  year,  he  spent  twenty-five  or  thirty 
thousand,  borrowing  even  on  his  estates,  on  the  pretense  that 
a  genuine  Restoration  would  soon  take  place,  and  that  he  would 
then  regain  possession  of  all  his  properties.  Following  his  ex- 
ample, his  younger  son,  Louis,  lived  extravagantly,  and  was 
always  in  pursuit  of  adventure,  or  idling  away  his  time  in 
drinking  and  gambling.    The  elder  son,  Gaston,  anxious  to  par- 


1056  FILE    NUMBER    113 

ticipate  in  the  stirring  events  of  the  time,  studied  hard,  and 
read  certain  papers  and  pamphlets  surreptitiously  received,  the 
mere  titles  of  which  were  regarded  by  his  father  as  blasphe- 
mous. Altogether  the  old  marquis  was  the  happiest  of  mortals, 
eating  and  drinking  well,  hunting  a  good  deal,  tolerated  by  the 
peasants,  and  execrated  by  the  neighboring  townspeople,  whom 
he  treated  with  contempt  and  raillery.  Time  never  hung  heavy 
on  his  hands,  excepting  in  the  summer,  when  the  valley  of  the 
Rhone  was  intensely  hot ;  but  even  then  he  had  infallible  means 
of  amusement  ever  fresh,  though  always  the  same.  It  was  to 
speak  ill  of  his  daughter,  the  Comtesse  de  la  Verberie.  9 

The  Comtesse  de  la  Verberie,  the  marquis's  special  aver- 
sion, was  a  tall,  wiry  woman,  angular  in  character,  as  well  as 
in  appearance,  cold  and  arrogant  toward  her  equals,  and  domi- 
neering over  her  inferiors.  Like  her  noble  neighbor,  she  had 
emigrated  with  her  husband,  who  was  afterward  killed  at 
Lutzen,  but,  unfortunately  for  his  memory,  not  in  the  French 
ranks.  In  1815  the  comtesse  also  came  back  to  France.  But 
while  the  Marquis  de  Clameran  returned  to  comparative  ease, 
she  could  obtain  nothing  from  royal  munificence  but  the  small 
estate  and  chateau  of  La  Verberie,  and  a  pension  of  two  thou- 
sand five  hundred  francs.  The  comtesse  had  but  one  child,  a 
lovely  girl  of  eighteen,  named  Valentine,  fair,  slender,  and 
graceful,  with  large,  soft  eyes,  beautiful  enough  to  make  the 
stone  saints  of  the  village  church  thrill  in  their  niches  when 
she  knelt  piously  at  their  feet.  The  renown  of  her  great  beauty, 
carried  along  on  the  rapid  waters  of  the  Rhone,  had  spread 
far  and  wide.  Often  the  boatmen  and  the  robust  drivers  urging 
their  powerful  horses  along  the  towpath  would  stop  to  gaze 
with  admiration  upon  Valentine,  seated  under  some  grand  old 
trees  on  the  bank  of  the  river,  absorbed  in  a  book.  At  a  dis- 
tance, in  her  white  dress  and  flowing  tresses,  she  seemed  to 
these  honest  people  a  mysterious  spirit  from  another  world, 
and  they  regarded  it  as  a  good  omen  when  they  caught  a 
glimpse  of  her.  All  along  between  Aries  and  Valence  she  was 
spoken  of  as  the  "lovely  fairy"  of  La  Verberie. 

If  M.  de  Clameran  detested  the  comtesse,  Madame  de  la 
Verberie  execrated  the  marquis.  If  he  nicknamed  her  "the 
witch,"  she  retaliated  by  calling  him  "the  old  gander."  And 
yet  they  ought  to  have  agreed,  for  at  heart  they  cherished  the 
same  opinions,  though  viewing  them  in  different  ways.  The 
marquis   considered   himself   a   philosopher,    scoffed    at   every- 


FILE    NUMBER    113  1057 

thing,  and  had  an  excellent  digestion.  The  comtesse  nursed 
her  old  grievances,  and  grew  sallow  and  thin  from  rage  and 
envy.  Still,  they  might  have  spent  many  pleasant  evenings 
together,  for,  after  all,  they  were  neighbors.  From  Clameran 
could  be  seen  Valentine's  greyhound  running  about  the  park 
of  La  Verberie;  from  La  Verberie  glimpses  were  had  of  the 
lights  in  the  dining-room  windows  of  Clameran.  And,  regu- 
larly as  these  lights  were  discerned  every  evening,  the  com- 
tesse would  say  in  a  spiteful  tone :  "Ah,  now  their  orgies  are 
about  to  commence !"  The  two  chateaux  were  only  separated 
by  the  fast-flowing  Rhone,  which  at  this  spot  was  rather  nar- 
row. But  between  the  two  families  existed  a  hatred  deeper 
and  more  difficult  to  avert  than  even  the  river's  course.  What 
was  the  cause  of  this  hatred?  The  comtesse,  no  less  than  the 
marquis,  would  have  found  it  difficult  to  tell.  It  was  related 
that  under  the  reign  of  Henri  IV,  or  Louis  XIII,  a  La  Verberie 
had  seduced  a  fair  daughter  of  the  De  Clamerans.  The  mis- 
deed in  question  led  to  a  duel ;  swords  flashed  in  the  sunlight, 
and  blood  stained  the  fresh  green  grass.  This  groundwork  of 
facts  had  been  highly  embellished  by  fiction ;  handed  down  from 
generation  to  generation,  it  became  a  long  tragic  history  of 
perfidy,  murder,  and  rapine,  precluding  any  intercourse  between 
the  two  families. 

The  usual  result  followed,  as  it  always  does  in  real  life,  and 
often  in  romances,  which,  however  exaggerated  they  may  be, 
generally  preserve  a  reflection  of  the  truth  which  inspires  them. 
Gaston  met  Valentine  at  an  entertainment,  and  fell  in  love  with 
her  at  first  sight.  Valentine  saw  Gaston,  and  from  that  moment 
his  image  filled  her  heart.  But  so  many  obstacles  separated 
them !  For  more  than  a  year  they  both  religiously  guarded 
their  secret,  buried  like  a  treasure  in  the  inmost  recesses  of 
their  hearts.  This  year  of  charming,  dangerous  reveries  de- 
cided their  fate.  To  the  sweetness  of  their  first  impressions 
a  more  tender  sentiment  succeeded ;  then  came  love,  each  of 
them  endowing  the  other  with  superhuman  qualities  and  ideal 
perfections.  Deep,  sincere  passion  expands  only  in  solitude ; 
in  the  impure  air  of  a  city  it  fades  and  dies,  like  the  hardy 
plants  of  the  south,  which  lose  their  color  and  perfume  when 
transplanted  into  our  hot-houses.  Gaston  and  Valentine  had 
only  seen  each  other  once,  but  seeing  was  to  love;  and, 
as  the  time  passed,  their  love  grew  stronger,  until  at  last  the 
fatality  which  had  presided  over  their  first  meeting  brought 
Gab. — Vol.  iv  <? 


1058  FILE    NUMBER    113 

them  once  more  together.  They  chanced  to  be  visiting  at  the 
same  time  the  old  Duchesse  d'Arlange,  who  had  recently  re- 
turned to  the  neighborhood  to  dispose  of  her  remaining  prop- 
erty. They  spoke  to  each  other,  and,  like  old  friends,  surprised 
to  find  that  they  entertained  the  same  thoughts  and  echoed  the 
same  memories.  Again  they  were  separated  for  months.  But 
ere  long,  as  if  by  accident,  both  chanced  to  be  regularly  on 
the  banks  of  the  Rhone  at  a  certain  hour,  when  they  would  sit 
and  gaze  across  the  river  at  each  other.  Finally,  one  mild 
May  evening,  when  Madame  de  la  Verberie  had  gone  to  Beau- 
caire,  Gaston  ventured  into  the  park,  and  presented  himself 
before  Valentine.  She  was  neither  surprised  nor  indignant. 
Genuine  innocence  displays  none  of  the  startled  modesty  as- 
sumed by  its  conventional  counterfeit.  It  never  occurred  to 
Valentine  to  bid  Gaston  to  leave  her.  She  leaned  upon  his 
arm,  and  strolled  up  and  down  the  grand  old  avenue  of  oaks 
with  him.  They  did  not  say  they  loved  each  other,  they  felt 
it;  but  they  did  say  with  tears  in  their  eyes  that  their  love 
was  hopeless.  They  well  knew  that  the  inveterate  family  feud 
could  never  be  overcome,  and  that  the  attempt  would  be  mere 
folly.  They  swore  never,  never  to  forget  each  other,  and 
mournfully  resolved  never  to  meet  again,  excepting  just  once 
more  ! 

Alas !  Valentine  was  not  without  excuse.  Possessed  of  a 
timid,  loving  heart,  her  expansive  affection  had  always  been 
repressed  and  chilled  by  a  harsh  mother.  Never  had  there 
been  one  of  those  long  private  ;:alks  between  the  Comtesse  de 
la  Verberie  and  Valentine  which  enables  a  good  mother  to 
read  her  daughter's  heart  like  an  open  book.  Madame  de  la 
Verberie  concerned  herself  only  with  her  daughter's  beauty. 
She  was  wont  to  think:  "Next  winter  I  will  borrow  enough 
to  take  the  child  to  Paris,  and  I  am  much  mistaken  if  her 
handsome  looks  do  not  win  her  a  rich  husband  and  release  me 
from  this  wretched  state  of  poverty."  She  considered  this 
loving  her  daughter !  The  second  meeting  of  the  lovers  was 
not  the  last.  Gaston  dared  not  trust  a  boatman,  so  that  he 
bad  to  walk  a  league  in  order  to  cross  the  bridge.  He  thought 
it  would  be  shorter  work  to  swim  the  river;  but  he  could  not 
swim  well,  and  to  cross  the  Rhone  where  it  ran  so  rapidly 
was  a  rash  proceeding  even  for  the  most  skilful  swimmer. 

However,  he  practised  privately,  and  to  such  good  purpose 
that  one  evening  Valentine   was   startled   by   seeing  him   rise 


FILE    NUMBER    113  1059 

out  of  the  water  at  her  feet.  She  made  him  promise  never 
to  attempt  this  exploit  again.  Still  he  repeated  the  feat  and 
the  promise  the  next  and  every  successive  evening.  As  Val- 
entine was  always  imagining  he  was  being  drowned  in  the  furi- 
ous current,  they  agreed  upon  a  signal  to  relieve  her  anxiety. 
At  the  moment  of  starting,  Gaston  would  place  a  light  in  his 
window  at  Clameran,  and  in  a  quarter  of  an  hour  he  would  be 
at  his  idol's  feet. 

What  were  the  projects  and  hopes  of  the  lovers?  Alas! 
they  had  no  projects,  and  they  hoped  for  nothing.  Blindly, 
thoughtlessly,  almost  fearlessly,  they  abandoned  themselves  to 
the  dangerous  happiness  of  a  daily  meeting.  Regardless  of  the 
storm  that  threatened  to  burst  over  their  heads,  they  reveled 
in  their  present  happiness.  Is  it  not  like  this  with  every  sincere 
passion?  Love  subsists  upon  itself  and  in  itself;  and  the  very 
things  which  ought  to  extinguish  it,  absence  and  obstacles, 
only  cause  it  to  burn  more  fiercely.  It  is  exclusive  and  troubled 
neither  with  the  past  nor  the  future ;  it  sees  and  cares  for  noth- 
ing beyond  its  present  enjoyment.  Moreover,  Valentine  and 
Gaston  believed  every  one  ignorant  of  their  secret.  They  had 
always  been  so  exceedingly  cautious !  they  had  kept  such  a  strict 
watch  !  They  flattered  themselves  that  their  conduct  had  been 
a  masterpiece  of  dissimulation  and  prudence.  Valentine  had 
fixed  upon  a  time  for  their  meetings  when  she  was  certain  her 
mother  would  not  miss  her.  Gaston  had  never  confided  his 
secret  to  any  one,  not  even  to  his  brother  Louis.  They  never 
mentioned  each  other's  name.  They  denied  themselves  a  last 
sweet  word,  a  final  kiss,  when  they  felt  these  would  be  attended 
with  danger.  Poor  blind  lovers !  As  if  anything  could  be  con- 
cealed from  the  idle  curiosity  of  country  gossips ;  from  the 
slanderous  spirits  ever  on  the  lookout  for  some  new  bit  of  scan- 
dal, on  which  they  improve  and  eagerly  spread  far  and  near. 
They  believed  their  secret  well  kept,  whereas  it  had  long  since 
been  a  matter  of  public  notoriety;  the  story  of  their  love,  the 
particulars  of  their  meetings,  were  topics  of  conversation 
throughout  the  neighborhood.  Sometimes  at  dusk  they  would 
see  a  boat  gliding  through  the  water,  close  to  the  shore,  and 
would  say  to  each  other :  "It  is  a  belated  fisherman  returning 
home."  They  were  mistaken.  On  board  the  boat  were  spies, 
who,  delighted  at  having  discovered  them,  hastened  to  report, 
with  a  number  of  false  details,  the  result  of  their  shameful 
expedition. 


1060  FILE    NUMBER    113 

One  dreary  November  evening,  Gaston  was  awakened  to  the 
true  state  of  affairs.  The  Rhone  was  so  swollen  by  heavy  rains 
that  an  inundation  was  daily  expected.  To  attempt  to  swim 
across  this  impetuous  torrent  would  be  tempting  Providence. 
Gaston  therefore  went  to  Tarascon,  intending  to  cross  the 
bridge  there,  and  to  walk  along  the  bank  to  the  usual  place 
of  meeting  at  La  Verberie,  where  Valentine  expected  him  at 
eleven  o'clock.  Whenever  Gaston  went  to  Tarascon,  he  dined 
with  a  relative  living  there;  but  on  this  occasion  a  strange 
fatality  led  him  to  accompany  a  friend  to  the  Hotel  of  the 
Three  Emperors.  After  dinner,  instead  of  going  to  the  Cafe 
Simon,  their  usual  resort,  they  went  to  the  little  cafe  facing 
the  open  space  where  the  fairs  are  held.  They  found  the  small 
apartment  crowded  with  young  men  of  the  town.  Gaston  and 
his  friend  called  for  a  bottle  of  beer,  and  commenced  a  game 
at  billiards.  After  they  had  been  playing  for  a  short  time, 
Gaston's  attention  was  attracted  by  peals  of  forced  laughter 
from  a  party  at  the  other  end  of  the  room.  From  this  moment, 
with  his  attention  taken  up  by  this  continued  laughter,  of  which 
he  believed  himself  the  object,  he  knocked  the  balls  about  reck- 
lessly. His  conduct  surprised  his  friend,  who  remarked  to  him: 
"Why,  what  is  the  matter?  You  are  missing  the  simplest 
strokes." 

"It  is  nothing." 

The  game  continued  a  little  while  longer,  when  Gaston  sud- 
denly turned  as  white  as  a  sheet,  and,  throwing  down  his  cue, 
strode  toward  the  table  which  was  occupied  by  five  young  men, 
playing  dominoes  and  drinking  mulled  wine.  He  addressed  the 
elder  of  the  group,  a  handsome  man  of  twenty-six,  with  large 
bright  eyes,  and  a  fierce  black  mustache,  named  Jules  Lazet. 
"Repeat,  if  you  dare,"  he  said,  in  a  voice  trembling  with  pas- 
sion, "the  remark  you  just  now  made !" 

"Who  would  prevent  me?"  asked  Lazet  calmly.  "I  said,  and 
I  repeat,  that  a  nobleman's  daughter  is  no  better  than  a  work- 
man's daughter;  that  virtue  does  not  necessarily  accompany  a 
title." 

"You  mentioned  a  particular  name !" 

Lazet  rose  from  his  chair  as  if  he  knew  his  answer  would 
exasperate  Gaston,  and  that  from  words  they  would  come  to 
blows.  "I  did,"  he  said,  with  an  insolent  smile.  "I  mentioned 
the  name  of  the  pretty  little  fairy  of  La  Verberie." 

At  this  all  the  young  men,  and  even  a  couple  of  commercial 


FILE    NUMBER    113  1061 

travelers  who  were  dining  at  the  cafe,  rose  and  surrounded  the 
two  disputants.  The  provoking  looks,  the  murmurs,  the  shouts, 
which  were  directed  toward  Gaston  as  he  walked  up  to  Lazet, 
convinced  him  that  he  was  surrounded  by  enemies.  The  wick- 
edness and  the  evil  tongue  of  the  old  marquis  were  bearing  their 
fruit.  Rancor  ferments  quickly  and  fiercely  in  the  hearts  and 
heads  of  the  people  of  Provence.  But  Gaston  de  Clameran  was 
not  a  man  to  withdraw,  even  if  his  foes  were  a  hundred,  instead 
of  fifteen  or  twenty. 

"No  one  but  a  coward,"  he  said,  in  a  clear,  ringing  voice, 
which  the  pervading  silence  rendered  almost  startling;  "no  one 
but  a  contemptible  coward  would  be  base  enough  to  calumniate 
a  young  girl  who  has  neither  father  nor  brother  to  defend  her 
honor." 

"If  she  has  no  father  or  brother,"  sneered  Lazet,  "she  has 
her  lovers,  and  that  suffices." 

The  insulting  words,  "her  lovers,"  enraged  Gaston  beyond 
control ;  he  struck  Lazet  violently  in  the  face.  Every  one  in  the 
cafe  simultaneously  uttered  a  cry  of  alarm.  Lazet's  violence  of 
character,  his  herculean  strength  and  undaunted  courage,  were 
well  known.  He  sprang  over  the  table  that  separated  him  from 
Gaston,  and  seized  him  by  the  throat.  Then  arose  a  scene  of 
excitement  and  confusion.  De  Clameran's  friend,  attempting 
to  assist  him,  was  knocked  down  with  billiard-cues,  and  kicked 
under  a  table.  Equally  strong  and  agile,  Gaston  and  Lazet 
struggled  for  some  minutes  without  either  gaining  an  advan- 
tage. Lazet,  as  loyal  as  he  was  courageous,  would  not  accept 
assistance  from  his  friends.  He  continually  called  out :  "Keep 
away ;  let  me  fight  it  out  alone  !" 

But  the  others  were  too  excited  to  remain  inactive  spectators 
of  the  scene.  "A  blanket,  quick !"  cried  one  of  them ;  "a  blanket 
to  toss  the  marquis !" 

Five  or  six  young  men  now  rushed  upon  Gaston,  and  sep- 
arated him  from  Lazet.  Some  tried  to  throw  him  down,  others 
to  trip  him  up.  He  defended  himself  with  the  energy  of  de- 
spair, exhibiting  in  his  furious  struggles  a  strength  of  which 
no  one  would  have  thought  him  capable.  He  struck  right  and 
left  as  he  showered  fierce  epithets  upon  his  adversaries,  who 
were  twelve  against  one.  He  was  endeavoring  to  get  round 
the  billiard-table  so  as  to  be  near  the  door,  and  had  almost 
succeeded,  when  an  exultant  cry  arose:  "Here  is  the  blanket!" 

"Put  him  in  the  blanket — the  little  fairv's  lover!" 


1065 


FILE    NUMBER    113 


Gaston  heard  these  cries.  He  saw  himself  overcome,  and 
suffering  an  ignoble  outrage  at  the  hands  of  these  enraged  men. 
By  a  dexterous  movement  he  extricated  himself  from  the  grasp 
of  the  three  who  were  holding  him,  and  felled  a  fourth  to  the 
ground.  His  arms  were  free ;  but  all  his  enemies  returned  to 
the  charge.  Then  he  seemed  to  lose  his  head,  and  seizing  a 
knife  which  lay  on  the  table  where  the  commercial  travelers 
had  been  dining,  he  plunged  it  twice  into  the  breast  of  the 
t  first  man  who  rushed  upon  him.  This  unfortunate  man  was 
Jules  Lazet.  He  dropped  to  the  ground.  There  was  a  second 
of  silent  horror.  Then  four  or  five  of  the  young  men  rushed 
forward  to  raise  Lazet.  The  landlady  ran  about  wringing  her 
hands,  and  screaming  with  fright.  Some  of  the  younger  assail- 
ants rushed  into  the  streets  shouting :  "Murder  !  Murder !"  But 
all  the  others  turned  upon  Gaston  with  cries  of  vengeance. 
He  felt  that  he  was  lost.  His  enemies  seized  the  first  objects 
they  could  lay  their  hands  upon  and  he  received  several  wounds. 
He  jumped  upon  the  billiard-table,  and  making  a  rapid  spring, 
dashed  at  the  large  window  of  the  cafe.  He  was  fearfully  cut 
by  the  broken  glass  and  splinters,  but  he  passed  through. 

Gaston  was  outside,  but  he  was  not  yet  saved.  Astonished 
and  disconcerted  at  his  desperate  feat,  his  assailants  for  a  mo- 
ment were  stupefied ;  but  recovering  their  presence  of  mind, 
they  started  in  pursuit  of  him.  Gaston  ran  on  from  tree  to 
tree,  making  frequent  turnings.  Finally  he  determined,  if  pos- 
sible, to  reach  Clameran.  With  incredible  rapidity  he  darted 
diagonally  across  the  open  space,  in  the  direction  of  the  em- 
bankment which  protects  the  valley  of  Tarascon  from  inunda- 
tions. Unfortunately,  upon  reaching  this  embankment,  Gaston 
forgot  that  the  entrance  was  partially  closed  by  three  posts, 
such  as  are  always  placed  before  walks  intended  for  foot- 
passengers  only,  and  rushed  against  one  of  them  with  such  vio- 
lence that  he  was  thrown  back  and  badly  bruised.  He  quickly 
sprang  up ;  but  his  pursuers  were  upon  him.  This  time  he  could 
expect  no  mercy.  The  infuriated  men  at  his  heels  yelled :  "To 
the  Rhone  with  him !     To  the  Rhone  with  the  marquis !" 

His  forehead  was  cut,  and  the  blood  trickled  from  the  wound 
into  his  eyes,  and  blinded  him.  He  must  escape,  or  die  in  the 
attempt.  He  had  tightly  clasped  the  bloody  knife  with  whicb 
he  had  stabbed  Lazet.  He  struck  his  nearest  foe;  the  man  fell 
to  the  ground  with  a  heavy  groan.  This  blow  gained  him  a 
moment's   respite,   which   gave  him  time  to  pass  between  the 


FILE    NUMBER    113  1068 

posts,  and  rush  along  the  embankment.  Two  men  remained 
kneeling  over  their  wounded  companion,  and  five  others  resumed 
the  pursuit.  But  Gaston  ran  fast,  for  the  horror  of  his  situa- 
tion tripled  his  energy.  With  elbows  kept  tight  to  his  sides, 
and  holding  his  breath,  he  went  along  at  such  a  speed  that  he 
soon  distanced  his  pursuers.  Gaston  ran  on  for  another  mile, 
and  only  when  he  knew  he  was  safe  from  capture  sank  down 
at  the  foot  of  a  tree  to  rest.  Only  forty  minutes  had  elapsed 
since  Gaston  and  his  friend  entered  the  cafe.  These  forty 
minutes  had  given  him  more  cause  for  sorrow  and  remorse 
than  the  whole  of  his  previous  life  put  together.  He  had  killed 
a  man,  and  still  convulsively  held  the  murderous  instrument ;  he 
cast  it  from  him  with  horror.  He  tried  to  account  for  the  dread- 
ful circumstances  which  had  just  taken  place.  If  he  alone  had 
been  lost !  But  Valentine  was  dragged  down  with  him ;  her 
reputation  was  gone.  And  it  was  his  want  of  self-command 
which  had  cast  to  the  winds  this  honor,  confided  to  his  keeping, 
and  which  he  held  far  dearer  than  his  own. 

But  he  could  not  remain  here  bewailing  his  misfortune.  The 
authorities  must  soon  be  on  his  track.  They  would  certainly 
go  to  the  chateau  of  Clameran  to  seek  him.  He  started  to 
walk,  but  with  great  pain,  for  the  reaction  had  come,  and  his 
nerves  and  muscles,  so  violently  strained,  had  now  begun  to 
relax.  His  hip  and  shoulder  pained  him  almost  beyond  endur- 
ance. The  cut  on  his  forehead  had  almost  stopped  bleeding, 
but  the  coagulated  blood  round  his  eyes  nearly  blinded  him. 
After  a  painful  walk  he  reached  home  at  ten  o'clock.  The  old 
valet  who  admitted  him  started  back  terrified.  "Good  heavens, 
sir!  what  is  the  matter?" — "Silence!"  said  Gaston  in  the  brief, 
compressed  tone  always  inspired  by  imminent  danger,  "silence ! 
Where  is  my  father?" — "The  marquis  is  in  his  room  with  M. 
Louis.  He  has  had  a  sudden  attack  of  the  gout,  and  can  not 
put  his  foot  to  the  ground :  but  you.  sir — "  Gaston  did  not  stop 
to  listen  further.  He  hurried  to  his  father's  room.  The  old 
marquis,  who  was  playing  backgammon  with  Louis,  dropped  his 
dice-box  with  a  cry  of  horror,  when  he  looked  up  and  saw  his 
eldest  son  standing  before  him  covered  with  blood.  "What  is 
the  matter?  what  have  you  been  doing,  Gaston?"  he  exclaimed. 

"I  have  come  to  embrace  you  for  the  last  time,  father,  and  to 
ask  for  assistance  to  escape  abroad." — "You  wish  to  fly?" — "I 
must,  father,  and  instantly ;  I  am  pursued,  the  gendarmes  may 
be  here  at  anv  moment.     I  have  killed  two  men." 


1064  FILE    NUMBER    113 

The  marquis  was  so  shocked  that  he  forgot  the  gout,  and 
attempted  to  rise ;  a  violent  twinge  made  him  drop  back  into  his 
chair.  "Where?  When?"  he  gasped. — "At  Tarascon,  in  a 
cafe,  an  hour  ago ;  fifteen  men  attacked  me,  and  I  seized  a  knife 
to  defend  myself." — "The  old  tricks  of  '93,"  said  the  marquis. 
"Did  they  insult  you,  Gaston?" — "They  insulted  in  my  pres- 
ence the  name  of  a  noble  young  girl." — "And  you  punished 
the  rascals  ?  By  heaven !  you  did  well.  But  who  was  the  lady 
you  defended?" 

"Mademoiselle  Valentine  de  la  Verberie." 

"What!"  cried  the  marquis,  "what!  the  daughter  of  that 
old  witch !  Those  accursed  La  Verberies  have  always  brought 
misfortune  upon  us."  He  certainly  abominated  the  comtesse; 
but  his  respect  for  her  noble  blood  was  greater  than  his  re- 
sentment toward  her  individuality,  and  he  added :  "Nevertheless, 
Gaston,  you  did  your  duty." 

Meanwhile,  the  curiosity  of  Jean,  the  marquis's  old  valet, 
made  him  venture  to  open  the  door,  and  ask:  "Did  Monsieur 
the  Marquis  ring?" — "No,  you  rascal,"  answered  M.  de  Cla- 
meran,  "you  know  very  well  I  did  not.  But  now  you  are  here, 
be  useful.  Quickly  bring  some  clothes  for  M.  Gaston,  some 
clean  linen,  and  some  warm  water:  everything  necessary  to 
dress  his  wounds." 

These  orders  were  promptly  executed,  and  Gaston  found  he 
was  not  so  badly  hurt  as  he  had  thought.  With  the  exception 
of  a  deep  stab  in  his  left  shoulder,  his  wounds  were  not  seri- 
ous. The  marquis  made  a  sign  to  the  servants  to  leave  the 
room.  "Do  you  still  think  you  ought  to  leave  France?"  he 
asked  Gaston. — "Yes,  father." — "My  brother  ought  not  to  hesi- 
tate," interposed  Louis;  "he  will  be  arrested  here,  thrown  into 
prison,  vilified  in  court,  and — who  knows?" — "We  all  know 
well  enough  that  he  will  be  convicted,"  grumbled  the  old  mar- 
quis. "These  are  the  benefits  of  the  immortal  Revolution,  as  it 
is  called." 

"There  is  no  time  to  lose,"  observed  Louis. — "True,"  said 
the  marquis,  "but  to  fly,  to  go  abroad,  one  must  have  money ; 
and  I  have  none  by  me  to  give  to  him." — "Father !" — "No,  I 
have  none.  Ah,  what  a  prodigal  old  fool  I  have  been !  Have 
I  even  a  hundred  louis?"  Then  he  told  Louis  to  open  the 
secretary.  The  drawer  in  which  the  money  was  kept  contained 
only  nine  hundred  and  twenty  francs  in  gold.  "Nine  hundred 
and  twenty  francs,"  cried  the  marquis;  "it  is  not  enough.    The 


FILE   NUMBER    113  1G65 

eldest  son  of  our  house  can  not  fly  the  country  with  this 
paltry  sum." 

He  sat  lost  in  reflection.  Suddenly  his  brow  cleared,  and 
he  told  Louis  to  open  a  secret  drawer  in  the  secretary,  and 
bring  him  a  small  casket.  Then  the  marquis  took  from  his 
neck  a  black  ribbon,  to  which  was  attached  the  key  of  the 
casket.  His  sons  observed  with  what  deep  emotion  he  unlocked 
it,  and  slowly  took  out  a  necklace,  a  cross,  several  rings,  and 
various  other  jewels.  His  countenance  assumed  a  solerrn  ex- 
pression. "Gaston,  my  dear  son,"  he  said,  "at  a  time  like  this 
your  life  may  depend  upon  bought  assistance;  money  is  power." 
— "I  am  young,  father,  and  have  courage." — "Listen  to  me. 
These  jewels  belonged  to  your  sainted  mother,  a  noble  woman, 
who  is  now  in  heaven  watching  over  us.  They  have  never  left 
me.  During  my  days  of  misery  and  want,  when  I  was  com- 
pelled to  earn  a  livelihood  by  teaching  music  in  London,  I 
piously  treasured  them.  I  never  thought  of  selling  them ;  and 
to  pawn  them,  in  the  hour  of  direst  need,  would  have  seemed 
to  me  a  sacrilege.  But  now,  take  them,  my  son,  and  sell  them ; 
they  will  fetch  twenty  thousand  francs." — "No,  my  father,  no, 
I  can  not  take  them !" — "You  must,  Gaston.  If  your  mother 
were  on  earth,  she  would  tell  you  to  take  them,  as  I  do  now. 
I  command  you  to  take  and  use  them.  The  safety,  the  honor, 
of  the  heir  of  the  house  of  De  Clameran  must  not  be  imperiled 
for  want  of  a  little  gold." 

With  tearful  eyes,  Gaston  sank  on  his  knees,  and,  carrying 
his  father's  hand  to  his  lips,  murmured :  "Thanks,  father, 
thanks  !  In  my  heedless,  ungrateful  presumption  I  have  hith- 
erto misjudged  you.  I  did  not  know  your  noble  character. 
Forgive  me.  I  accept ;  but  I  take  them  as  a  sacred  deposit, 
confided  to  my  honor,  and  for  which  I  will  some  day  account 
to  you." 

In  their  emotion,  the  marquis  and  Gaston  forgot  the  threat- 
ened danger.  But  Louis  was  not  touched  by  the  affecting  scene. 
"Time  presses,"  he  said:  "you  had  better  hasten." — "He  is 
right,"  cried  the  marquis ;  "go,  Gaston,  go,  my  son ;  and  Heaven 
protect  the  heir  of  the  De  Clamerans !"  Gaston  slowly  got  up, 
and  said  with  an  embarrassed  air:  "Before  leaving  you,  father, 
I  must  fulfil  a  sacred  duty.  I  have  not  told  you  everything.  I 
love  Valentine,  the  young  girl  whose  honor  I  defended  this 
evening." — "Oh !"  cried  the  marquis,  thunderstruck,  "oh,  oh !" 
— "And  I  entreat  you,  father,  to  ask  Madame  de  la  Verberie 


1066  FILE   NUMBER    113 

for  her  daughter's  hand.  Valentine  will  gladly  join  me  abroad, 
and  share  my  exile." 

Gaston  stopped,  frightened  at  the  effect  of  his  words.  The 
old  marquis  had  become  crimson,  or  rather  purple,  as  if  struck 
by  apoplexy.  "Preposterous !"  he  gasped.  "Impossible !  Per- 
fect folly !" — "I  love  her,  father,  and  have  promised  her  never 
to  marry  another." — "Then  you  will  remain  a  bachelor." — "I 
shall  marry  her!"  cried  Gaston  excitedly.  "I  shall  marry  her 
because  I  have  sworn  I  would,  and  I  will  not  be  so  base  as  to 
desert  her." — "Nonsense  !" — "I  tell  you  Mademoiselle  de  la  Ver- 
berie  must  and  shall  be  my  wife.  It  is  too  late  for  me  to  draw 
back.  Even  if  I  no  longer  loved  her,  I  would  still  marry  her, 
because  she  has  given  herself  to  me ;  because,  can't  you  under- 
stand? what  was  said  at  the  cafe  to-night  was  true:  Valentine 
is  my  mistress." 

Gaston's  confession,  forced  from  him  by  circumstances,  pro- 
duced a  very  different  impression  from  that  which  he  had  ex- 
pected. The  enraged  marquis  instantly  became  cool,  and  his 
mind  seemed  relieved  of  an  immense  weight.  A  wicked  joy 
sparkled  in  his  eyes,  as  he  replied :  "I  congratulate  you,  Gaston." 

"Sir !"  interrupted  Gaston  indignantly ;  "I  have  told  you  that 
I  love  her,  and  have  promised  to  marry  her.  You  seem  to  for- 
get."— "Ta,  ta,  ta !"  cried  the  marquis,  "your  scruples  are  ab- 
surd. You  know  full  well  that  one  of  her  ancestors  led  one 
of  our  girls  astray.  Now  we  are  quits !  And  so  she  is  your 
mistress — " 

"I  swear  by  my  mother's  memory  that  Valentine  shall  be 
my  wife !" — "Do  you  dare  assume  that  tone  toward  me  ?"  cried 
the  exasperated  marquis.  "Never,  understand  me  clearly,  never 
will  I  give  my  consent.  You  know  how  dear  to  me  is  the  honor 
of  our  house.  Well,  I  would  rather  see  you  tried  for  murder, 
and  even  condemned,  than  married  to  this  hussy !" 

This  last  word  was  too  much  for  Gaston.  "Then  your  wish 
shall  be  gratified,  sir.  I  will  remain  here,  and  be  arrested.  I 
care  not  what  becomes  of  me !  What  is  life  to  me  without  the 
hope  of  Valentine?  Take  back  these  jewels;  they  are  useless 
now." 

A  terrible  scene  would  have  ensued  between  the  father  and 
son  had  they  not  been  interrupted  by  a  domestic  who  rushed 
into  the  room,  and  excitedly  exclaimed :  "The  gendarmes !  here 
are  the  gendarmes !"  At  this  news  the  old  marquis  started  up, 
and  seemed  to  forget  his  gout,  which  had  yielded  to  more  vio- 


FILE    NUMBER    113  1067 

lent  emotions.  "Gendarmes !"  he  cried,  "in  my  house,  at  Cla- 
meran  !  They  shall  pay  dear  for  their  insolence  !  You  will 
help  me,  will  you  not,  my  men  ?" — "Yes,  yes,"  answered  the  ser- 
vants.    "Down  with  the  gendarmes  !  down  with  them !" 

Fortunately,  Louis,  during  all  this  excitement,  preserved  his 
presence  of  mind.  "To  resist  would  be  folly,"  he  said.  "Even 
if  we  repulsed  the  gendarmes  to-night,  they  would  return  to- 
morrow with  reenforcements." — "Louis  is  right,"  said  the 
marquis  bitterly.  "Might  is  right,  as  they  said  in  '93.  The 
gendarmes  are  all-powerful.  Do  they  not  even  have  the  im- 
pertinence to  come  up  to  me  while  I  am  out  shooting,  and  ask 
to  see  my  license? — I,  a  De  Clameran,  show  a  license!" 

"Where  are  they?"  asked  Louis  of  the  servants. 

"At  the  outer  gate,"  answered  La  Verdure,  one  of  the  grooms. 
"Do  you  not  hear  the  noise  they  are  making  with  their  sabres, 
sir?" — "Then  Gaston  must  escape  by  the  garden  door." — "It 
is  guarded,  sir,"  said  La  Verdure  in  despair,  "and  the  little 
gate  in  the  park  also.  There  seems  to  be  a  regiment  of  them. 
They  are  even  stationed  along  the  park  walls." 

"Then."  said  the  marquis,  "we  are  surrounded?" — "Not  a 
single  chance  of  escape,"  groaned  Jean. — "We  shall  see  about 
that !"  cried  the  marquis.  "Ah,  we  are  not  the  strongest,  but 
we  can  be  the  most  artful.  Attention !  Louis,  my  son,  you 
and  La  Verdure  go  down  to  the  stables,  and  mount  the  fastest 
horses ;  then  as  quietly  as  possible  station  yourselves,  you, 
Louis,  at  the  park  gate,  and  you,  La  Verdure,  at  the  outer  gate. 
You  others,  go  and  post  yourselves  at  either  of  the  gates.  Upon 
the  signal  I  shall  give  by  firing  off  a  pistol,  let  both  gates  be 
instantly  opened.  Louis  and  La  Verdure  must  spur  on  their 
horses,  and  do  all  they  can  to  pass  through  the  gendarmes, 
who  are  sure  to  follow  in  pursuit." 

"I  will  make  them  run,"  said  La  Verdure. 

"Listen.  During  this  time,  Gaston,  aided  by  Jean,  will  scale 
the  park  wall,  and  hasten  along  the  river-bank  to  the  cabin  of 
Pilorel,  the  fisherman.  He  is  an  old  sailor,  and  devoted  to  our 
house.  He  will  take  Gaston  in  his  boat;  and,  when  they  are 
once  on  the  Rhone,  there  is  nothing  to  be  feared  save  heaven. 
Now  go,  all  of  you;  do  as  I  have  said." 

Left  alone  with  his  son,  the  old  marquis  slipped  the  jewels 
into  a  silk  purse,  and  stretching  out  his  arms  toward  Gaston 
said,  in  broken  accents:  "Come  here,  my  son,  and  let  me  bless 
you."     Gaston   hesitated.     "Come,"    insisted  the   old   man,  "I 


1068  FILE   NUMBER    113 

must  embrace  you  for  the  last  time.  I  may  never  see  you 
again.  Save  yourself,  save  your  name,  Gaston,  and  then — you 
know  how  I  love  you.  Take  back  these  jewels — "  For  an 
instant  father  and  son  clung  to  each  other,  overpowered  by 
emotion.  But  the  continued  noise  at  the  gate  now  reached 
their  ears.  "We  must  part!"  said  M.  de  Clameran.  And, 
taking  a  pair  of  small  pistols,  he  handed  them  to  his  son,  and 
added  with  averted  eyes:  "You  must  not  be  captured  alive, 
Gaston !" 

Unfortunately  Gaston  did  not  immediately  hasten  to  the  park 
wall.  He  yearned  more  than  ever  to  see  Valentine,  and  he 
perceived  a  possibility  of  being  able  to  bid  her  farewell.  He 
could  persuade  Pilorel  to  stop  the  boat  when  they  reached  the 
park  of  La  Verberie.  He  therefore  employed  the  few  minutes 
respite  that  destiny  had  allowed  him  in  going  to  his  room 
and  placing  in  the  window  the  signal  that  would  tell  Valentine 
he  was  coming;  and  even  waited  for  an  answering  light. 
"Come,  M.  Gaston,"  entreated  old  Jean,  who  could  not  under- 
stand this  strange  conduct.  "For  heaven's  sake,  make  haste! 
your  life  is  at  stake !" 

At  last  he  came  running  down  the  stairs,  and  had  just 
reached  the  hall  when  a  pistol-shot,  the  signal  given  by  the 
marquis,  resounded  through  the  house.  The  swinging  open  of 
the  large  gate,  the  rattling  of  the  sabres  of  the  gendarmes,  the 
furious  galloping  of  many  horses,  and  a  chorus  of  loud  shouts 
and  angry  oaths,  were  next  heard.  Leaning  against  the  win- 
dow of  his  room,  his  brow  covered  with  perspiration,  the 
Marquis  de  Clameran  breathlessly  awaited  the  issue  of  this 
expedient,  upon  which  depended  the  life  of  his  eldest  son.  His 
measures  were  excellent.  As  he  had  planned,  Louis  and  La 
Verdure  managed  to  dash  out  through  the  gates,  one  to  the 
right  and  the  other  to  the  left,  each  one  pursued  by  a  crowd  of 
mounted  men.  Their  horses  flew  like  arrows,  and  kept  far 
ahead  of  the  pursuers.  Gaston  was  as  good  as  saved,  when 
fate — but  was  it  only  fate  ? — interfered.  Suddenly  Louis's  horse 
stumbled,  and  fell  to  the  ground  with  his  rider  under  him. 
Immediately  surrounded  by  the  gendarmes,  M.  de  Clameran's 
second  son  was  easily  recognized.  "He  is  not  the  murderer!" 
cried  one  of  the  young  men  of  the  town.  "Let  us  hurry  back, 
they  are  trying  to  deceive  us!" 

They  returned  just  in  time  to  see,  by  the  uncertain  light 
of  the  moon  peeping  from  behind  a  cloud,  Gastc  climbing  the 


FILE   NUMBER    113  1069 

wall.  "There  is  our  man !"  exclaimed  a  corporal.  "Keep 
your  eyes  open,  and  gallop  after  him !"  They  spurred  their 
horses,  and  hastened  to  the  spot  where  Gaston  had  jumped 
from  the  wall.  He  found  himself  in  an  immense  madder-field, 
and  it  is  well  known  that  this  valuable  root,  having  to  remain 
in  the  ground  three  years,  the  furrows  are  necessarily  plowed 
very  deep.  Horses  cannot  gallop  over  its  uneven  surface; 
indeed,  they  can  scarcely  stand  steadily  upon  it.  This  circum- 
stances brought  the  gendarmes  to  a  dead  halt.  Jumping  from 
furrow  to  furrow,  Gaston  soon  left  his  pursuers  far  behind, 
and  reached  a  vast  plantation  covered  with  undergrowth.  The 
horsemen  urged  each  other  on,  and  called  out  every  time  they 
saw  Gaston  running  from  one  clump  of  trees  to  another.  Being 
familiar  with  the  country,  young  De  Clameran  did  not  despair. 
He  knew  that  after  the  plantation  came  a  field  of  thistles,  and 
that  the  two  were  separated  by  a  wide,  deep  ditch.  He  re- 
solved to  jump  into  this  ditch,  run  along  the  bottom,  and  climb 
out  at  the  further  end,  while  the  others  were  still  looking 
for  him  among  the  trees.  But  he  had  forgotten  the  rising  of 
the  river. 

Upon  reaching  the  ditch,  he  found  it  full  of  water.  Dis- 
couraged but  not  disconcerted,  he  was  about  to  jump  across, 
when  three  horsemen  appeared  on  the  opposite  side.  They 
were  gendarmes  who  had  ridden  round  the  madder-field  and 
the  plantation,  knowing  they  would  easily  make  up  for  lost 
time  on  the  level  ground  of  the  field  of  thistles.  At  the  sight  of 
these  three  men,  Gaston  stood  perplexed.  He  would  certainly  be 
captured  if  he  attempted  to  run  through  the  field,  at  the  end 
of  which  he  could  see  the  cabin  of  Pilorel,  the  fisherman.  To 
retrace  his  steps  would  be  to  surrender  to  the  hussars.  At  a 
little  distance  on  his  right  was  a  small  wood,  but  he  was  sepa- 
rated from  it  by  a  road  upon  which  he  heard  the  sound  of 
horses'  hoofs.  He  would  certainly  be  caught  there  also.  On 
his  left  was  the  surging,  foaming  river.  What  was  to  be  done  ? 
He  felt  the  circle  of  which  he  was  the  centre  fast  narrowing 
around  him.  Must  he,  then,  fall  back  upon  the  pistols,  and 
there,  in  the  midst  of  the  country,  hunted  by  gendarmes  like 
a  wild  beast,  blow  his  brains  out?  No!  He  would  seize  the 
one  chance  of  salvation  left  him — the  river.  Holding  a  pistol 
in  either  hand,  he  ran  to  the  edge  of  a  little  promontory, 
projecting  a  few  yards  into  the  Rhone.  This  cape  of  refuge 
was  formed  by  the  giant  trunk  of  a  fallen  tree,  which  swayed 


1070  FILE   NUMBER   113 

and  cracked  fearfully  under  Gaston's  weight,  as  he  stood  on 
the  further  end,  and  looked  back  upon  his  pursuers;  there 
were  fifteen  of  them,  some  on  the  right,  some  on  the  left,  all 
uttering  cries  of  joy. 

"Do  you  surrender?"  called  out  the  corporal  of  gendarmes. 
Gaston  did  not  answer ;  he  was  weighing  his  chances.  He 
was  above  the  park  of  La  Verberie ;  would  he  be  able  to  swim 
there,  granting  that  he  was  not  swept  away  and  drowned  the 
instant  he  plunged  into  the  angry  torrent  before  him?  He 
pictured  Valentine,  at  that  very  moment,  watching,  waiting 
and  praying  for  him  on  the  other  shore. 

"For  the  second  time  do  you  surrender?"  cried  the  corporal. 
The  unfortunate  man  did  not  hear;  he  was  deafened  by  the 
waters  which  were  roaring  and  rushing  past  him.  Although 
death  stared  him  in  the  face,  Gaston  calmly  considered  which 
would  be  the  best  spot  to  take  his  plunge,  and  commended  his 
soul  to  God. 

"He  will  stand  there  until  we  go  after  him,"  said  a  gendarme ; 
"so  we  may  as  well  do  so  at  once."  But  Gaston  had  finished 
his  prayer.  He  flung  his  pistols  in  the  direction  of  the  gen- 
darmes :  he  was  ready.  He  made  the  sign  of  the  cross,  and  then, 
with  outstretched  arms,  plunged  into  the  Rhone.  The  violence 
of  his  spring  loosened  the  few  remaining  roots  of  the  old  tree; 
it  swayed  for  a  moment,  turned  over,  and  then  rapidly  drifted 
»way.  The  spectators  uttered  a  cry  of  horror  and  pity  rather 
than  of  anger. 

"That  is  the  end  of  him,"  muttered  one  of  the  gendarmes; 
"he  is  done  for ;  a  man  can't  fight  against  the  Rhone ;  his  body 
will  be  washed  ashore  at  Aries  to-morrow." 

The  hussars  seemed  really  grieved  at  the  tragic  fate  of  this 
brave,  handsome,  young  man,  whom  a  moment  before  they 
had  pursued  so  tenaciously. 

"An  ugly  piece  of  work!"  grumbled  the  old  sergeant  who 
had  command  of  the  hussars. 

"Bah !"   exclaimed   the   philosophic  corporal,   "the   Rhone   is 

no  worse  than  the  assize-court.     Right  about,  my  men.     The 

thing  that  troubles  me  is  the  idea  of  that  poor  old  man  who 

is  waiting  to  hear  his  son's  fate.     I  would  not  be  the  one  to 

i       t«ll  him  what  has  happened.    March  !" 


FILE    NUMBER    113 


1071 


WALENTINE  knew  that  fatal    evening  that  Gaston  would 
have  to  walk  to  Tarascon  to  cross  the  Rhone  by  the  sus- 
pension bridge  which  connects  Tarascon  with  Beaucaire,  and 
did  not  expect  to  see  him  until  eleven  o'clock,  the  time  which 
they  had  agreed  upon  the  previous  evening.     But,  happening 
to  look  up  at  the  windows  of  Clameran  long  before  the  ap- 
pointed hour,  she  saw  lights  hurrying  to  and  fro  in  the  different 
rooms  in  a  most  unusual  manner.    A  secret  and  imperious  voice 
within  her  breast  told  her  that  something  terrible  and  extraor- 
dinary was  going  on  at  the  chateau  of  Clameran.     With  her 
eyes  fastened  upon  the  dark  mass  looming  in  the  distance  she 
watched  the  going  and  coming  of  the  lights,  as  if  their  move- 
ments would  give  her  a  clue  to  what  was  taking  place  within 
those  walls.    Her  anxiety  grew  more  intolerable  every  moment, 
when    suddenly   the    well-known,    beloved    signal    appeared   in 
Gaston's  window,  informing  her  that  her  lover  was  about  to 
swim  across  the  Rhone.     She  could  scarcely  believe  her  eyes, 
and  not  until  the  signal  had  been  thrice  repeated  did  she  an- 
swer it.    Then,  more  dead  than  alive,  she  hastened,  trembling, 
through  the  park  to  the  river-bank.     Never  had  she  seen  the 
Rhone  so  furious.    Since  Gaston  was  risking  his  life  to  see  her. 
she  could  no  longer  doubt  that  something  fearful  had  occurred 
at  Clameran.     She  fell  on  her  knees,  and  with  clasped  hands. 
her  wild  eyes  fixed  upon  the  dark  waters,  besought  the  pitiless 
stream  to  yield  up  her  dear  Gaston.    Every  dark  object  floating 
by  assumed  a  human  form.    Once  she  thought  she  heard  above 
the  roaring  of  the  water,  the  terrible,  agonized  cry  of  a  drown- 
ing man.     She  watched  and  prayed,  but  her  lover  came  not. 

While  the  gendarmes  and  hussars  slowly  and  silently  returned 
to  the  chateau  of  Clameran,  Gaston  experienced  one  of  those 
miracles  which  would  seem  incredible  were  they  not  confirmed 
by  the  most  convincing  proof.  When  he  first  plunged  into  the 
river,  he  rolled  over  five  or  six  times,  and  was  then  drawn 
toward  the  bottom.     In  a  swollen  river  the  current  varies  at 


1072  FILE    NUMBER    113 

different  depths,  being  much  stronger  in  some  places  than  in 
others ;  hence  the  great  danger.  Gaston  knew  this,  and  guarded 
against  it.  Instead  of  wasting  his  strength  in  vain  struggles, 
he  held  his  breath  and  drifted  with  the  flood.  After  he  had 
been  carried  a  considerable  distance,  he  made  a  sudden  spring, 
which  brought  him  to  the  surface.  Rapidly  drifting  by  him  was 
the  old  tree,  and  for  some  seconds  he  was  entangled  in  a  mass 
of  rubbish;  an  eddy  set  him  free.  He  did  not  dream  of  mak- 
ing for  the  opposite  shore.  He  determined  to  land  whereso- 
ever he  could.  With  great  presence  of  mind  he  exerted  all  his 
strength,  so  as  to  slowly  take  an  oblique  course,  knowing  well, 
however,  that  there  was  no  hope  for  him  if  the  current  took  him 
crosswise.  This  fearful  current  is,  moreover,  as  capricious  as 
it  is  terrible ;  sometimes  rushing  to  the  right,  sometimes  to  the 
left,  sparing  one  shore  and  ravaging  the  other.  Gaston,  familiar 
with  every  bend  of  the  river,  knew  that  there  was  an  abrupt 
turning  just  below  Clameran,  and  relied  upon  the  eddy  formed 
there  to  sweep  him  in  the  direction  of  La  Verberie.  His  ex- 
pectations were  fulfilled.  An  oblique  current  suddenly  swept 
him  toward  the  right  bank,  and,  had  he  not  been  on  his  guard, 
would  have  sunk  him.  He  was  still  some  distance  from  the 
shore,  when,  with  lightning  rapidity,  he  was  swept  past  the 
park  of  La  Verberie.  He  caught  a  glimpse  of  a  white  shadow 
among  the  trees:  Valentine  was  waiting  for  him.  At  a  con- 
siderable distance  below,  finding  himself  nearer  the  bank,  he 
attempted  to  land.  Feeling  a  foothold,  he  twice  raised  himself, 
each  time  being  thrown  down  by  the  force  of  the  current. 
Finally  seizing  some  willow  branches,  and,  clinging  to  them, 
he  climbed  up  the  steep  bank.  Without  waiting  to  take  breath, 
he  darted  off  at  once  in  the  direction  of  the  park.  It  was 
time  he  arrived,  for,  overcome  by  the  intensity  of  her  emotions, 
Valentine  had  fainted,  lying  apparently  lifeless  on  the  ground. 
Gaston's  kisses  aroused  her. 

"You !"  she  cried  in  a  tone  that  revealed  all  the  love  she 
felt  for  him.  "Is  it  indeed  you?  Then  God  heard  my  prayers-, 
and  had  pity  upon  us." 

"No,  Valentine,"  he  murmured,  "God  has  had  no  pity." 
The  sad  tones  of  Gaston's  voice  convinced  her  that  her  pre- 
sentiment of  evil  was  well  founded.  "What  new  misfortune 
strikes  us  now?"  she  exclaimed.  "Why  have  you  thus  risked 
your  life — a  life  far  dearer  to  me  than  my  own?  What  has 
happened  ?" 


FILE   NUMBER   113  1073 

"This  is  what  has  happened,  Valentine :  our  secret  is  a  secret 
no  longer;  our  love  is  the  jest  of  the  country." 

She  shrank  back,  and,  burying  her  face  in  her  hands,  moaned 
piteously. 

"This,"  continued  Gaston,  forgetting  everything  but  his  pres- 
ent misery;  "this  is  the  result  of  the  blind  enmity  of  our  fam- 
ilies. Our  noble  and  pure  love,  which  ought  to  be  a  glory  in 
the  eyes  of  God  and  man,  has  to  be  concealed,  as  though  it  were 
some  evil  deed." 

"All  is  known,  all  is  discovered!"  murmured  Valentine. 

In  the  midst  of  the  angry  elements,  Gaston  had  preserved 
his  self-possession;  but  the  heart-broken  tones  of  his  beloved 
Valentine  overcame  him.  "And  I  was  unable,"  he  cried,  "to 
crush  the  villains  who  dared  to  utter  your  adored  name.  Ah, 
why  did  I  only  kill  two  of  the  scoundrels !" 

"You  have  killed  some  one,  Gaston !" 

"Yes,"  he  replied,  trying  to  overcome  his  emotion;  "I  have 
killed  two  men.  I  swam  across  the  Rhone  to  save  the  honor 
of  my  name.  Only  a  short  time  ago  all  the  gendarmes  of  the 
place  were  pursuing  me.  I  have  escaped  them,  and  now  am 
flying  the  country." 

Valentine  struggled  to  preserve  her  composure.  "Whither 
do  you  hope  to  fly?"  she  asked. 

"I  know  not.  God  only  knows  whither  I  am  to  go  or  what 
will  become  of  me.  I  must  assume  a  false  name  and  a  dis- 
guise, and  try  to  reach  some  foreign  land  which  offers  a  refuge 
to  murderers."  Gaston  stopped,  expecting  an  answer  to  this 
speech.  None  came,  and  he  resumed  with  extraordinary  vehe- 
mence: "And  before  disappearing,  Valentine,  I  wished  to  see 
you,  because  now,  when  I  am  abandoned  by  every  one  else, 
I  have  relied  upon  you,  and  had  faith  in  your  love.  A  tie 
unites  us,  my  darling,  stronger  than  all  other  earthly  bonds — 
the  tie  of  love.  Before  God  you  are  my  wife ;  I  am  yours  and 
you  are  minr  for  life !  Would  you  let  me  fly  alone,  Valentine  ? 
To  the  pain  and  toil  of  exile,  to  the  bitter  regrets  of  a  ruined 
life,  could  you  add  the  torture  of  separation?" 

"Gaston,  I  implore  you — " 

"Ah,  I  knew  it,"  he  interrupted,  mistaking  the  sense  of  her 
exclamation ;  "I  knew  you  would  not  let  me  go  alone.  I  knew 
your  sympathetic  heart  would  long  to  share  the  burden  of  my 
miseries.  This  moment  effaces  the  wretched  suffering  I  have 
endured.    Let  us  fly !     Having  our  happiness  to  defend,  I  fear 


1074  FILE   NUMBER   113 

nothing;  I  can  brave  and  conquer  all.  Come,  my  Valentine, 
we  will  escape,  or  die  together!  This  is  the  long-dreamed-of 
happiness !  The  glorious  future  of  love  and  liberty  opens 
before  us !" 

He  had  worked  himself  into  a  state  of  delirious  excitement. 
He  seized  Valentine  round  the  waist  and  tried  to  carry  her 
off.  But,  as  his  exaltation  increased,  she  managed  to  regain  her 
composure.  Gently,  yet  with  a  firmness  he  had  not  expected  in 
her,  she  withdrew  herself  from  his  embrace,  and  said  sadly, 
but  resolutely :  "What  you  wish,  Gaston,  is  impossible." 

This  cold,  inexplicable  resistance  seemed  to  confound  her 
lover.    "Impossible?"  he  stammered. 

"You  know  me  well  enough,  Gaston,  to  be  convinced  that 
sharing  the  greatest  hardships  with  you  would  to  me  be  the 
height  of  happiness.  But  above  your  pleading,  to  which  I  fain 
would  yield,  above  the  voice  of  my  own  heart,  which  urges 
me  to  follow  you,  there  is  another — powerful,  imperious — which 
bids  me  stay:  the  voice  of  duty." 

"What !  Would  you  think  of  remaining  here  after  the  hor- 
rible affair  of  to-night,  after  the  scandal  that  will  be  spread 
abroad  to-morrow !" 

"What  do  you  mean?  That  I  am  lost,  dishonored?  Am  I 
any  more  so  to-day  than  I  was  yesterday?  Do  you  think  that 
the  jeers  and  scoffing  of  the  world  could  make  me  suffer  more 
than  the  pangs  of  my  guilty  conscience?  I  have  long  since 
passed  judgment  upon  myself,  Gaston ;  and,  although  the  sound 
of  your  voice  and  the  touch  of  your  hand  made  me  forget  all 
save  the  bliss  of  love,  no  sooner  had  you  gone  than  I  wept 
tears  of  shame  and  remorse." 

Gaston  listened,  motionless,  astounded.  He  seemed  to  see 
a  new  Valentine  before  him,  an  entirely  different  woman  from 
the  one  whose  tender  soul  he  thought  he  knew  so  well.  "And 
your  mother?"  he  murmured. 

"It  is  my  duty  to  her  that  keeps  me  here.  Do  vou  wish  me 
to  prove  an  unnatural  daughter,  and  desert  her  now  that  she 
is  poor,  lonely,  and  friendless,  with  no  one  but  me  to  cling  Lc  t 
Could  I  abandon  her  to  follow  my  lover?" 

"But  our  enemies  will  inform  her  of  everything,  Valentine.: 
she  will  know  all." 

"No  matter.  The  dictates  of  conscience  must  be  obeyed. 
Ah,  why  can  I  not,  even  at  the  price  of  my  life,  spare  her 
the  agony  of  learning  that  her  only  daughter,  her  Valentine 


FILE    NUMBER    113  1075 

has  disgraced  her  name  ?  She  may  be  hard,  cruel,  pitiless 
toward  me ;  but  have  I  not  deserved  it  ?  Oh,  my  only  friend, 
we  have  been  basking  in  a  dream  too  beautiful  to  last !  I  have 
long  dreaded  this  awful  awakening.  Like  two  weak,  credu- 
lous fools,  we  imagined  that  happiness  could  exist  beyond  the 
pale  of  duty.  Sooner  or  later  stolen  joys  must  be  dearly  paid 
for.     We  must  bow  our  heads  and  drink  the  cup  to  the  dregs." 

This  cold  reasoning,  this  sad  resignation,  was  more  than 
Gaston's  fiery  nature  could  bear.  "Do  not  talk  like  that !"  he 
cried.  "Can  you  not  feel  that  the  bare  idea  of  your  suffering 
this  humiliation  drives  me  mad?" 

"Alas !  I  must  expect  greater  humiliation  yet." 

"What  do  you  mean,  Valentine  ?" 

"Know  then,  Gaston — "  But  she  stopped  short,  hesitated,  and 
then  added :  "Nothing !     I  know  not  what  I  say." 

Had  Gaston  been  less  excited,  he  would  have  suspected  some 
new  misfortune  beneath  Valentine's  reticence ;  but  his  mind  was 
too  full  of  his  one  idea.  "All  hope  is  not  lost,"  he  resumed. 
"My  father  is  kind  hearted,  and  was  touched  by  my  love  and 
despair.  I  am  sure  that  my  letters,  together  with  the  inter- 
cession of  my  brother  Louis,  will  induce  him  to  ask  Madame  de 
la  Verberie  for  your  hand." 

This  notion  seemed  to  terrify  Valentine.  "Heaven  forbid !" 
she  exclaimed,  "that  the  marquis  should  take  this  rash  step !" 

"Why,  Valentine?" 

"Because  my  mother  would  reject  his  offer ;  because,  I  must 
eonfess  it  now,  she  has  sworn  1  shall  marry  none  but  a  rich 
man ;  and  your  father  is  not  rich." 

"Good  heavens!"  cried  Gaston  with  disgust,  "and  it  is  to  such 
a  mother  that  you  sacrifice  me  ?" 

"She  is  my  mother;  that  is  sufficient.  I  have  not  the  right 
to  judge  her.  My  duty  is  to  remain  with  her,  and  remain  I 
will."  Valentine's  manner  showed  such  determined  resolution 
that  Gaston  saw  that  further  prayers  would  be  in  vain. 

"Alas  !"  he  cried  as  he  wrung  his  hands  with  despair,  "you 
do  not  love  me;  you  have  never  loved  me!" 

"Gaston,  Gaston  !  you  do  not  think  what  you  say !" 

"If  you  loved  me,"  he  cried,  "you  could  never,  at  this  mo- 
ment of  separation,  have  the  cruel  courage  to  reason  and  cal- 
culate so  coldly.  Ah,  far  different  is  my  love  for  you.  Without 
you  the  world  is  void;  to  lose  you  is  to  die.  So  let  the  Rhone 
take  back  this  life  so  miraculously  saved ;  for  it  is  now  a  bur- 


1076  .FILE   NUMBER   113 

den  to  me !"  And  he  would  have  rushed  toward  the  river. 
determined  to  die,  had  Valentine  not  held  him  back.  "Is  this 
the  way  to  show  your  love  for  me?"  she  asked. 

"What  is  the  use  of  living?"  he  murmured  dejectedly.  "What 
is  left  to  me  now  ?" 

"God  is  left  to  us,  Gaston ;  and  in  His  hands  lies  our  future." 

Like  a  shipwrecked  man  seizing  a  rotten  plank,  Gaston 
eagerly  caught  at  the  word  "future."  "Your  command  shall  be 
obeyed,"  he  cried  with  sudden  enthusiasm.  "Away  with  weak- 
ness !  Yes,  I  will  live,  and  struggle,  and  triumph.  Madame 
de  la  Verberie  wants  gold;  well,  in  three  years  I  shall  either 
be  rich  or  dead."  With  clasped  hands  Valentine  thanked  heaven 
for  this  determination,  which  was  more  than  she  had  dared 
hope  for.  "But,"  continued  Gaston,  "before  going  away  I 
wish  to  intrust  a  sacred  deposit  to  your  keeping."  And,  draw- 
ing the  jewels  from  his  pocket  and  handing  them  to  Valentine, 
he  added:  "These  jewels  belonged  to  my  poor  mother;  you  alone 
are  worthy  to  wear  them.  I  always  intended  them  for  you." 
And  as  she  refused  to  accept  them,  he  insisted.  "Take  them 
as  a  pledge  of  my  return.  If  I  do  not  come  back  within  three 
years,  you  will  know  that  I  am  dead,  and  then  you  must  keep 
them  as  a  souvenir  of  him  who  loved  you  so  fondly."  She 
burst  into  tears,  and  took  the  jewels.  "And  now,"  resumed 
Gaston,  "I  have  a  last  request  to  make.  Everybody  believes 
me  dead,  but  I  can  not  let  my  poor  old  father  remain  under 
this  impression.  Swear  to  me  that  you  will  go  yourself  to- 
morrow morning  and  tell  him  that  I  am  still  alive." 

"I  will  tell  him,"  she  replied. 

Gaston  felt  that  he  must  now  tear  himself  away  before  his 
courage  failed  him.  He  enveloped  Valentine  in  a  last  fond 
embrace,  and  started  up.  "What  is  your  plan  of  escape?"  she 
asked. 

"I  shall  go  to  Marseilles,  and  take  refuge  in  a  friend's  house 
until  I  can  procure  a  passage  on  board  some  foreign-bound 
vessel." 

"You  must  have  assistance;  I  will  secure  you  a  guide  in 
whom  I  have  unbounded  confidence;  old  Menoul,  who  lives 
near  us.     He  owns  the  boat  which  he  plies  on  the  Rhone." 

The  lovers  passed  through  the  little  park  gate,  of  which 
Gaston  had  the  key,  and  soon  reached  the  boatman's  cabin. 
He  was  dozing  in  his  easy-chair  by  the  fireside.  When  Valen- 
tine stood  before  him  with  Gaston,  the  old  man  jumped  up, 


FILE    NUMBER    113 


1077 


and  kept  rubbing  his  eyes,  thinking  it  must  be  a  dream.  "M. 
Menoul,"  said  Valentine,  "M.  Gaston  is  compelled  to  hide  him- 
self; he  wants  to  reach  the  sea,  so  that  he  can  embark  secretly. 
Can  you  take  him  in  your  boat  as  far  as  the  mouth  of  the 
Rhone  ?" 

"It  is  impossible,"  said  the  old  man,  shaking  his  head :  "I 
dare  not  venture  on  the  river  in  its  present  state." 

"But,  M.  Menoul,  you  would  be  rendering  an  immense  ser- 
vice to  me ;  would  you  not  venture  for  my  sake  ?" 

"For  your  sake?  certainly  I  would,  Mademoiselle  Valentine; 
I  am  ready  to  start."  He  looked  at  Gaston,  and,  seeing  his 
clothes  wet  and  covered  with  mud,  said  to  him :  "Allow  me, 
sir,  to  offer  you  some  clothes  of  a  son  of  mine  who  is  dead ; 
they  will,  at  least,  serve  as  a  disguise :  come  this  way." 

In  a  few  minutes  old  Menoul  returned  with  Gaston,  whom 
no  one  would  have  recognized  in  his  sailor  dress.  Valentine 
went  with  them  to  the  place  where  the  boat  was  moored.  While 
the  old  man  was  unfastening  it,  the  disconsolate  lovers  tear- 
fully embraced  each  other  for  the  last  time.  "In  three  years," 
cried  Gaston,  "in  three  years !" 

"Adieu,  mademoiselle,"  interrupted  the  old  boatman ;  "and 
you,  sir,  hold  fast  and  keep  steady."  Then,  with  a  vigorous 
shove  of  the  boat-hook,  he  sent  the  boat  into  the  middle  of 
the  stream. 

Three  days  later,  thanks  to  the  assistance  of  old  Menoul, 
Gaston  was  concealed  on  board  the  American  three-master, 
"Tom  Jones,"  Captain  Warth,  which  was  to  start  the  next  day 
for  Valparaiso. 


/~*  OLD  and  white  like  a  marble  statue,  Valentine  stood  on 
V  the  river-bank,  watching  the  frail  bark  which  was  carrying 
her  lover  away.  It  flew  along  like  a  bird  in  a  tempest,  and, 
after  a  few  seconds,  seemed  like  a  black  speck  in  the  midst  of 
the  heavy  fog.  Gaston  gone,  she  had  no  motive  for  concealing 
her  despair ;  and,  wringing  her  hands,   she  sobbed  as   if  her 


1078  FILE    NUMBER    113 

heart  would  break.  Her  calmness,  bravery,  and  hopefulness 
were  gone.  She  felt  crushed  and  lost,  as  if  that  swiftly  dis- 
appearing bark  had  carried  off  the  better  part  of  herself.  For 
while  Gaston  treasured  a  ray  of  hope,  she  looked  forward  only 
to  shame  and  sorrow.  The  horrible  facts  which  stared  her  in 
the  face  convinced  her  that  happiness  in  this  life  was  over ;  the 
future  was  worse  than  blank.  She  wept  and  shuddered  at  the 
prospect.  She  slowly  retraced  her  footsteps  through  the  little 
gate  which  had  so  often  admitted  Gaston ;  and,  as  she  closed 
it  behind  her,  she  fancied  she  was  placing  an  impassable  barrier 
between  herself  and  happiness.  Before  retiring,  Valentine  care- 
fully walked  round  the  chateau,  and  examined  the  windows  of 
her  mother's  chamber.  They  were  still  brilliantly  lighted,  for 
Madame  de  la  Verberie  passed  a  part  of  the  night  in  reading, 
and  did  not  rise  till  late  in  the  morning.  Enjoying  the  com- 
forts, which  are  not  expensive  in  the  country,  the  selfish  com- 
tesse  was  little  concerned  about  her  daughter.  She  left  her  at 
perfect  liberty  to  go  and  come,  and  to  take  long  walks,  never 
making  a  remark. 

But  on  this  night  Valentine  feared  being  seen.  She  would 
be  called  upon  to  explain  her  torn,  muddy  dress — and  what 
answer  could  she  give  ?  Fortunately  she  reached  her  room 
without  meeting  any  one,  and  there,  seated  before  her  little 
work-table,  she  examined  the  purse  of  jewels.  It  would  be  a 
sweet,  sad  comfort  to  wear  the  simplest  of  the  rings,  she 
thought ;  but  her  mother  would  ask  her  where  it  came  from, 
and  she  would  have  to  deceive  her  again.  She  kissed  the  purse, 
in  memory  of  Gaston,  and  then  concealed  it  at  the  bottom  of  a 
drawer. 

Blinded  by  his  passion,  Gaston  did  not  think  of  the  obstacles 
and  dangers  to  be  braved  in  going  to  Clameran  to  inform  the 
old  marquis  of  his  son's  miraculous  preservation.  Valentine 
saw  them  only  too  clearly ;  yet  it  did  not  occur  to  her  for  an 
instant  to  break  her  promise  or  delay  to  go.  At  sunrise  she 
dressed  herself.  When  the  bell  was  ringing  for  early  mass,  she 
started  on  her  errand.  One  of  the  servants,  Mihonne,  who 
always  waited  on  Valentine,  was  scrubbing  the  hall. 

"If  my  mother  asks  for  me,"  she  said  to  the  girl,  "tell  her 
I  have  gone  to  early  mass." 

As  she  often  went  to  church  at  this  hour,  there  was  nothing 
to  be  feared  so  far;  but  Valentine  knew  that  she  could  scarcely 
return  in  time  for  breakfast,  for  she  must  walk  a  league  to  the 


FILE    NUMBER    113  1079 

bridge,  and  it  was  another  league  to  Clameran ;  four  leagues 
there  and  back.  She  set  out  at  a  rapid  pace.  The  conscious- 
ness of  performing  an  extraordinary  action,  and  the  feverish 
anxiety  of  incurred  peril,  increased  her  haste.  She  forgot 
fatigue,  and  that  she  had  worn  herself  out  with  weeping  all 
night.  It  was  after  eight,  however,  when  she  reached  the  long 
avenue  leading  to  the  chateau  of  Clameran.  She  had  onlv  pro- 
ceeded a  few  steps  along  it,  when  she  saw  old  Jean,  the  mar- 
quis's valet,  coming  down  the  path.  She  stopped  and  waited 
for  him,  and  he  hastened  his  steps  at  sight  of  her.  He  looked 
very  much  excited,  and  his  eyes  were  swollen  with  weeping. 
To  Valentine's  surprise,  he  did  not  take  off  his  cap  to  her,  but 
accosted  her  most  rudely. 

"Are  you  going  to  the  chateau,  mademoiselle  ?" 

"Yes." 

"If  you  are  going  after  M.  Gaston."  continued  the  servant 
with  an  insolent  sneer,  "you  are  taking  useless  trouble.  M. 
Gaston  is  dead,  mademoiselle;  he  sacrificed  himself  for  a  mis- 
tress he  had." 

Valentine  turned  white  at  this  insult,  but  took  no  notice  of 
it.  Jean,  who  expected  to  see  her  overcome  by  the  dreadful 
news,  was  bewildered  and  indignant  at  her  composure.  "I  am 
going  to  the  chateau,"  she  resumed  quietly,  "to  speak  to  the 
marquis." 

Jean  stifled  a  sob,  and  said :  "Then  it  is  not  worth  while  to 
go  any  farther." 

"Why?" 

"Because  the  Marquis  de  Clameran  died  at  five  o'clock  this 
morning." 

Valentine  leaned  against  a  tree  to  prevent  herself  from  fall- 
ing.    "Dead  !"  she  gasped. 

"Yes,"  said  Jean  fiercely,  "yes,  dead !"  A  faithful  servant 
of  the  old  regime.  Jean  shared  all  the  passions,  weaknesses, 
friendships,  and  enmities  of  his  master.  He  had  a  horror  of 
the  La  Verberies.  And  now  he  saw  in  Valentine  the  woman 
who  had  caused  the  death  of  the  marquis  whom  he  had  served 
for  forty  years,  and  of  Gaston  whom  he  worshiped.  'T  will 
tell  you  how  he  died,"  continued  the  bitter  old  man.  "Yester- 
day evening,  when  the  news  reached  the  marquis  that  his  eldest 
son  was  dead,  he  who  was  hardy  as  an  oak  dropped  down  as  if 
struck  by  lightning.  I  was  there.  He  beat  the  air  wildly  with 
his  hands,  and  fell  without  uttering  one  word.    We  put  him  to 


1080  FILE   NUMBER   113 

bed,  and  M.  Louis  galloped  into  Tarascon  for  a  doctor.  But 
the  blow  had  struck  too  deeply.  When  Dr.  Raget  arrived  he 
said  there  was  no  hope.  At  daybreak,  the  marquis  recovered 
consciousness  enough  to  ask  for  M.  Louis,  with  whom  he  re- 
mained alone  for  some  minutes.  His  last  words  were:  'Father 
and  son  on  the  same  day,  there  will  be  rejoicing  at  la  Ver- 
berie.' " 

Valentine  might  have  soothed  the  faithful  servant's  sorrow 
by  telling  him  that  Gaston  still  lived;  but  she  feared  it  would 
be  indiscreet,  and  so,  unfortunately,  she  merely  said:  "Then  I 
must  see  M.  Louis." 

These  words  seemed  to  anger  Jean  the  more.  "You!"  he 
exclaimed.  "You  would  dare  to  take  such  a  step,  Mademoiselle 
de  la  Verberie?  What!  would  you  presume  to  appear  before 
him  after  what  has  happened?  I  will  never  allow  it!  And 
you  had  best,  moreover,  take  my  advice,  and  return  home  at 
once.  I  will  not  answer  for  the  tongues  of  the  servants  here, 
when  they  see  you."  And,  without  waiting  for  an  answer,  he 
hurried  away. 

What  could  Valentine  do?  Humiliated  and  miserable,  she 
could  only  wearily  drag  her  aching  limbs  back  the  way  she  had 
so  rapidly  come  but  a  short  time  before.  On  the  road,  she  met 
many  country  people  coming  from  the  town,  where  they  had 
heard  of  the  events  of  the  previous  night;  and  at  every  step 
the  poor  girl  was  greeted  with  insulting  looks  and  mocking 
bows.  When  she  reached  La  Verberie,  she  found  Mihonne 
watching  for  her. 

"Ah,  mademoiselle,"  said  the  girl,  "make  haste.  Madame 
had  a  visitor  this  morning,  and  ever  since  she  left  has  been 
calling  out  for  you.  Hurry ;  but  take  care  what  you  do,  for  she 
is  in  a  violent  passion." 

Madame  de  la  Verberie  had  preserved  the  manners  of  the 
good  old  times,  when  grand  ladies  swore  like  troopers.  When 
Valentine  appeared,  she  was  overwhelmed  with  coarse  epithets 
and  violent  abuse.  The  comtesse  had  been  informed  of  every- 
thing, with  many  gross  additions  added  by  public  scandal.  An 
old  dowager,  her  most  intimate  friend,  had  hurried  over  early 
in  the  morning  to  offer  her  this  most  poisoned  dish  of  gossip, 
seasoned  with  her  own  pretended  condolences.  In  this  sad 
affair,  Madame  de  la  Verberie  mourned  less  over  her  daughter's 
loss  of  reputation  than  over  the  ruin  of  her  own  projects — 
projects  of  arranging  a  grand  marriage  for  Valentine,  and  of 


FILE    NUMBER    113  1081 

herself  living  in  luxury  the  rest  of  her  days.  A  young  girl  so 
compromised  would  not  find  it  easy  to  get  a  husband.  It  would 
now  be  absolutely  necessary  to  keep  her  two  years  longer  in  the 
country  before  introducing  her  into  Parisian  society.  The 
world  must  have  time  to  forget  this  shameful  affair. 

"You  worthless  wretch !"  cried  the  comtesse,  red  with  fury ; 
"is  it  thus  you  respect  the  noble  traditions  of  our  family?  Up 
to  now  it  has  never  been  considered  necessary  to  watch  the 
La  Verberies ;  they  could  take  care  of  their  honor :  but  it  was 
reserved  for  you  to  take  advantage  of  your  liberty  to  lower 
yourself  to  the  level  of  those  harlots  who  are  the  disgrace  of 
their  sex !" 

With  a  sinking  heart,  Valentine  had  foreseen  this  tirade.  She 
felt  that  it  was  only  a  fitting  punishment  for  her  guilty  love. 
Knowing  that  her  mother's  indignation  was  just,  she  meekly 
hung  her  head  like  a  repentant  culprit  at  the  bar  of  justice. 
But  this  silence  only  exasperated  the  angry  comtesse  the  more. 
"Why  do  you  not  answer  me?"  she  screamed  with  a  threatening 
gesture. 

"What  can  I  say,  mother?" 

"Say,  miserable  girl  ?  Say  that  they  lied  when  they  accused 
a  La  Verberie  of  disgracing  her  name  !  Speak,  defend  your- 
self!"  Valentine  mournfully  shook  her  head,  but  said  nothing. 
"It  is  true,  then !"  shrieked  the  comtesse,  beside  herself  with 
rage ;  "what  they  said  is  true  ?" 

"Forgive  me,  mother,"  moaned  the  poor  girl ;  "forgive  me." 

"What !  Forgive  you  !  I  have  not  then  been  deceived.  For- 
give you !  Do  you  own  it  then,  you  hussy !  Good  heavens ! 
what  blood  have  you  in  your  veins?  Do  you  not  know  that 
some  faults  should  be  persistently  denied,  no  matter  how  glaring 
the  evidence  against  them  ?  And  you  are  my  daughter !  Can 
you  not  understand  that  an  ignominious  confession  like  this 
should  never  be  forced  from  a  woman  by  any  human  power? 
But  no,  you  have  lovers,  and  unblushingly  avow  it.  Glory  in 
it,  it  would  be  something  new !" 

"Alas !  you  are  pitiless,  mother !" 

"Did  you  have  any  pity  for  me,  my  dutiful  daughter?  Did 
it  never  occur  to  you  that  your  disgrace  might  kill  me?  Ah  I 
many  a  time,  I  dare  say,  you  and  your  lover  have  laughed  at  my 
blind  confidence.  For  I  had  confidence  in  you  as  in  myself. 
I  believed  you  to  be  as  chaste  and  pure  as  when  I  watched  you 
lying  in  your  cradle.     And  it  has  come  to  this:  drunken  men 

Gab.— Vol.  IV  H 


1082  FILE   NUMBER   113 

make  a  jest  of  your  name  in  the  wine-shops,  then  fight  about 
you,  and  kill  each  other.  I  intrusted  to  you  the  honor  of  our 
name,  and  what  have  you  done  with  it?  You  have  given  it  to 
the  first  comer !"  This  was  too  much  for  Valentine.  The 
words,  "first  comer,"  wounded  her  pride  more  than  all  the 
other  abuse  heaped  upon  her.  She  tried  to  protest  against  this 
unmerited  insult.  "Ah,  I  have  made  a  mistake.  Your  lover  is 
not  the  first  comer,"  said  the  comtesse.  "With  the  number  you 
had  to  choose  from,  you  must  fix  on  the  heir  of  our  enemies 
of  a  hundred  years,  Gaston  de  Clameran.  A  coward,  who 
publicly  boasted  of  your  favors ;  a  wretch,  who  tried  to  avenge 
himself  for  the  heroism  of  our  ancestors  by  ruining  you  and 
me — an  old  woman  and  a  child !" 

"No,  mother,  that  is  false.  He  loved  me,  and,  had  he  dared 
hope  for  your  consent — " 

"He  would  have  married  you  ?  Ah  !  never.  I  would  rather 
see  you  fall  lower  than  you  are,  even  to  the  gutter,  than  know 
you  to  be  the  wife  of  such  a  man !"  Thus  the  comtesse  ex- 
pressed her  hatred  very  much  in  the  same  terms  as  the  old 
marquis  had  used  to  his  son.  "Besides,"  she  added,  with  a 
ferocity  which  only  a  woman  is  capable  of,  "besides,  your 
lover  is  drowned,  and  the  old  marquis  is  dead,  so  I  have  been 
told.     God  is  just ;  we  are  avenged." 

Old  Jean's  words,  "There  will  be  rejoicing  at  La  Verberie," 
rung  in  Valentine's  ears  as  she  saw  the  comtesse's  eyes  sparkle 
with  malignant  joy.  This  was  the  crowning  blow  for  the  un- 
fortunate young  girl.  For  half  an  hour  she  had  been  exerting 
all  her  strength  to  bear  up  against  her  mother's  cruel  violence ; 
but  her  physical  endurance  was  not  equal  to  the  task.  She 
turned,  if  possible,  paler,  and  with  half-closed  eyes  extended  her 
arms  as  though  to  find  some  support,  and  fell,  striking  her  head 
against  a  side  table.  It  was  with  dry  eyes  that  the  comtesse 
beheld  her  daughter  stretched  at  her  feet.  Her  vanity  was 
deeply  wounded,  but  no  other  emotion  disturbed  her.  Hers  was 
a  heart  so  full  of  anger  and  hatred  that  there  was  no  room  for 
any  noble  sentiment.  Seeing,  however,  that  Valentine  remained 
unconscious,  she  rang  the  bell ;  and  the  affrighted  maidservants, 
who  were  trembling  in  the  passage  at  the  loud  and  angry  tones 
of  the  voice  they  all  dreaded,  came  running  in. 

"Carry  mademoiselle  to  her  room,"  she  ordered ;  "lock  her 
in,  and  bring  me  the  key." 

The  comtesse   intended  keeping  Valentine   a  close   prisoner 


FILE   NUMBER    113  1083 

for  a  long  time.  She  well  knew  the  mischievous,  gossiping 
propensities  of  country  people,  who,  from  mere  idleness,  indulge 
in  limitless  scandal.  A  poor  fallen  girl  must  either  leave  the 
place,  or  drink  to  the  very  dregs  the  chalice  of  premeditated 
humiliation  and  brutal  irony.  Each  one  delights  in  casting  a 
stone  at  her.  But  the  comtesse's  plans  were  destined  to  be 
baffled.  The  servants  came  to  tell  her  that  Valentine  had  recov- 
ered consciousness,  but  seemed  to  be  very  ill.  She  replied  that 
it  was  all  pretense ;  whereupon  Mihonne  insisted  upon  her  going 
up  and  judging  for  herself.  She  unwillingly  went  to  her  daugh- 
ter's room,  and  perceived  that  something  serious  was  the  mat- 
ter. However,  she  betrayed  no  apprehension,  but  sent  to  Taras- 
con  for  Dr.  Raget,  who  was  the  oracle  of  the  neighborhood;  it 
was  he  who  had  been  called  in  to  see  the  Marquis  de  Clameran. 
Dr.  Raget  was  one  of  those  men  who  leave  a  blessed  memory, 
which  lives  long  after  their  departure  from  this  world.  Intel- 
ligent and  noble-hearted,  he  devoted  himself  to  his  art ;  wealthy, 
he  never  demanded  to  be  paid  for  his  services.  At  all  hours  of 
the  night  and  day,  his  gray  horse  and  old  cabriolet  might  be 
seen  along  the  roads,  with  a  hamper  of  wine  and  soup  under 
the  seat  for  his  poorer  patients.  The  servant  fortunately  found 
him  at  home,  and  brought  him  back  with  him.  On  beholding 
Valentine,  the  doctor's  face  assumed  a  most  serious  expression. 
He  studied  the  young  girl  and  her  mother  alternately;  and  the 
penetrating  gaze  which  he  fixed  on  the  old  comtesse  so  discon- 
certed her  that  she  felt  her  wrinkled  face  turning  very  red. 

"This  child  is  very  ill,"  he  said,  at  length.  And  as  Madame 
de  la  Verberie  made  no  reply,  he  added:  "I  desire  to  remain 
alone  with  her  for  a  few  minutes." 

The  comtesse  dared  not  resist  the  authority  of  a  man  of  Dr. 
Raget's  character  and  reputation,  and  retired  to  the  next  room, 
apparently  calm,  but  in  reality  disturbed  by  the  most  gloomy 
forebodings.  At  the  end  of  half  an  hour — it  seemed  a  century 
— the  doctor  entered  the  room  where  she  was  waiting.  He, 
who  had  witnessed  so  much  suffering  and  misery,  appeared 
deeply  affected. 

"Well?"  asked  the  comtesse. 

"You  are  a  mother,  madame,"  he  answered  sadly — "that  is 
to  say,  your  heart  is  full  of  indulgence  and  pardon.  Summon 
all  your  courage.  Mademoiselle  Valentine  will  soon  become  a 
mother." 

"The  worthless  creature !     I  feared  as  much." 


1084  FILE   NUMBER   113 

The  doctor  was  shocked  at  the  dreadful  expression  of  the 
comtesse's  eye.  He  laid  his  hand  on  her  arm,  and  giving  her 
a  penetrating  look,  beneath  which  she  instantly  quailed,  he 
added:  "And  the  child  must  live." 

The  doctor's  suspicions  were  correct.  A  dreadful  idea  had 
flashed  across  Madame  de  la  Verberie's  mind — the  idea  of  de- 
stroying this  child  which  would  be  a  living  proof  of  Valen- 
tine's sin.  Feeling  her  evil  intention  divined,  the  proud,  stern 
woman's  eyes  fell  beneath  the  doctor's  gaze.  "I  do  not  under- 
stand you,  Dr.  Raget,"  she  murmured. 

"But  I  know  what  I  mean,  madame ;  and  I  simply  wished 
to  tell  you  that  a  crime  does  not  obliterate  a  fault." 

"Doctor !" 

"I  merely  say  what  I  think,  madame.  If  I  was  mistaken  in 
my  impression,  so  much  the  better  for  you.  At  present,  your 
daughter's  condition  is  serious,  but  not  dangerous.  Excitement 
and  distress  of  mind  have  unstrung  her  nerves,  and  she  is  now 
in  a  high  fever,  which  I  hope  soon  to  allay." 

The  comtesse  saw  that  the  old  doctor's  suspicions  were  not 
dispelled;  so  she  thought  she  would  try  maternal  anxiety,  and 
said:  "At  least,  doctor,  you  can  assure  me  that  the  dear  child's 
life  is  not  in  danger?" 

"No,  madame,"  answered  Dr.  Raget,  with  cutting  irony,  "your 
maternal  tenderness  need  not  be  alarmed.  All  the  poor  child 
needs  is  rest  of  mind,  which  you  alone  can  give  her.  A  few 
kind  words  from  you  will  do  her  more  good  than  all  my  pre- 
scriptions. But  remember,  madame,  that  the  least  shock  of  ner- 
vous excitement  will  produce  the  most  fatal  consequences." 

"I  must  confess,"  said  the  comtesse,  hypocritically,  "that  I 
was  unable  to  control  my  anger  upon  first  hearing  that  my 
darling  child  had  fallen  a  victim  to  a  vile  seducer." 

"But  now  that  the  first  shock  is  over,  madame,  being  a  mother 
and  a  Christian,  you  will  do  your  duty.  My  duty  is  to  save  your 
daughter  and  her  child,  and  I  will  do  so.    I  will  call  to-morrow." 

Madame  de  la  Verberie  had  no  idea  of  letting  the  doctor  go 
off  in  this  way.  She  motioned  him  to  stay,  and,  without  reflect- 
ing that  she  was  betraying  herself,  exclaimed :  "Do  you  pretend 
to  say,  sir,  that  you  will  prevent  my  taking  every  means  to 
conceal  the  terrible  misfortune  that  has  fallen  upon  me?  Do 
you  wish  our  shame  to  be  made  public — to  make  us  the  laughing- 
stock of  the  neighborhood?" 

The  doctor  remained  a  moment  without  answering;  the  con' 


FILE   NUMBER    113  1085 

dition  of  affairs  was  serious.  "No,  madame,"  he  at  length  re- 
plied ;  "I  can  not  prevent  your  leaving  La  Verberie — that  would 
be  overstepping  my  duty;  but  I  must  hold  you  to  account  for 
the  child.  You  are  at  liberty  to  go  where  you  please;  but  you 
must  give  me  proof  of  the  child's  being  alive,  or  at  least  that 
no  attempt  was  made  against  its  life." 

After  uttering  these  threatening  words  he  left  the  house.  The 
comtesse  was  choking  with  suppressed  rage.  "Insolent  up- 
start !"  she  cried,  "to  presume  to  dictate  to  a  woman  of  my 
rank !  Ah,  if  I  were  not  completely  at  his  mercy !"  But, 
being  in  his  power,  she  knew  very  well  that  she  must  forever 
bid  adieu  to  all  her  ambitious  plans.  No  more  hopes  of  luxury, 
of  a  millionaire  son-in-law,  of  splendid  carriages,  rich  dresses, 
and  charming  card  parties,  where  she  could  gamble  to  her 
heart's  content.  She  must  die  as  she  had  lived,  poor,  neglected, 
condemned  to  a  life  of  privation.  And  it  was  Valentine  who 
brought  this  misery  upon  her.  This  reflection  aroused  all 
her  inherent  bitterness,  and  she  felt  for  her  daughter  one  of 
those  implacable  hatreds  which,  instead  of  becoming  appeased, 
are  strengthened  by  time.  She  wished  she  could  see  her  lying 
dead  before  her,  and  the  accursed  infant  as  well.  But  she  re- 
membered the  doctor's  threatening  look,  and  dared  not  attempt 
anything.  She  even  forced  herself  to  go  and  say  a  few  for- 
giving words  to  Valentine,  and  then  left  her  to  the  care  of 
the   faithful   Mihonne. 

Poor  Valentine !  She  had  suffered  so  much  that  she  had  lost 
all  power  of  action.  She  was,  however,  getting  better.  She 
felt  that  dull,  heavy  sensation,  almost  free  from  pain,  which 
always  follows  violent  mental  or  physical  suffering.  When  she 
was  able  to  reflect,  she  thought  to  herself:  "Well,  it  is  over; 
my  mother  knows  everything.  I  have  no  longer  her  anger  to 
fear,  and  must  trust  to  time  for  her  forgiveness."  This  was 
the  secret  which  Valentine  had  been  unwilling  to  reveal  to 
Gaston,  because  she  felt  certain  that  he  would  refuse  to  leave 
her  if  he  knew  it.  But  she  wished  him  to  escape;  and  duty 
at  the  same  time  bade  her  remain.  Even  now  she  did  not  regret 
having  done  so. 

The  only  thought  which  distressed  her  was  Gaston's  danger. 
Had  he  succeeded  in  embarking?  How  could  she  find  out? 
For  two  days  the  doctor  had  allowed  her  to  get  up;  but  she 
could  not  possibly  walk  as  far  as  old  Menoul's  cabin.  Happily, 
the  devoted  old  boatman  was  intelligent  enough  to  anticipate 


1086  FILE   NUMBER   113 

her  wishes.  Hearing  that  the  young  lady  at  the  chateau  was 
very  ill,  he  set  about  devising  some  means  of  informing  her 
of  her  friend's  safety.  He  went  to  La  Verberie  several  times 
on  pretended  errands,  and  finally  succeeded  in  seeing  Valen- 
tine. They  were  not  alone,  so  he  could  not  speak  to  her;  but 
he  made  her  understand  by  a  significant  look  that  Gaston 
was  out  of  danger.  This  knowledge  contributed  more  toward 
Valentine's  recovery  than  all  the  medicines  administered  by 
the  doctor,  who,  after  visiting  her  daily  for  six  weeks,  at  length 
pronounced  his  patient  sufficiently  strong  to  bear  the  fatigues 
of  a  journey.  The  comtesse  had  waited  with  the  greatest  im- 
patience for  this  decision.  In  order  to  prevent  any  delay,  she 
had  already  realized  half  of  her  capital  at  a  loss,  and  said  to 
herself  that  the  sum  thus  raised,  some  twenty-five  thousand 
francs,  would  suffice  for  all  contingent  expenses.  For  a  fort- 
night she  had  been  calling  on  all  her  friends,  saying  that  as 
soon  as  her  daughter  had  recovered  her  health  she  meant  to 
take  her  to  England  to  visit  a  rich  old  relation,  who  had  ex- 
pressed a  wish  to  see  her. 

Valentine  looked  forward  to  this  journey  with  terror,  and 
shuddered  when  her  mother  said  to  her,  on  the  evening  that 
the  doctor  gave  her  permission  to  set  out:  "We  shall  start  the 
day  after  to-morrow."  Only  one  day  left !  And  Valentine 
had  been  unable  to  let  Louis  de  Clameran  know  that  his  brother 
was  still  living.  In  this  extremity  she  was  obliged  to  confide 
in  Mihonne,  and  sent  her  with  a  letter  to  Louis.  But  the 
faithful  servant  had  a  useless  walk.  The  chateau  of  Clameran 
was  deserted;  all  the  servants  had  been  dismissed,  and  M. 
Louis,  whom  they  now  called  the  marquis,  had  gone  away. 

At  last  they  started.  Madame  de  la  Verberie,  feeling  that 
she  could  trust  Mihonne,  decided  to  take  her  with  them,  after 
making  her  swear  eternal  secrecy.  It  was  in  a  little  village 
near  London  that  the  comtesse,  under  the  assumed  name  of 
Mrs.  Wilson,  took  up  her  abode  with  her  daughter  and  maid- 
servant. She  selected  England,  because  she  had  lived  there 
a  long  time,  and  was  well  acquainted  with  the  manners  and 
habits  of  the  people,  and  spoke  their  language  as  well  as 
she  did  her  own.  She  had  kept  up  an  acquaintance  with  some 
of  the  English  nobility,  and  often  dined  and  went  to  the 
theatre  with  her  friends  in  London.  On  these  occasions  she 
always  took  the  humiliating  precaution  of  locking  Valentine  in 
her  room.     It  was  in  their  sad,  solitary  house,  one  night  in 


FILE    NUMBER   113  1087 

the  month  of  May,  that  the  son  of  Valentine  de  la  Verberie 
was  born.  He  was  taken  to  the  parish  priest,  and  christened 
Valentin  Raoul  Wilson.  The  comtesse  had  prepared  everything, 
and  for  five  hundred  pounds  had  engaged  an  honest  farmer's 
wife  to  bring  the  child  up  as  her  own,  and,  when  old  enough, 
have  him  taught  a  trade.  Little  Raoul  was  handed  over  to  her 
a  few  hours  after  his  birth.  The  good  woman  thought  him 
the  child  of  an  English  lady,  and  there  seemed  no  probability 
that  he  would  ever  discover  the  secret  of  his  birth.  Restored 
to  consciousness,  Valentine  asked  for  her  child.  She  yearned 
to  clasp  it  to  her  bosom;  but  the  cruel  comtesse  was  pitiless. 
"Your  child !"  she  cried,  "I  do  not  know  what  you  mean ;  you' 
must  be  dreaming;  you  are  mad!"  And  as  Valentine  persisted, 
she  replied:  "Your  child  is  safe,  and  will  want  for  nothing; 
let  that  suffice.  You  must  forget  what  has  happened,  as  you 
would  forget  a  painful  dream.  The  past  must  be  wiped  out 
forever.  You  know  me  well  enough  to  understand  that  I  mean 
to  be  obeyed." 

The  moment  had  come  when  Valentine  ought  in  some  degree 
to  have  resisted  the  comtesse's  continually  increasing  tyranny. 
She  had  the  idea,  but  not  the  courage  to  do  so.  If,  on  one 
side,  she  saw  the  dangers  of  almost  culpable  resignation — for 
she,  too,  was  a  mother ! — on  the  other  she  felt  crushed  by  the 
consciousness  of  her  guilt.  She  yielded;  and  surrendered 
herself  forever  into  the  hands  of  a  mother  whose  conduct  she 
refrained  from  questioning,  to  escape  the  necessity  of  con- 
demning it.  So  much  suffering,  so  many  regrets  and  internal 
struggles,  for  a  long  time  delayed  her  recovery,  but  toward 
the  end  of  June,  the  comtesse  took  her  back  to  La  Verberie. 
This  time  the  mischief-makers  and  gossips  were  not  so  sharp 
as  usual.  The  comtesse  went  about,  complaining  of  the  bad 
success  of  her  trip  to  England,  and  was  able  to  assure  herself 
that  no  one  suspected  her  real  reason  for  the  journey.  Only 
one  man,  Dr.  Raget,  knew  the  truth ;  and,  although  Madame  de 
la  Verberie  hated  him  from  the  bottom  of  her  heart,  she  did 
him  the  justice  to  feel  sure  that  he  would  not  prove  indiscreet. 

Her  first  visit  was  paid  to  him.  When  he  entered  the  room, 
she  abruptly  threw  on  the  table  the  official  documents  which 
she  had  procured  especially  for  this  purpose.  "These  will 
prove  to  you,  sir,  that  the  child  is  living,  and  well  cared  for 
at  a  cost  that  I  can  ill  afford." — "These  are  perfectly  correct, 
madame,"   he   replied,   after  an  attentive  examination  of  the 


1088  FILE   NUMBER   113 

papers,  "and,  if  your  conscience  does  not  reproach  you,  of 
course  I  have  nothing  to  say." — "My  conscience  reproaches 
me  with  nothing,  sir." 

The  old  doctor  shook  his  head,  and  gazing  searchingly  into 
her  eyes,  retorted :  "Can  you  say  that  you  have  not  been  harsh, 
even  to  cruelty?"  She  turned  away  her  head,  and,  assuming 
her  grand  air,  answered:  "I  have  acted  as  a  woman  of  my 
rank  should  act;  and  I  am  surprised  to  find  in  you  an  advocate 
of  misconduct." 

"Ah,  madame,"  said  the  doctor,  "it  is  your  place  to  show 
kindness  to  the  poor  girl.  What  indulgence  do  you  expect  from 
strangers  toward  your  unhappy  daughter,  when  you,  her  mother, 
are  so  pitiless?" 

Such  plain  spoken  truths  were  more  than  the  comtesse 
cared  to  hear,  and  she  rose  to  leave.  "Is  that  all  that  you  have 
to  say  to  me,  Dr.  Raget?"  she  asked  haughtily.  "Yes,  madame; 
I  have  done.    My  only  object  was  to  spare  you  eternal  remorse." 

The  good  doctor  was  mistaken  in  his  idea  of  Madame  de 
la  Verberie's  character.  She  was  utterly  incapable  of  feeling 
remorse ;  but  she  suffered  cruelly  when  her  selfish  vanity  was 
wounded,  or  her  comfort  disturbed.  She  resumed  her  old 
mode  of  living,  but,  having  disposed  of  a  part  of  her  income, 
found  it  difficult  to  make  both  ends  meet.  This  furnished  her 
with  an  inexhaustible  text  for  complaint;  and  at  every  meal 
she  reproached  Valentine  most  unmercifully.  She  seemed  to 
forget  her  own  command,  that  the  past  should  be  buried  in 
oblivion,  and  constantly  recurred  to  it;  a  day  seldom  passed, 
without  her  saying  to  Valentine:  "Your  conduct  has  ruined  us." 

One  day  her  daughter  could  not  refrain  from  replying:  "I 
suppose  you  would  have  forgiven  me  had  it  enriched  us."  But 
these  revolts  on  Valentine's  part  were  rare,  although  her  life 
was  a  series  of  tortures  inflicted  with  most  refined  cruelty. 
Even  the  memory  of  Gaston  had  become  a  suffering.  Perhaps, 
discovering  the  uselessness  of  her  sacrifice,  of  her  courage,  and 
her  devotion  to  what  she  had  considered  her  duty,  she  regretted 
not  having  followed  him.  What  had  become  of  him?  Why 
had  he  not  contrived  to  send  her  a  letter,  a  word  to  let  her 
know  that  he  was  still  alive?  He  had  sworn  to  return  a  rich 
man  before  three  years  had  passed.  Would  he  ever  return? 
There  was  a  risk  in  his  returning  under  any  circumstances. 
His  disappearance  had  not  put  an  end  to  the  terrible  affair  at 
Tarascon.    He  was  supposed  to  be  dead;  but,  as  there  was  no 


FILE    NUMBER   113  1089 

positive  proof  of  his  death,  and  his  body  could  not  be  found, 
justice  was  compelled  to  listen  to  the  clamor  of  public  opinion. 
The  case  was  brought  before  the  assize  court ;  and  Gaston  de 
Clameran  was  sentenced  to  several  years'  imprisonment.  As 
to  Louis  de  Clameran,  no  one  knew  positively  what  had  be- 
come of  him.  Some  people  said  he  was  leading  a  life  of  reck- 
less extravagance  at  Paris.  Informed  of  these  facts  by  her 
faithful  Mihonne,  Valentine  became  more  hopeless  than  ever. 
All  her  energy  was  gone,  and  she  finally  reached  that  state 
of  passive  resignation  peculiar  to  people  who  are  constantly 
oppressed. 

In  this  miserable  way  four  years  passed  since  the  fatal  even- 
ing when  Gaston  had  escaped  in  old  Menoul's  boat.  Madame 
de  la  Verberie  had  spent  these  four  years  most  unprofitably. 
Seeing  that  she  could  not  live  upon  her  income,  and  having 
too  much  false  pride  to  sell  her  land,  which  was  so  badly 
managed  that  it  did  not  even  bring  her  in  two  per  cent,  she 
resigned  herself  to  borrowing  and  spent  her  capital  with  her 
income.  As  in  such  matters,  it  is  only  the  first  step  that  costs ; 
the  comtesse  soon  made  rapid  strides,  saying  to  herself,  like 
the  late  Marquis  de  Clameran :  "After  me,  the  deluge !"  She 
no  longer  thought  of  anything  but  taking  her  ease.  She  had 
frequent  "at  homes,"  and  paid  many  visits  to  the  neighboring 
towns  of  Nimes  and  Avignon ;  she  sent  to  Paris  for  the  most 
elegant  toilets,  and  indulged  her  taste  for  good  living.  She 
allowed  herself  all  the  luxury  that  she  had  hoped  to  obtain 
by  the  acquisition  of  a  rich  son-in-law.  Great  sorrows  require 
consolation !  The  first  year  after  she  returned  from  London 
she  did  not  hesitate  to  treat  herself  to  a  horse;  it  was  rather 
old.  to  be  sure,  but  when  harnessed  to  a  second-hand  carriage 
bought  on  credit  at  Beaucaire  made  quite  a  good  appearance. 
She  would  quiet  her  conscience,  which  occasionally  reproached 
her  for  this  constant  extravagance,  by  saying:  "I  am  so  un- 
happy !"  The  unhappiness  was  that  this  seeming  luxury  cost 
her  dear,  very  dear.  After  having  sold  the  rest  of  her  bonds, 
the  comtesse  first  mortgaged  the  estate  of  La  Verberie  and  then 
the  chateau  itself.  And  in  less  than  four  years  she  owed  more 
than  forty  thousand  francs,  and  was  unable  even  to  pay  the 
interest  of  her  debt. 

She  was  racking  her  mind  to  discover  some  means  of  escape 
from  her  difficulties,  when  chance  came  to  her  rescue.  For 
some  time  a  young  engineer,   employed  in   surveys  along  the 


1090  FILE   NUMBER   113 

Rhone,  had  made  the  village  close  to  La  Verberie  the  centre 
of  his  operations.  Being  handsome,  agreeable,  and  of  polished 
manners,  he  had  been  warmly  welcomed  by  the  neighboring 
society,  and  the  comtesse  frequently  met  him  at  the  houses  of 
her  friends  where  she  went  to  play  cards  of  an  evening.  This 
young  engineer  was  named  Andre  Fauvel.  The  first  time  he 
met  Valentine  he  was  struck  by  her  beauty,  and  after  once 
looking  into  her  large,  melancholy  eyes,  his  admiration  deep- 
ened into  love,  though  he  had  not  even  spoken  to  her.  He 
was  well  off ;  a  splendid  career  was  open  to  him ;  he  was  free ; 
and  he  swore  that  Valentine  should  be  his.  It  was  to  an  old 
friend  of  Madame  de  la  Verberie,  as  noble  as  a  Montmorency 
and  as  poor  as  Job,  that  he  first  confided  his  matrimonial  plans. 
With  the  precision  of  a  graduate  of  the  polytechnic  school,  he 
enumerated  all  his  qualifications  for  being  a  model  son-in-law. 
For  a  long  time  the  old  lady  listened  to  him  without  interrup- 
tion ;  but  when  he  had  finished  she  did  not  hesitate  to  tell  him 
that  his  pretensions  were  most  presumptuous.  What!  he,  a 
man  of  no  pedigree,  a  Fauvel,  a  common  surveyor,  to  aspire 
to  the  hand  of  a  La  Verberie!  After  having  enumerated  all 
the  superior  advantages  of  that  superior  order  of  beings,  the 
nobility,  she  condescended  to  take  a  common-sense  view  of  the 
case,  and  said:  "However,  you  may  succeed.  The  poor  com- 
tesse owes  money  in  every  direction;  scarcely  a  day  passes 
without  the  bailiffs  calling  upon  her;  so  that,  you  understand, 
if  a  rich  suitor  appeared,  and  agreed  to  her  terms  respecting  the 
settlements — well,  well,  there  is  no  knowing  what  might  happen." 
Andre  Fauvel  was  young;  the  old  lady's  insinuations  seemed 
to  him  odious.  On  reflection,  however,  when  he  had  studied 
the  character  of  the  nobility  of  the  neighborhood,  who  were 
rich  in  nothing  but  prejudices,  he  clearly  saw  that  pecuniary 
considerations  alone  would  be  strong  enough  to  induce  the 
proud  Comtesse  de  la  Verberie  to  grant  him  her  daughter's 
hand.  This  certainty  ended  his  hesitations,  and  he  turned  his 
whole  attention  to  devising  a  plan  for  presenting  his  claim. 
He  did  not  find  this  an  easy  thing  to  accomplish.  To  go  in 
quest  of  a  wife  with  her  purchase-money  in  his  hand  was  re- 
pugnant to  his  feelings,  and  contrary  to  his  ideas  of  delicacy. 
But  he  knew  no  one  who  could  undertake  the  matter  for  him, 
and  his  love  was  strong  enough  to  make  him  swallow  his  re- 
pugnance. The  occasion  so  anxiously  awaited,  to  explain  his 
intentions,  soon  presented  itself. 


FILE   NUMBER   113  1091 

One  day  as  he  entered  a  hotel  at  Beaucaire  to  dine,  he  saw 
Madame  de  la  Verberie  about  to  seat  herself  at  the  table.  He 
blushed  deeply,  and  asked  permission  to  sit  beside  her,  which 
was  granted  him  with  a  most  encouraging  smile.  Did  the 
comtesse  suspect  the  love  of  the  young  engineer?  Had  she 
been  warned  by  her  friend?  Perhaps  so.  At  any  rate,  with- 
out giving  Andre  time  to  gradually  approach  the  subject  weigh- 
ing on  his  mind,  she  began  to  complain  of  the  hard  times,  the 
scarcity  of  money,  and  the  grasping  meanness  of  the  trades  • 
people.  The  truth  is,  she  had  come  to  Beaucaire  to  borrow 
money,  and  had  found  every  cash-box  closed  against  her;  and 
her  lawyer  had  advised  her  to  sell  her  land  for  what  it  would 
bring.  Anger,  joined  to  that  secret  instinct  of  the  situation 
of  affairs  which  is  the  sixth  sense  of  a  woman,  loosened  her 
tongue,  and  made  her  more  communicative  to  this  comparative 
stranger  than  she  had  ever  been  to  her  bosom  friends.  She 
explained  to  him  the  horror  of  her  situation,  her  present  needs, 
her  anxiety  for  the  future,  and,  above  all,  her  great  distress  at 
not  being  able  to  marry  off  her  beloved  daughter.  Andre  lis- 
tened to  these  complaints  with  becoming  commiseration,  but 
in  reality  he  was  delighted.  Without  giving  her  time  to  finish 
her  tale,  he  began  to  state  what  he  called  his  view  of  the  mat- 
ter. He  said  that,  although  he  sympathized  deeply  with  the 
comtesse,  he  could  not  account  for  her  uneasiness  about  her 
daughter.  What?  Could  she  be  disturbed  at  having  no  dowry 
for  her?  Why,  the  rank  and  beauty  of  Mademoiselle  Valen- 
tine were  a  fortune,  in  themselves,  of  which  any  man  might  be 
proud.  He  knew  more  than  one  man  who  would  esteem  him- 
self only  too  happy  if  Mademoiselle  Valentine  would  accept 
his  name,  and  confer  upon  him  the  sweet  duty  of  relieving  her 
mother  from  all  anxiety  and  care.  Finally,  he  did  not  think 
the  situation  of  the  comtesse's  affairs  nearly  so  desperate  as  she 
imagined.  How  much  money  would  be  necessary  to  pay  off 
the  mortgages  upon  La  Verberie  ?  About  forty  thousand  francs, 
perhaps?  Indeed!  That  was  but  a  mere  trifle.  Besides,  this 
sum  would  not  be  a  gift  from  the  son-in-law,  but  only  a  loan, 
because  the  estate  would  be  his  in  the  end,  and  greatly  increased 
in  value.  A  man,  too,  worthy  of  Valentine's  love  could  never 
let  his  wife's  mother  want  for  the  comforts  and  luxuries  due 
to  a  lady  of  her  age,  rank,  and  misfortunes.  He  would  be 
only  to  glad  to  offer  her  a  sufficient  income,  not  only  to  provide 
comfort,  but  even  luxury. 


1092  FILE    NUMBER   113 

As  Andre  spoke  in  a  tone  too  earnest  to  be  assumed,  it 
seemed  to  the  comtesse  that  a  celestial  dew  was  dropping  upon 
her  pecuniary  wounds.  Her  countenance  was  radiant  with  joy, 
her  fierce  little  eyes  beamed  with  the  most  encouraging  ten- 
derness, her  thin  lips  were  wreathed  in  the  most  friendly  smiles. 
One  thought  alone  disturbed  the  young  engineer.  "Does  she 
understand  me?  Does  she  think  I'm  serious?"  he  wondered. 
She  certainly  did,  as  her  subsequent  remarks  proved.  "Alas !" 
she  sighed,  "forty  thousand  francs  will  not  save  La  Verberie; 
the  principal  and  interest  of  the  debt  amount  to  at  least  sixty 
thousand." 

"Oh,  either  forty  or  sixty  thousand  is  nothing  worth  speak- 
ing of." 

"Then  my  son-in-law,  the  phenix  we  are  supposing,  would  he 
have  the  forethought  to  provide  for  my  requirements?" 

"I  should  fancy  he  would  be  delighted  to  add  four  thousand 
francs  to  the  income  you  derive  from  your  estate." 

The  comtesse  did  not  reply  at  once;  she  was  calculating. 
"Four  thousand  francs  is  not  much,"  she  said  after  a  pause. 
"Everything  is  so  dear  in  this  part  of  the  country!  But  with 
six  thousand  francs — yes,  six  thousand  francs  would  make  me 
happy !" 

The  young  man  thought  that  her  demands  were  becoming  ex- 
cessive, but,  with  the  generosity  of  an  ardent  lover,  he  replied: 
"The  son-in-law  of  whom  we  are  speaking  would  not  be  very 
devoted  to  Mademoiselle  Valentine  if  the  paltry  sum  of  two 
thousand  francs  caused  him  to  hesitate." 

"You  promise  too  much !"  murmured  the  comtesse.  A  sud- 
den objection,  however,  occurred  to  her.  "But  this  imaginary 
son-in-law,"  she  remarked,  "must  be  possessed  of  the  means  to 
fulfil  his  promises.  I  have  my  daughter's  happiness  too  much 
at  heart  to  give  her  to  a  man  who  did  not  produce — what  do 
you  call  them? — securities,  guarantees." 

"Decidedly,"  thought  Fauvel  with  mortification,  "we  are  mak- 
ing a  bargain."  Then  he  added  aloud :  "Of  course,  your  son- 
in-law  would  bind  himself  in  the  marriage  contract  to — " 

"Never  ! — sir,  never  !  Think  of  the  impropriety  of  the  thing ! 
What  would  the  world  say?" 

"Excuse  me,  it  would  be  stated  that  it  was  the  interest  of  a 
sum  received  from  you." 

"Ah !  yes,  that  might  do  very  well." 

The  comtesse  insisted  upon  seeing  Andre  home  in  her  car- 


FILE   NUMBER   113  1093 

riage.  During  the  drive  no  definite  plan  was  agreed  upon  be- 
tween them;  but  they  understood  each  other  so  well  that,  when 
the  comtesse  set  the  young  engineer  down  at  his  own  door,  she 
invited  him  to  dinner  the  next  day,  and  held  out  her  skinny 
hand,  which  Andre  kissed  with  devotion  as  he  thought  of  Val- 
entine's pretty  eyes.  When  Madame  de  la  Verberie  returned 
home,  the  servants  were  dumb  with  astonishment  at  her  good 
humor;  they  had  not  seen  her  in  this  happy  frame  of  mind  for 
years.  And  her  day's  work  was  of  a  nature  to  elevate  her 
spirits:  she  had  been  most  unexpectedly  raised  from  a  very 
difficult  position  to  affluence.  "An  annuity  of  six  thousand 
francs,"  said  she  to  herself,  "and  a  thousand  crowns  from  the 
estate,  that  makes  nine  thousand  francs  a  year !  My  daughter 
will  live  in  Paris  after  she  is  married,  and  I  can  go  and  see 
my  dear  children  without  expense."  At  this  price  she  would 
have  sold  not  only  one  but  three  daughters,  if  she  had  pos- 
sessed them.  But  suddenly  her  blood  ran  cold  at  a  sudden 
thought  which  crossed  her  mind :  "Would  Valentine  consent  ?" 

Her  anxiety  to  set  her  mind  at  rest  sent  her  straightway  to 
her  daughter's  room.  She  found  Valentine  reading  by  the 
light  of  a  flickering  candle.  "My  daughter,"  she  said  abruptly, 
"a  young  man  of  whom  I  approve  has  demanded  your  hand  in 
marriage,  and  I  have  promised  it  to  him." 

At  this  startling  announcement,  Valentine  started  up:  "Im- 
possible !"  she  murmured,  "impossible !" 

"And  why,  if  you  please  ?" 

"Did  you  tell  him,  mother,  what  I  am?    Did  you  own — " 

"Your  past  folly  ?  No,  thank  heavens !  and  I  hope  you  will 
have  the  good  sense  to  keep  silent  on  the  subject." 

Although  Valentine's  spirit  was  completely  crushed  by  her 
mother's  tyranny,  her  sense  of  honor  revolted  at  the  idea.  "You 
certainly  would  not  wish  me  to  marry  an  honest  man,  mother, 
without  confessing  to  him  everything  connected  with  the  past? 
I  could  never  practise  a  deception  so  base." 

The  comtesse  felt  very  much  like  flying  into  a  passion ;  but 
she  knew  that  threats  would  be  of  no  avail  in  this  instance, 
where  resistance  would  be  a  matter  of  conscience  with  her 
daughter.  Instead  of  commanding,  she  entreated.  "Poor  child," 
she  said,  "my  poor  dear  Valentine,  if  you  only  knew  the  dread- 
ful state  of  our  affairs  you  would  not  talk  in  this  way.  Your 
folly  commenced  our  ruin;  to-day  it  is  complete.  Do  you  know 
that  our  creditors  threaten  to  turn  us  out  of  La  Verberie  ?    Then 


1094  FILE   NUMBER   113 

what  will  become  of  us,  my  poor  child?  Must  I  in  my  old  age 
go  begging  from  door  to  door?  We  are  utterly  lost,  and  this 
marriage  is  our  only  hope  of  salvation." 

These  tearful  entreaties  were  followed  by  plausible  argu- 
ments. The  dear  comtesse  made  use  of  strange  and  subtle 
theories.  What  she  formerly  regarded  as  a  monstrous  crime, 
she  now  spoke  of  as  a  peccadillo.  According  to  her,  girls  in 
Valentine's  position  were  to  be  met  with  every  day.  She  could 
understand,  she  said,  her  daughter's  scruples  if  there  were  any 
danger  of  the  past  being  brought  to  light;  but  she  had  taken 
such  precautions  that  there  was  no  fear  of  that.  Would  it  make 
her  love  her  husband  any  the  less?  No.  Would  he  be  less 
happy?  No.  Then  that  being  so,  why  hesitate?  Shocked,  be- 
wildered, Valentine  asked  herself  if  this  was  really  her  mother, 
the  haughty  woman  who  had  always  been  such  a  worshiper  of 
honor  and  duty,  who  now  contradicted  every  word  she  had 
uttered  during  her  life !  Valentine  could  not  understand  the 
sudden  change.  The  comtesse's  subtle  arguments  and  shameful 
sophistry  neither  moved  nor  convinced  her;  but  she  had  not 
the  courage  to  resist  the  tearful  entreaties  of  that  mother,  who 
ended  by  falling  on  her  knees,  and  with  clasped  hands  imploring 
her  child  to  save  her.  Violently  agitated,  distracted  by  a  thou- 
sand conflicting  emotions,  daring  neither  to  refuse  nor  to  prom- 
ise, fearing  the  consequences  of  a  decision  thus  forced  from 
her,  the  unhappy  girl  begged  her  mother  to  grant  her  a  few 
hours  to  reflect. 

Madame  de  la  Verberie  dared  not  refuse  this  request,  and 
acquiesced. 

"I  will  leave  you,  my  daughter,"  she  said,  "and  I  trust  your 
heart  will  tell  you  how  to  decide  between  a  useless  confession 
and  your  mother's  salvation."  With  these  words  she  left  the 
room,  indignant  but  hopeful. 

Placed  between  two  obligations  equally  sacred,  equally  bind- 
ing, but  diametrically  opposed,  Valentine's  troubled  mind  could 
no  longer  clearly  discern  the  path  of  duty.  Could  she  reduce 
her  mother  to  want  and  misery?  Could  she  basely  deceive  the 
confidence  and  love  of  an  honorable  man?  However  she  de- 
cided, her  future  life  would  be  one  of  suffering  and  remorse. 
Alas !  why  had  she  not  a  wise  and  kind  adviser  to  point  out 
the  right  course  to  pursue,  and  assist  her  in  struggling  against 
evil  influences?  Why  had  she  not  that  gentle,  discreet  friend 
who  had  helped  her  in  her  first  misfortunes,  old  Dr.  Raget? 


FILE   NUMBER   113  1095 

Formerly,  the  memory  of  Gaston  had  been  her  guiding  star; 
but  now  this  far-off  memory  was  nothing  but  a  sort  of  van- 
ishing dream.  In  romance  we  meet  with  heroines  of  life-long 
constancy ;  real  life  produces  few  such  miracles.  For  a  long  time 
Valentine's  mind  had  been  filled  with  the  image  of  Gaston.  As 
the  hero  of  her  dreams,  she  dwelt  fondly  on  his  memory;  but 
the  mists  of  time  had  gradually  dimmed  the  brilliancy  of  her 
idol,  which  was  now  no  more  than  a  cold  relic  at  the  bottom 
of  her  heart.  When  she  arose  the  next  morning,  pale  and  weak 
from  a  sleepless,  tearful  night,  she  was  almost  resolved  to  con- 
fess everything;  but  when  the  evening  came,  and  she  found 
herself  in  the  company  of  Andre  Fauvel,  and  in  the  presence 
of  her  mother's  alternately  threatening  and  supplicating  glances, 
her  courage  failed  her.  She  would  say  to  herself:  "I  will  tell 
him."  But  later  on  she  added:  "I  will  wait  till  to-morrow." 
The  comtesse  saw  all  these  struggles,  but  was  not  made  un- 
easy by  them.  She  knew  by  experience  that  when  a  painful 
duty  is  put  off  it  is  never  performed.  There  was,  perhaps,  some 
excuse  for  Valentine  in  the  horror  of  her  situation.  Perhaps, 
unknown  to  herself,  she  felt  a  faint  hope  arise  within  her. 
Any  marriage,  even  an  unhappy  one,  offered  the  prospect  of 
a  change,  of  a  new  life,  a  relief  from  the  insupportable  suf- 
fering she  was  then  enduring.  Sometimes,  in  her  ignorance  of 
human  life,  she  imagined  that  time  and  close  intimacy  would 
make  it  almost  easy  for  her  to  confess  her  terrible  fault,  and 
that  Andre  would  pardon  her  and  marry  her  all  the  same,  since 
he  loved  her  so  much.  That  he  sincerely  loved  her,  she  knew 
full  well.  It  was  not  the  impetuous  passion  of  Gaston,  with 
its  excitements  and  terrors,  but  a  calm,  steady,  and  perhaps 
more  lasting  affection,  obtaining  a  sort  of  blissful  rest  in  its 
legitimacy  and  constancy. 

Thus  Valentine  gradually  became  accustomed  to  Andre's  pres- 
ence, and  was  surprised  into  feeling  very  happy  at  the  constant 
delicate  attentions  and  affectionate  looks  that  he  lavished  upon 
her.  She  did  not  feel  any  love  for  him  yet ;  but  a  separation 
would  have  distressed  her  deeply.  During  the  courtship,  the 
comtesse's  conduct  was  a  masterpiece.  She  suddenly  ceased 
arguing  and  importuning,  and  with  tearful  resignation  said  she 
would  not  attempt  to  influence  her  daughter's  decision;  but  she 
went  about  sighing  and  groaning  as  if  she  were  on  the  eve 
of  starving  to  death.  She  also  made  arrangements  for  being 
tormented  by  the  bailiffs.     Distress-warrants  and  legal  notices 


1096  FILE   NUMBER   113 

poured  in  at  La  Verberie,  and  she  would  show  Valentine  all 
these  documents,  saying:  "God  grant  we  may  not  be  driven 
from  the  home  of  our  ancestors  before  your  marriage,  my  dar- 
ling!" Knowing  that  her  presence  was  sufficient  to  freeze  any 
confession  on  her  daughter's  lips,  she  never  left  her  alone  with 
Andre.  "Once  married,"  she  thought,  "they  can  settle  the  mat- 
ter to  please  themselves."  She  was  as  impatient  as  Andre,  and 
hastened  the  preparations  for  the  wedding.  She  gave  Valen- 
tine no  opportunity  for  reflection.  She  kept  her  constantly 
busy,  either  in  driving  to  town  to  purchase  some  article  of 
dress,  or  in  paying  visits. 

At  last  the  eve  of  the  wedding-day  found  the  comtesse  hope- 
ful, though  oppressed  with  anxiety,  like  the  gambler  playing 
for  a  high  stake.  On  this  evening,  for  the  first  time,  Valen- 
tine found  herself  alone  with  the  man  who  was  to  become  her 
husband.  It  was  twilight,  and  she  was  sitting  in  the  drawing- 
room,  miserable  and  trembling,  anxious  to  unburden  her  mind, 
when  Andre  entered.  Seeing  that  she  was  agitated,  he  pressed 
her  hand,  and  gently  begged  her  to  tell  him  the  cause  of  her 
sorrow.  "Am  I  not  your  best  friend,"  he  said,  "and  ought  I 
not  to  be  the  confidant  of  your  troubles,  if  you  have  any  ?  Why 
these  tears,  my  darling?" 

At  this  moment  she  was  on  the  point  of  confessing  every- 
thing. But  suddenly  she  perceived  the  scandal  that  would 
result,  the  pain  she  would  cause  Andre,  and  her  mother's  anger ; 
she  saw  her  own  future  life  ruined — she  exclaimed,  like  all 
young  girls  when  the  eventful  moment  draws  near:  "I  am 
afraid."  Imagining  that  she  was  merely  disturbed  by  some 
vague  fears,  he  tried  to  console  and  reassure  her;  but  he  was 
surprised  to  find  that  his  affectionate  words  only  seemed  to 
increase  her  distress.  But  already  Madame  de  la  Verberie 
came  to  interrupt  them :  they  were  wanted  to  sign  the  marriage 
contract.    Andre  Fauvel  was  left  in  ignorance. 

On  the  morrow,  a  lovely  spring  day,  Andre  Fauvel  and  Val- 
entine de  la  Verberie  were  married  at  the  village  church. 
Early  in  the  morning  the  chateau  was  filled  with  the  bride's 
friends,  who  came,  according  to  custom,  to  assist  at  her  wed- 
ding toilet.  Valentine  forced  herself  to  appear  calm,  even 
smiling;  but  her  face  was  whiter  than  her  veil — her  heart  was 
torn  by  remorse.  She  felt  as  though  the  sad  truth  were  written 
upon  her  brow,  and  that  her  white  dress  was  but  a  bitter  irony, 
a  galling  humiliation.     She  shuddered  when  her  most  intimate 


FILE   NUMBER    113 


1097 


friend  placed  the  wreath  of  orange-blossoms  upon  her  head. 
It  seemed  to  her  that  this  emblem  of  purity  would  burn  her. 
It  did  not  do  so,  but  one  of  the  wire  stems  of  the  flowers, 
badly  covered,  scratched  her  forehead,  which  bled  a  great  deal, 
and  a  drop  of  blood  fell  upon  her  dress.  What  an  evil  omen ! 
Valentine  almost  fainted.  But  presages  are  deceitful,  as  it 
proved  with  Valentine;  for  a  year  after  her  marriage  she  was, 
according  to  report,  the  happiest  of  wives.  Happy !  yes,  she 
would  have  been  completely  so  could  she  only  have  forgotten 
the  past.  Andre  adored  her.  He  had  gone  into  business,  and 
everything  succeeded  with  him.  But  he  wished  to  be  immensely 
rich,  not  for  himself,  but  for  the  wife  he  loved,  whom  he  longed 
to  surround  with  every  luxury.  Thinking  her  the  most  lovely, 
he  wished  to  see  her  the  most  adorned. 

Eighteen  months  after  her  marriage,  Madame  Fauvel  had 
a  son.  But,  alas !  neither  this  child,  nor  a  second  son,  born  a 
year  after,  could  make  her  forget  the  other  one — the  poor,  for- 
saken babe  whom,  for  a  sum  of  money,  a  stranger  had  consented 
to  receive.  Loving  her  children  passionately,  and  bringing 
them  up  like  the  sons  of  princes,  she  would  murmur  to  herself: 
"Who  knows  if  the  abandoned  one  has  even  bread  to  eat?"  If 
she  had  only  known  where  he  was ;  if  she  had  only  dared  in- 
quire ! — but  she  was  afraid.  Sometimes,  too,  she  would  be  uneasy 
about  Gaston's  jewels,  constantly  fearing  that  their  hiding-place 
would  be  discovered.  Other  times  she  would  say  to  herself: 
"1  may  as  well  be  tranquil ;  misfortune  has  forgotten  me."  Poor 
deluded  woman !  Misfortune  is  a  visitor  who  sometimes  delays 
his  visits,  but  always  comes  in  the  end. 


TOUIS  DE  CLAMERAN,  the  second  son  of  the  marquis,  was 
"■"^  one  of  those  self-controlled  men,  who  beneath  a  cool,  care- 
less manner,  conceal  a  fiery  temperament,  and  ungovernable 
passions.  Apparently  occupied  in  the  pursuit  of  pleasure,  this 
precocious  hypocrite  longed  for  a  larger  field  in  which  to  in- 
dulge his  evil  inclinations,  secretly  cursing  the  stern  necessity 


1098  FILE   NUMBER   113 

which  chained  him  down  to  this  dreary  country  life,  and  the 
old  chateau,  which  to  him  was  more  gloomy  than  a  prison,  and 
as  lifeless  as  the  grave.  The  paternal  authority,  though  gently 
exercised,  exasperated  his  rebellious  temper.  Louis  did  not  love 
his  father,  and  he  hated  his  brother  Gaston.  The  old  marquis, 
in  his  culpable  thoughtlessness,  had  kindled  this  burning  envy 
in  the  heart  of  his  second  son.  A  strict  observer  of  traditional 
rights,  he  had  always  declared  that  the  eldest  son  of  a  noble 
house  should  inherit  all  the  family  possessions,  and  that  he 
intended  to  leave  Gaston  his  entire  fortune.  Gaston  always  said 
that  he  would  never  consent  to  profit  by  this  paternal  partiality, 
but  would  share  equally  with  his  brother.  Judging  others  by 
himself,  Louis  placed  no  faith  in  this  assertion,  which  he  called 
an  ostentatious  affectation  of  generosity.  Although  this  hatred 
was  unsuspected  by  the  marquis  and  Gaston,  it  was  betrayed  by 
acts  significant  enough  to  attract  the  attention  of  the  servants. 
They  were  so  fully  aware  of  Louis's  sentiments  toward  his 
brother  that,  when  the  latter  was  prevented  from  escaping  be- 
cause of  the  stumbling  horse,  they  refused  to  believe  it  an 
accident,  and  muttered  under  their  breath  the  word:  "Fratri- 
cide !"  A  deplorable  scene  took  place  between  Louis  and  Jean, 
who  was  allowed,  on  account  of  his  fifty  years'  faithful  service, 
to  take  liberties  which  he  sometimes  abused  by  making  rough 
speeches  to  his  superiors. 

"It  is  a  great  pity,"  said  the  old  servant,  "that  a  skilful  rider 
like  yourself  should  have  fallen  at  the  very  moment  when  your 
brother's  safety  depended  upon  your  good  horsemanship.  La 
Verdure  did  not  fall."  At  this  broad  insinuation,  Louis  turned 
pale,  and  threateningly  exclaimed :  "You  insolent  scoundrel, 
what  do  you  mean?" — "You  know  well  enough  what  I  mean, 
sir,"  the  old  man  replied  significantly. — "I  do  not  know !  Ex- 
plain yourself." 

The  servant  only  answered  by  a  meaning  look,  which  so  in- 
censed Louis  that  he  rushed  toward  him  with  upraised  whip, 
and  would  have  beaten  him  unmercifully,  had  not  the  other 
servants  interfered,  and  dragged  Jean  from  the  spot.  This 
altercation  occurred  while  Gaston  was  in  the  madder-field  try- 
ing to  escape  his  pursuers.  After  a  while,  the  gendarmes  and 
hussars  returned,  with  slow  tread  and  sad  faces,  and  announced 
that  Gaston  de  Clameran  had  plunged  into  the  Rhone  and  was 
most  certainly  drowned.  This  melancholy  news  was  received 
with  groans  and  tears  by  every  one  save  Louis,  who  remained 


FILE   NUMBER    113  1099 

calm  and  unmoved — not  a  single  muscle  of  his  face  quivered : 
but  his  eyes  sparkled  with  triumph.  A  secret  voice  cried  within 
him:  "Now  you  are  assured  of  the  family  possessions,  and  a 
marquis's  coronet." 

The  corporal  of  the  gendarmes  had  said:  "I  would  not  be 
the  one  to  tell  the  poor  old  man  that  his  son  is  drowned."  Louis 
felt  none  of  the  tender-hearted  scruples  of  the  brave  old  soldier. 
He  instantly  went  to  his  father's  sick-room,  and  said,  in  a  firm 
voice :  "Between  disgrace  and  death,  my  brother  has  chosen :  he 
is  dead." 

Like  a  sturdy  oak  stricken  by  lightning,  the  marquis  tottered 
and  fell  when  these  fatal  words  sounded  in  his  ears.  The 
doctor  soon  arrived,  but,  alas  !  only  to  say  that  science  was  of 
no  avail.  Toward  daybreak,  Louis,  without  a  tear,  received 
his  father's  last  sigh.  Louis  was  now  the  master.  All  the  un- 
just precautions  taken  by  the  marquis  to  elude  the  law,  and 
ensure  beyond  dispute  the  possession  of  his  entire  fortune  to  his 
eldest  son,  turned  against  him.  By  means  of  a  fraudulent  deed 
of  trust  drawn  by  his  dishonest  lawyer,  M.  de  Clameran  had 
disposed  everything  so  that,  on  the  day  of  his  death,  every 
farthing  he  owned  would  be  Gaston's.  It  was  Louis  who  bene- 
fited by  this  precaution.  He  came  into  possession  without  even 
being  called  upon  for  the  certificate  of  his  brother's  death.  He 
was  now  Marquis  de  Clameran ;  he  was  free,  he  was  compara- 
tively rich.  He  who  had  never  had  twenty-five  crowns  in  his 
pocket  at  a  time,  now  found  himself  the  possessor  of  close  upon 
two  hundred  thousand  francs.  This  sudden  and  most  unex- 
pected fortune  so  completely  turned  his  head  that  he  forgot  his 
skilful  dissimulation.  His  demeanor  at  the  funeral  of  the  mar- 
quis attracted  general  notice.  He  followed  the  coffin,  with  his 
head  bowed  down  and  his  face  buried  in  a  handkerchief ;  but 
his  looks  belied  him,  his  face  was  beaming,  and  one  could  trace 
a  smile  beneath  the  grimaces  of  his  feigned  grief.  The  day 
after  the  funeral,  Louis  sold  off  everything  that  could  be  dis- 
posed of — horses,  carriages,  and  family  plate.  The  next  day 
he  discharged  all  the  old  servants,  who  had  hoped  to  end  their 
days  beneath  the  hospitable  roof  of  Clameran.  Several,  with 
tears  in  their  eyes,  took  him  aside,  and  entreated  him  to  let 
them  stay,  even  without  wages.  He  roughly  ordered  them  to 
be  gone.  He  sent  for  his  father's  lawyer,  and  gave  him  a  power 
of  attorney  to  sell  the  estate,  and  received  in  return  the  sum 
of  twenty  thousand  francs  as  the  first  payment  in  advance.    At 


1100  FILE   NUMBER   113 

the  end  of  the  week,  he  locked  up  the  chateau,  with  a  vow 
never  to  enter  it  again,  and  left  the  keys  with  Jean,  who, 
owning  a  little  house  near  Clameran,  would  continue  to  live  in. 
the  neighborhood. 

Poor  Jean !  little  did  he  think  that,  in  preventing  Valentine 
from  seeing  Louis,  he  had  ruined  the  prospects  of  his  beloved 
Gaston.  On  receiving  the  keys,  he  asked  but  one  question: 
"Shall  we  not  search  for  your  brother's  body,  sir?"  he  inquired 
in  broken-hearted  tones.  "And,  if  it  is  found,  what  is  to  be 
done  with  it?" — "I  shall  leave  instructions  with  my  lawyer," 
answered  Louis.  And  he  hurried  away  from  Clameran  as  if 
the  ground  burned  his  feet.  He  went  to  Tarascon,  where  he 
had  already  forwarded  his  luggage,  and  took  the  stage-coach 
which  traveled  between  Marseilles  and  Paris,  the  railroad  not 
then  being  finished. 

At  last  he  was  off.  The  lumbering  vehicle  rattled  along, 
drawn  by  six  horses ;  and  the  deep  gullies  made  by  the  wheels 
seemed  so  many  abysses  between  the  past  and  the  future. 
Lying  back  in  his  corner,  Louis  de  Clameran  enjoyed  in  antic- 
ipation the  pleasures  of  which  he  was  about  to  partake.  At 
the  end  of  the  journey,  Paris  appeared  before  him — radiant, 
brilliantly  dazzling  as  the  sun.  There,  all  ambitions  are 
crowned,  all  dreams  are  realized,  all  passions,  all  desires,  good 
and  evil,  are  satisfied.  In  twenty  theatres  tragedy  weeps,  or 
comedy  laughs;  while  at  the  opera,  the  most  beautiful  women 
in  the  world,  sparkling  with  diamonds,  are  ready  to  die  with 
ecstasy  at  the  sound  of  divine  music ;  everywhere  noise,  excite- 
ment, luxury,  and  pleasure.  What  a  dream !  The  heart  of 
Louis  de  Clameran  was  overflowing  with  desire ;  and  it  seemed 
to  him  that  the  horses  crawled  along  like  tortoises.  What  mat- 
tered it  to  him  how  his  father  and  brother  had  died?  He  was 
young,  rich,  handsome,  and  a  marquis;  he  had  a  constitution 
of  iron ;  he  carried  twenty  thousand  francs  in  his  pocket,  and 
would  soon  have  ten  times  as  many  more.  He,  who  had  always 
been  poor,  regarded  this  sum  as  an  inexhaustible  treasure;  and 
at  nightfall,  when  he  jumped  from  the  coach  on  to  the  muddy 
pavement  of  the  brilliantly  lighted  Paris  street,  he  seemed  to 
be  taking  possession  of  the  great  city,  and  felt  as  though  he 
could  buy  everything  in  it.  His  illusions  were  those  common  to 
all  young  men  who,  never  having  been  thrown  upon  their  own 
resources,  suddenly  come  into  possession  of  a  patrimony.  Im- 
bued with  his  own  importance,  accustomed  to  the  deference  of 


FILE    NUMBER   113  1101 

the  country  people,  the  young  marquis  came  to  Paris  with  the 
expectation  of  being  a  lion,  on  account  of  his  name  and  fortune. 
To  his  great  surprise,  he  learned  that  he  possessed  nothing 
which  constituted  a  position  in  this  immense  city.  He  found 
that  in  the  midst  of  the  busy,  indifferent  crowd,  he  was  as  much 
lost  and  unnoticed  as  a  drop  of  water  in  a  torrent. 

But  this  not  very  flattering  reality  could  not  discourage  a 
man  who  was  determined  to  gratify  his  passions  at  all  costs. 
His  ancestral  name  gained  him  but  one  privilege,  disastrous 
for  his  future;  it  opened  to  him  the  doors  of  the  aristocratic 
Faubourg  St.  Germain.  There  he  became  acquainted  with  men 
of  his  own  age  and  rank,  whose  annual  incomes  almost  equaled 
his  entire  fortune.  Nearly  all  of  them  confessed  that  they  only 
kept  up  their  extravagant  style  of  living  by  dint  of  skilful 
economy  behind  the  scenes,  and  by  regulating  their  vices  and 
follies  as  judiciously  as  a  hosier  would  arrange  his  Sunday 
holidays.  This  information  astonished  Louis,  but  did  not  open 
his  eyes.  He  endeavored  to  imitate  the  dashing  style  of  these 
economically  wasteful  young  men,  without  attempting  to  con- 
form to  their  prudential  rules.  He  learned  how  to  spend,  but 
not  how  to  reckon  as  they  did.  At  the  club  where  he  was  pro- 
posed and  elected  shortly  after  his  arrival,  he  found  several 
obliging  persons  who  took  pleasure  in  initiating  him  into  the 
secrets  of  fashionable  life,  and  correcting  any  little  provincial- 
isms betrayed  in  his  manners  and  conversation.  He  profited 
well  and  quickly  by  their  lessons.  At  the  end  of  three  months 
he  was  fairly  launched;  his  reputation  as  a  skilful  gambler  was< 
fully  established;  and  he  had  nobly  and  gloriously  compromised 
himself  with  one  of  the  fast  women  of  the  day.  He  had  rented 
handsome  apartments  in  the  vicinity  of  the  Madeleine,  with  a 
coach-house  and  stabling  for  three  horses.  Although  he  only 
furnished  this  bachelor's  establishment  with  what  was  absolutely 
necessary,  he  found  that  necessaries  were  very  costly;  so  that 
the  day  he  took  possession  of  his  apartments,  and  tried  to  make 
up  his  accounts,  he  made  the  startling  discovery  that  his  short 
apprenticeship  in  Paris  had  cost  him  fifty  thousand  francs, 
one-fourth  of  his  fortune.  And  yet  he  remained,  when  com- 
pared to  his  brilliant  friends,  in  a  state  of  inferiority  which 
was  mortifying  to  his  vanity,  like  a  worthy  countryman  who 
strains  every  nerve  to  make  his  nag  keep  up  with  thorough- 
breds. Fifty  thousand  francs !  For  a  moment  Louis  had  a 
slight  inclination  to  retire  from  the  contest.    But  then,  what  a 


1102  FILE    NUMBER    113 

come  down !  Besides,  his  vices  bloomed  and  flourished  in 
these  charming  surroundings.  He  had  heretofore  considered 
himself  wonderfully  fast,  and  now  a  host  of  new  corruptions 
were  revealed  to  him.  Then  the  sight  of  suddenly  acquired 
fortunes,  and  the  many  examples  of  the  successful  results  of 
hazardous  ventures,  inflamed  his  mind.  He  thought  that  in  this 
great,  rich  city,  he  certainly  could  succeed  in  securing  a  share 
of  the  loaves  and  fishes.  But  how?  He  had  no  idea,  and  he 
did  not  seek  to  find  one.  He  simply  persuaded  himself  that, 
like  many  others,  he  would  have  his  lucky  day.  In  this  furious 
race  of  self-interest  it  requires  great  skill  to  bestride  that 
capricious  mare  called  opportunity,  and  ride  her  to  the  goal. 
But  Louis  did  not  devote  so  much  thought  to  the  matter.  As 
stupid  as  the  man  who  expected  to  win  the  prize  at  the  lottery 
without  having  purchased  a  ticket,  he  said  to  himself :  "Pshaw ! 
opportunity — chance — a  rich  marriage  will  set  me  right  again !" 
The  rich  bride  failed  to  appear,  but  the  turn  of  the  last  bank- 
note arrived.  To  a  pressing  demand  for  money,  his  notary  re- 
plied by  a  refusal.  "You  have  nothing  left  to  sell,  sir,"  he 
wrote,  "with  the  exception  of  the  chateau.  It  is  no  doubt  very 
valuable ;  but  it  is  difficult,  if  not  impossible,  to  find  a  purchaser 
for  so  large  a  building  situated  as  it  is  now.  I  will  use  every 
effort  to  secure  a  purchaser;  and,  believe  me,  sir,"  etc.  Louis 
was  thunderstruck  at  this  final  catastrophe,  as  much  surprised 
as  if  he  had  not  foreseen  it.  What  was  he  to  do  ?  But  Louis  could 
not  give  up  the  life  of  ease  and  pleasure  which  he  had  been 
leading  for  the  past  three  years.  He  first  of  all  lived  on  the 
reputation  of  his  dissipated  fortune — on  the  credit  that  remains 
to  the  man  who  has  spent  much  in  a  short  space  of  time.  This 
resource  was  soon  exhausted.  The  day  came  when  his  credi- 
tors seized  all  they  could  lay  their  hands  upon — the  last  remains 
of  his  opulence,  his  carriages,  horses,  and  costly  furniture.  He 
retired  to  a  very  quiet  hotel,  but  he  could  not  keep  away  from 
the  wealthy  set  whom  he  had  considered  his  friends.  He  now 
lived  upon  them  as  he  had  lived  upon  his  tradesmen,  borrow- 
ing from  one  louis  up  to  twenty-five,  from  anybody  who  would 
lend  to  him,  and  never  attempting  to  repay  them.  Constantly 
betting,  no  one  ever  saw  him  pay  a  wager.  He  piloted  all  the 
novices  who  fell  into  his  hands,  and  utilized,  in  the  most  shame- 
ful services,  an  experience  which  had  cost  him  two  hundred 
thousand  francs :  he  was  half  a  courtier,  and  half  an  adventurer. 
His  acquaintances  did  not  cut  him,  but  made  him  cruelly  expiate 


FILE    NUMBER    113  1103 

the  favor  of  being  tolerated.  No  one  had  the  least  regard  for  his 
feelings,  or  hesitated  to  say  before  him  what  was  thought  of  his 
conduct ;  therefore,  whenever  alone  in  his  little  den,  he  would 
give  way  to  fits  of  violent  rage.  Envy  and  covetousness  had  long 
since  stifled  every  sentiment  of  honor  and  self-respect  in  him. 
For  a  few  years  of  opulence,  he  felt  ready  to  commit  even  a  crime. 

He  did  not  commit  a  crime,  however,  but  he  became  mixed 
up  in  a  disgraceful  affair  of  swindling  and  extortion.  The 
Comte  de  Commarin,  an  old  friend  of  his  family,  came  to  his 
assistance,  hushed  up  the  matter,  and  furnished  him  with  money 
to  take  him  to  England.  And  what  were  his  means  of  liveli- 
hood in  London?  The  detectives  of  the  most  corrupt  capital 
in  the  world  could  alone  tell  us.  Descending  to  the  lowest 
stages  of  vice,  the  Marquis  de  Clameran  finally  found  his  level 
in  a  society  composed  ot  fallen  women  and  of  sharpers,  whose 
chances  and  shameful  profits  he  shared.  Compelled  to  quit 
London,  he  traveled  about  Europe,  with  no  other  capital  than 
his  audacity,  his  deep  depravity,  and  his  skill  at  cards.  Finally, 
in  1865,  having  met  a  run  of  good  luck  at  Homburg,  he  re- 
turned to  Paris,  where  he  imagined  himself  entirely  forgotten. 
Eighteen  years  had  passed  since  he  left  France.  The  first  step 
which  he  took  on  his  return,  before  even  settling  himself  in 
Paris,  was  to  make  a  visit  to  his  old  home.  Not  that  he  had 
any  relative  or  even  friend  in  that  part  of  the  country,  from 
whom  he  could  expect  any  assistance;  but  he  remembered  the 
old  chateau  which  his  notary  had  been  unable  to  sell.  He 
thought  that  perhaps  by  this  time  a  purchaser  had  appeared,  and 
he  determined  to  go  himself  and  ascertain  the  point ;  he  thought, 
too,  that  once  in  the  neighborhood,  he  would  always  be  able  to 
get  something  for  his  property,  which  had  cost  more  than  a 
hundred  thousand  francs  to  build. 

Three  days  later,  on  a  beautiful  October  evening,  he  reached 
Tarascon,  and  there  learned  that  he  was  still  the  owner  of  the 
chateau.  Early  the  next  morning,  he  set  out  on  to  foot  to  visit 
the  paternal  home  at  Clameran,  which  he  had  not  seen  for 
twenty-five  years.  Everything  was  so  changed  that  he  scarcely 
recognized  the  locality  where  he  was  born,  and  where  he  passed 
his  youth ;  yet  the  impression  was  so  strong  that  this  man,  tried 
by  such  varied,  strange  adventures,  for  a  moment  felt  like  turn- 
ing back.  As  Louis  advanced,  however,  the  changes  appeared 
less  striking;  he  began  to  recognize  the  ground.  Soon,  through 
the  trees,  he  distinguished  the  village  steeple,  then  the  village 


1104  FILE   NUMBER    113 

itself,  built  upon  the  gentle  slope  of  a  hill,  crowned  by  a  wood 
of  olive  trees.  He  recognized  the  first  houses  he  came  to;  the 
farrier's  shed,  with  its  roof  covered  with  vine;  the  old  parson- 
age, and  farther  on  the  village  inn,  where  he  and  Gaston  used 
to  play  billiards  on  its  primitive  table.  In  spite  of  what  he 
styled  his  scorn  of  vulgar  prejudices,  a  thrill  of  strange  emotion 
oppressed  his  heart.  He  could  not  overcome  a  feeling  of  sad- 
ness as  scenes  of  the  past  rose  up  before  him.  How  many 
events  had  occurred  since  he  last  walked  along  this  path,  and 
received  a  friendly  bow  and  smile  from  every  villager!  Then, 
life  appeared  to  him  like  a  fairy  scene  in  which  his  every  wish 
was  gratified.  And  now,  he  returned,  dishonored,  worn  out, 
disgusted  with  the  realities  of  life,  having  tasted  the  bitter  dregs 
of  the  cup  of  shame,  stigmatized,  poverty-stricken,  and  friend- 
less, with  nothing  to  lose  and  nothing  to  look  forward  to. 

Upon  reaching  Jean's  house,  he  found  the  door  open;  he 
walked  into  the  immense  kitchen,  with  its  monumental  fireplace, 
and  rapped  on  the  table.  "Coming!"  answered  a  voice  from 
another  room.  The  next  moment  a  man  of  about  forty  years 
appeared  in  the  doorway,  and  seemed  much  surprised  at  finding 
a  stranger  in  his  kitchen.  "What  do  you  desire,  sir?"  he  in- 
quired.— "Does  not  Jean,  the  Marquis  de  Clameran's  old  valet, 
live  here?" — "My  father  died  five  years  ago,  sir,"  replied  the 
man  in  a  sad  tone. 

This  news  affected  Louis  painfully,  as  if  he  had  expected  the 
old  man  to  restore  him  some  of  his  lost  youth.  He  sighed,  and 
said:  "I  am  the  Marquis  de  Clameran."  The  man,  at  these 
words,  uttered  an  exclamation  of  joy.  He  seized  Louis's  hand, 
and  pressing  it  with  respectful  affection,  cried:  "You  are  the 
marquis !  Alas !  why  is  not  my  poor  father  alive  to  see  you  ? 
— he  would  be  so  happy !  He  is  beneath  the  sod  now,  resting 
after  a  well-spent  life;  but  I,  Joseph,  his  son,  am  here  to  take 
his  place,  and  devote  my  life  to  your  service.  What  an  honor 
it  is  to  have  you  in  my  house !  Ah !  my  wife  will  be  so  happy 
to  see  you;  she  has  all  her  life  heard  of  the  De  Clamerans." 
Here  he  ran  into  the  garden,  and  called :  "  'Toinette !  I  say, 
Toinette ! — Come  here  quickly !" 

This  cordial  welcome  delighted  Louis.  So  many  years  had 
gone  by  since  he  had  been  treated  with  an  expression  of  kind- 
ness, or  felt  the  pressure  of  a  friendly  hand.  In  a  few  moments 
a  handsome,  dark-eyed  young  woman  entered  the  room,  and 
stood  blushing  with  confusion  at  sight  of  the  stranger.    "This 


FILE   NUMBER   113  1105 

is  my  wife,  sir,"  said  Joseph,  leading  her  toward  Louis;  "but 
I  have  not  given  her  time  to  put  on  her  finery.  This  is  Mon- 
sieur le  Marquis,  Antoinette."  The  young  wife  bowed,  and 
having  nothing  to  say,  gracefully  uplifted  her  brow,  upon  which 
the  marquis  pressed  a  kiss.  "You  will  see  the  children  in  a 
few  minutes,  Monsieur  le  Marquis,"  said  Joseph;  "I  have  sent 
to  the  school  for  them." 

The  worthy  couple  overwhelmed  the  marquis  with  attentions. 
After  so  long  a  walk  he  must  be  hungry,  they  said:  he  must 
take  a  glass  of  wine  now,  and  lunch  would  soon  be  ready ;  they 
would  be  so  proud  and  happy  if  Monsieur  le  Marquis  would 
partake  of  a  country  lunch.  And  Joseph  went  to  the  cellar 
after  the  wine,  while  'Toinette  ran  to  catch  her  fattest  pullet. 
In  a  short  time,  Louis  sat  down  to  a  table  laden  with  the  best 
of  everything,  waited  upon  by  Joseph  and  his  wife,  who  watched 
him  with  tender  interest.  The  children  came  running  in  from 
school,  smeared  with  the  juice  of  berries.  After  Louis  had  em- 
braced them,  they  stood  in  a  corner  and  gazed  at  him  with  eyes 
wide  open.  The  important  news  had  spread,  and  a  number  of 
villagers  and  countrymen  appeared  at  the  open  door  to  speak 
to  the  Marquis  de  Clameran. 

"I  am  such  a  one,  Monsieur  le  Marquis;  don't  you  remem- 
ber me  ?  Ah !  I  recognized  you  at  once.  The  late  marquis  was 
very  good  to  me,"  said  an  old  man.  Another  asked:  "Don't 
you  remember  the  time  when  you  lent  me  your  gun  to  go  shoot- 
ing?" Louis  welcomed  with  secret  delight  all  these  protesta- 
tions and  proofs  of  devotion,  which  had  not  chilled  with  time. 
The  kindly  voices  of  these  honest  people  recalled  many  pleas- 
ant moments  of  the  past,  and  made  him  feel  once  more  the 
fresh  sensations  of  his  youth.  He,  the  adventurer,  the  bully, 
the  base  accomplice  of  London  swindlers,  delighted  in  these 
marks  of  respect  and  veneration  bestowed  upon  him  as  the 
representative  of  the  house  of  De  Clameran ;  it  seemed  to  make 
him  once  more  feel  a  little  self-respect.  Ah !  had  he  possessed 
only  a  quarter  of  his  squandered  inheritance,  how  happy  he 
would  have  been  to  peacefully  end  his  days  in  his  native  vil- 
lage! But  this  rest  after  so  many  vain  excitements,  this 
haven  after  so  many  storms  and  shipwrecks,  was  denied  him. 
He  was  penniless.  How  could  he  live  here  when  he  had  noth- 
ing to  live  upon?  This  knowledge  of  his  pressing  need  gave 
him  courage  to  ask  Joseph  for  the  keys  of  the  chateau,  that 
he  might  go  and  examine  it 

Gab. ol.  IV  I 


1106  FILE   NUMBER    113 

"You  won't  need  any  key,  except  the  one  to  the  iron  gate, 
Monsieur  le  Marquis,"  replied  Joseph.  It  was  but  too  true. 
Time  had  done  its  work,  and  the  lordly  chateau  of  Clameran 
was  nothing  but  a  ruin.  The  rain  and  sun  had  rotted  the 
doors  and  shutters  so  that  they  were  crumbling  and  dilapi- 
dated. Here  and  there  were  traces  of  the  friendly  hands  of 
Jean  and  his  son,  who  had  tried  to  retard  the  total  ruin  of  the 
old  chateau;  but  what  use  were  their  efforts?  All  of  the  furni- 
ture which  Louis  had  not  dared  to  sell  stood  in  the  position 
he  left  it,  but  in  what  a  state !  All  the  tapestry  hangings  and 
coverings  were  moth-eaten  and  in  tatters ;  nothing  seemed  left 
but  the  dust-covered  woodwork  of  the  chairs  and  sofas.  Louis 
was  almost  afraid  to  enter  the  grand,  gloomy  rooms,  where 
every  footfall  echoed  lugubriously.  He  almost  expected  to  see 
the  angry  old  marquis  start  up  from  some  dark  corner,  and 
heap  curses  on  his  head  for  having  dishonored  the  name.  His 
nerves  could  not  bear  it,  and  he  hurried  out  into  the  open  air 
and  sunshine.  After  a  while,  he  recovered  sufficiently  to  re- 
member the  object  of  his  visit. 

"Poor  Jean  was  foolish  not  to  make  use  of  the  furniture  left 
in  the  chateau.  It  is  now  destroyed  without  having  been  of 
use  to  any  one." — "My  father  would  not  have  dared  to  touch 
anything  without  permission,  Monsieur  le  Marquis." — "And 
he  was  wrong.  As  for  the  chateau,  it  is  fast  approaching  the 
condition  of  the  furniture.  My  fortune,  I  regret  to  say,  does 
not  permit  me  to  repair  it;  I  am,  therefore,  resolved  to  sell  it 
while  the  walls  are  still  standing."  Joseph  received  this  infor- 
mation very  much  as  a  proposal  to  commit  a  sacrilege;  but  he 
was  not  bold  of  speech,  like  his  father,  so  he  dared  not  express 
what  he  thought. 

"Would  there  be  much  difficulty  in  selling  these  ruins?"  con- 
tinued Louis. — "That  depends  upon  the  price  you  ask,  Monsieur 
le  Marquis.  I  know  a  man  of  the  neighborhood  who  would 
purchase  the  lot  if  he  could  get  it  cheap." — "Who  is  he?" — 
"A  person  named  Fougeroux,  who  lives  on  the  other  side  of 
the  Rhone,  at  Montagnette.  He  came  from  Beaucaire,  and 
twelve  years  ago  married  a  servant-maid  of  the  late  Comtesse 
de  la  Verberie.  Perhaps  Monsieur  le  Marquis  remembers  her 
— a  plump,  bright-eyed  brunette,  named  Mihonne."  Louis  did 
not  remember  Mihonne.  "When  can  we  see  this  Fougeroux?" 
he  inquired. — "At  any  time,  by  crossing  the  Rhone  on  the 
ferry." — "Well,  let  us  go  now.     I  am  in  a  hurry." 


FILE   NUMBER    113  1107 

An  entire  generation  had  passed  away  since  Louis  had  left 
his  old  home.  It  was  no  longer  the  old  republican  sailor, 
Pilorel,  who  kept  the  ferry,  but  his  son.  But  he  also  had  a 
respect  for  tradition ;  and  when  he  learned  the  name  of  the 
stranger  who  accompanied  Joseph,  he  hastily  got  his  boat  ready, 
and  was  soon  in  the  middle  of  the  river  with  his  two  pas- 
sengers. While  young  Pilorel  rowed  with  all  his  might,  Joseph 
did  his  best  to  warn  the  marquis  against  the  wily  Fougeroux. 
"He  is  a  cunning  fox,"  said  he.  "I  have  had  a  bad  opinion  of 
him  ever  since  his  marriage,  which  was  a  shameful  affair  alto- 
gether. Mihonne  was  over  fifty  years  of  age,  and  he  was  not 
twenty-five  when  he  married  her;  so  you  will  understand  it 
was  the  money,  and  not  the  wife,  that  he  wanted.  She,  poor 
fool,  believed  that  the  young  scamp  really  loved  her,  and  gave 
herself  and  her  money  up  to  him." — "And  he  has  made  good 
use  of  it,"  interrupted  Pilorel. 

"That  is  true.  Fougeroux  is  not  the  man  to  let  the  money 
lie  idle.  He  is  now  very  rich;  but  he  ought,  at  least,  to  be 
thankful  to  Mihonne  for  his  prosperity.  One  can  easily  under- 
stand his  not  feeling  any  love  for  her,  when  she  looks  like  his 
grandmother ;  but  that  he  should  deprive  her  of  everything  and 
beat  her  cruelly  is  shameful." — "He  would  like  to  know  her 
six  feet  under  ground,"  said  the  ferryman. — "And  he  will  see 
her  there  before  long.  She  has  been  half  dead,  the  poor  old 
woman,  ever  since  Fougeroux  brought  home  a  worthless  jade, 
whose  servant  she  has  become." 

They  had  reached  the  opposite  shore;  Joseph  and  the  mar- 
quis asked  young  Pilorel  to  await  their  return,  and  then  took 
the  road  to  Montagnette.  They  soon  arrived  at  a  well-culti- 
vated farm,  and  Joseph,  having  inquired  for  the  master,  a  farm 
boy  said  that  "M.  Fougeroux"  was  out  in  the  fields,  but  he 
would  send  for  him.  He  soon  appeared.  He  was  a  very  little 
man,  with  a  red  beard,  and  restless  sunken  eyes.  Although  M. 
Fougeroux  professed  to  despise  the  nobility  and  the  clergy,  the 
hope  of  driving  a  good  bargain  made  him  servilely  obsequious. 
He  hastened  to  usher  Louis  into  "his  parlor,"  with  many  bows 
and  endless  repetitions  of  "Monsieur  le  Marquis."  Upon 
entering  the  room,  he  roughly  ordered  the  old  woman,  who 
was  crouching  over  some  dying  embers,  to  make  haste  and 
bring  some  wine  for  Monsieur  the  Marquis  de  Clameran.  At 
this  name,  the  old  woman  started  as  if  she  had  received  an 
electric  shock.     She  opened  her  mouth  to  say  something,  but 


1108  FILE    NUMBER   113 

a  look  from  her  tyrant  froze  the  words  upon  her  lips.  With 
a  wild  air,  she  hobbled  out  to  obey  his  orders,  and  in  a  few 
minutes  returned  with  a  bottle  of  wine  and  three  glasses. 
Then  she  resumed  her  seat  by  the  fire,  and  kept  her  eyes  fas- 
tened upon  the  marquis.  Could  this  really  be  the  plump  and 
merry  Mihonne,  who  had  been  the  confidante  of  the  little  fairy 
of  La  Verberie?  Only  those  who  have  lived  in  the  country 
know  what  time  and  worry  can  do  to  a  woman. 

The  bargain,  meanwhile,  was  being  discussed  between  Joseph 
and  Fougeroux.  The  dealer  offered  a  ridiculously  small  sum 
for  the  chateau,  saying  that  he  would  only  buy  it  to  pull  down 
and  sell  the  materials.  Joseph  enumerated  the  beams,  joists, 
ironwork,  and  the  ground.  As  for  Mihonne,  the  sight  of  the 
marquis  was  an  event  in  her  existence.  If  the  faithful  servant 
had  hitherto  never  breathed  a  word  of  the  secrets  confided  1o 
her  probity,  they  had  seemed  to  her  none  the  less  heavy  to  bear. 
After  marrying,  and  being  so  harshly  treated  that  she  daily 
prayed  for  death  to  come  to  her  relief,  she  began  to  blame 
everybody  but  herself  for  her  misfortunes.  Having  no  child, 
after  having  ardently  longed  for  one,  she  was  persuaded  that 
God  had  stricken  her  with  barrenness  for  having  assisted  in 
the  abandonment  of  an  innocent,  helpless  babe.  She  often 
thought  that  by  revealing  everything  she  might  appease  the 
wrath  of  Heaven,  and  once  more  bring  happiness  to  her  home. 
Nothing  but  her  love  for  Valentine  gave  her  strength  to  resist 
this  constant  temptation.  But  to-day  the  sight  of  Louis  de- 
cided her.  She  thought  there  could  be  no  danger  in  confiding 
in  Gaston's  brother.  The  bargain  was  at  length  struck.  It  was 
agreed  that  Fougeroux  should  give  five  thousand  two  hundred 
and  eighty  francs  in  cash  for  the  chateau  and  land  attached; 
and  Joseph  was  to  have  the  remains  of  the  furniture.  The  mar- 
quis and  the  dealer  shook  hands  as  they  uttered  the  final  word : 
"Agreed !"  and  Fougeroux  at  once  went  himself  to  get  a  bottle 
of  extra  good  wine  with  which  to  seal  the  bargain. 

The  occasion  was  favorable  to  Mihonne.  She  walked  quickly 
over  to  where  the  Marquis  sat,  and  said  in  a  nervous  whisper: 
"Monsieur  le  Marquis,  I  must  speak  with  you  alone." — "With 
me,  my  good  woman?" — "With  you.  It  is  a  secret  of  life  and 
death.  This  evening,  at  dusk,  meet  me  under  the  walnut  trees 
over  there,  and  I  will  tell  you  everything."  Hearing  her  hus- 
band's footsteps,  she  hastened  back  to  her  seat.  Fougeroux 
gaily  filled  the  glasses,  and  drank  De  Clameran's  health. 


FILE   NUMBER   113  1109 

As  they  returned  to  the  boat,  Louis  debated  within  himself 
whether  he  should  keep  this  singular  appointment.  "Joseph, 
what  the  deuce  can  that  old  witch  want  with  me?"  he  asked. — 
"Who  can  tell?  She  used  to  be  in  the  service  of  a  lady  who 
was  M.  Gaston's  mistress,  so  my  father  used  to  say.  If  I  were 
in  your  place,  sir,  I  would  go.  You  can  dine  at  my  place,  and 
after  dinner  Pilorel  will  row  you  over." 

Curiosity  decided  Louis ;  and  about  seven  o'clock  he  arrived 
under  the  walnut  trees,  where  old  Mihonne  had  already  been 
waiting  a  long  time.  "Ah !  here  you  are  at  last,  my  dear,  good 
sir,"  she  said  in  a  tone  of  joy.  "I  was  beginning  to  despair." — 
"Yes,  here  I  am,  my  good  woman ;  what  have  you  to  tell  me?" — 
"Ah !  many  things,  Monsieur  le  Marquis.  But  first,  tell  me 
have  you  heard  from  your  brother."  Louis  almost  regretted 
having  come,  supposing  that  the  old  woman  was  wandering. 
"You  know  well  enough  that  my  poor  brother  was  drowned 
in  the  Rhone." — "Good  heavens !"  cried  Mihonne,  "are  you  ig- 
norant, then,  of  his  escape?  Yes,  he  did  what  will  never  be 
done  again :  he  swam  across  the  swollen  Rhone.  The  next 
day  Mademoiselle  Valentine  went  to  Clameran  to  tell  the  news; 
but  Jean  prevented  her  seeing  you.  Afterward  I  took  a  letter 
for  you,  but  you  had  left." 

These  revelations,  after  twenty  years,  confounded  Louis. 
"Are  you  sure  you  are  not  mistaking  your  dreams  for  real 
events,  my  good  woman?"  he  asked  gently. — "No,"  replied 
Mihonne,  mournfully  shaking  her  head.  "If  old  Menoul  were 
alive,  he  would  tell  you  how  he  took  charge  of  M.  Gaston  until 
he  embarked  at  Marseilles.  But  that  is  nothing  compared  to 
the  rest.  M.  Gaston  has  a  son." — "My  brother,  a  son !  Really, 
you  are  out  of  your  mind." — "Alas !  no,  unfortunately  for  my 
happiness  in  this  world  and  in  the  world  to  come.  He  had  a 
son,  and  Mademoiselle  Valentine  was  the  mother.  I  received 
the  poor  babe  in  my  arms  and  carried  it  to  a  woman  abroad, 
who  was  paid  to  take  charge  of  it." 

Then  Mihonne  told  everything — the  comtesse's  anger,  the 
journey  to  London,  and  the  desertion  of  little  Raoul.  With 
the  accurate  memory  natural  to  people  unable  to  read  and  write, 
she  related  the  most  minute  particulars — the  names  of  the  vil- 
lage and  the  farmer's  wife,  the  child's  Christian  and  surname, 
and  the  exact  date  of  everything  which  had  occurred.  Then  she 
told  of  Valentine's  sufferings  after  her  fault,  of  the  impend- 
ing ruin  of  the  comtesse,  and,  finally,  of  the  poor  girl's  marriage 


1110 


FILE   NUMBER    113 


with  a  gentleman  from  Paris,  who  was  so  rich  that  he  did  not 
know  the  extent  of  his  fortune,  a  banker  named  Fauvel.  A 
piercing  and  prolonged  cry  here  interrupted  the  old  woman. 
"Heavens!"  she  exclaimed  in  a  frightened  voice,  "that  is  my 
husband  calling  me,"  and  she  hurried  back  to  the  farmhouse  as 
fast  as  her  trembling  limbs  could  carry  her. 

For  several  minutes  after  her  departure,  Louis  stood  rooted 
to  the  spot.  Her  recital  had  filled  his  wicked  mind  with  an 
idea  so  infamous,  so  detestable,  that  even  his  vile  nature  shrank 
for  a  moment  from  its  enormity.  He  knew  the  rich  banker  by 
reputation,  and  was  calculating  the  advantages  he  might  gain 
by  the  strange  information  of  which  he  was  now  possessed. 
The  few  faint  scruples  he  felt  were  silenced  by  the  prospect  of 
an  old  age  spent  in  poverty.  "But  first  of  all,"  he  thought,  "I 
must  ascertain  the  truth  of  the  old  woman's  story;  then  I  will 
decide  upon  a  plan."  This  was  why,  two  days  later,  having 
received  the  five  thousand  two  hundred  and  eighty  francs  from 
Fougeroux,  Louis  de  Clameran  set  out  for  London. 


P\URING  the  twenty  years  of  her  married  life,  Valentine  had 
*^  experienced  but  one  real  sorrow ;  and  this  was  one  which, 
in  the  course  of  nature,  must  happen  sooner  or  later.  In  1859 
her  mother  died  from  inflammation  of  the  lungs,  during  one  of 
her  frequent  journeys  to  Paris.  The  comtesse  preserved  her 
faculties  to  the  last,  and  with  her  dying  breath  said  to  her 
daughter :  "Ah,  well !  was  I  not  right  in  prevailing  upon  you 
to  bury  the  past?  Your  silence  has  made  my  old  age  peaceful 
and  happy,  for  which  I  now  thank  you,  and  it  assures  you  a 
quiet  future." 

Madame  Fauvel  constantly  said  that,  since  the  loss  of  her 
mother,  she  had  never  had  cause  to  shed  a  tear.  And  what 
more  could  she  wish  for?  As  years  rolled  on,  Andre's  love  re- 
mained the  same  as  it  had  been  during  the  first  days  of  their 
union.  To  the  love  that  had  not  diminished  was  added  that 
sweet  intimacy  which  results  from  long  conformity  of  ideas  and 


FILE    NUMBER    113  1111 

unbounded  confidence.  Everything  prospered  with  this  happy 
couple.  Andre  was  far  more  wealthy  than  he  had  ever  hoped 
to  be,  even  in  his  wildest  visions ;  more  so  even  than  he  or 
Valentine  desired.  Their  two  sons,  Lucian  and  Abel,  were 
beautiful  as  their  mother,  noble-hearted  and  intelligent  young 
men,  whose  honorable  characters  and  graceful  bearing  were 
the  glory  of  their  family.  Nothing  was  wanting  to  insure 
Valentine's  felicity.  When  her  husband  and  her  sons  were 
absent,  her  solitude  was  cheered  by  the  companionship  of  an 
accomplished  young  girl,  whom  she  loved  as  her  own  daugh- 
ter, and  who  in  return  filled  the  place  of  a  devoted  child. 
Madeleine  was  M.  Fauvel's  niece,  who,  when  an  infant,  had 
lost  both  parents,  poor  but  very  worthy  people.  Valentine 
adopted  the  babe,  perhaps  in  memory  of  the  poor  little  crea- 
ture who  had  been  abandoned  to  strangers.  It  seemed  to  her 
that  God  would  bless  her  for  this  good  action,  and  that  Made- 
leine would  be  the  guardian  angel  of  the  house.  The  day  of 
the  little  orphan's  arrival,  M.  Fauvel  invested  for  her  ten  thou- 
sand francs,  which  he  presented  to  Madeleine  as  her  dowry. 
The  banker  amused  himself  by  increasing  these  ten  thousand 
francs  in  the  most  marvelous  ways.  He,  who  never  ventured 
upon  a  rash  speculation  with  his  own  money,  always  invested 
his  niece's  in  the  most  hazardous  schemes,  and  was  always  so 
successful  that,  at  the  end  of  fifteen  years,  the  ten  thousand 
francs  had  become  half  a  million.  People  were  right  when 
they  said  that  the  Fauvel  family  were  to  be  envied.  Time  had 
dulled  Valentine's  remorse  and  anxiety.  In  the  genial  atmos- 
phere of  a  happy  home,  she  had  almost  found  forgetfulness  and 
a  peaceful  conscience.  She  had  suffered  so  much  at  being  com- 
pelled to  deceive  Andre  that  she  hoped  she  was  now  at  quits 
with  fate.  She  began  to  look  forward  to  the  future,  and  her 
youth  seemed  but  buried  in  an  impenetrable  mist,  the  memory 
of  a  painful  dream. 

Yes,  she  believed  herself  saved,  when,  one  rainy  day  in  No- 
vember, during  an  absence  of  her  husband's,  who  had  gone  into 
the  provinces  on  business,  one  of  the  servants  brought  her  a 
letter,  which  had  been  left  by  a  stranger,  who  refused  to  give 
his  name.  Without  the  faintest  presentiment  of  evil  she  care- 
lessly broke  the  seal,  and  read : 

"Madame — Would  it  be  relying  too  much  upon  the  memories 
of  the  past  to  hope  for  half  an  hour  of  your  time?    To-morrow, 


1112  FILE   NUMBER   113 

between  two  and  three,  I  will  do  myself  the  honor  of  calling 
upon  you.  Marquis  de  Clameran." 

Fortunately,  Madame  Fauvel  was  alone.  Trembling  like  a 
leaf,  she  read  the  letter  over  and  over  again,  as  if  to  convince 
herself  that  she  was  not  the  victim  of  a  horrible  hallucination. 
Half  a  dozen  times,  with  a  sort  of  terror,  she  whispered  that 
name  once  so  dear — Clameran !  spelling  it  aloud  as  if  it  were 
a  strange  name  which  she  could  not  pronounce.  And  the  eight 
letters  forming  the  name  seemed  to  shine  like  the  lightning 
which  precedes  the  thunderbolt.  Ah !  she  had  hoped  and  be- 
lieved that  the  fatal  past  was  atoned  for,  and  buried  in  obliv- 
ion ;  and  now  it  suddenly  stood  before  her,  pitiless  and  threat- 
ening. It  was  in  this  hour  of  security  when  she  imagined 
herself  pardoned,  that  the  storm  was  to  burst  upon  the  fra- 
gile edifice  of  her  happiness,  and  destroy  her  every  hope. 
A  long  time  passed  before  she  could  collect  her  scattered 
thoughts  sufficiently  to  reflect  upon  a  course  of  action.  Then 
she  began  to  think  she  was  foolish  to  be  so  frightened.  This 
letter  was  written  by  Gaston,  of  course,  therefore  she  need  feel 
no  apprehension.  Gaston  had  returned  to  France,  and  wished 
to  see  her.  She  could  understand  this  desire,  and  she  knew 
too  well  this  man,  upon  whom  she  had  lavished  her  young 
affection,  to  attribute  any  bad  motives  to  his  visit.  He  would 
come,  and  finding  her  the  wife  of  another,  the  mother  of  a 
family,  they  would  exchange  thoughts  of  the  past,  perhaps  a 
few  regrets;  she  would  restore  the  jewels  which  she  had  faith- 
fully kept  for  him,  and — that  would  be  all.  But  one  distressing 
doubt  beset  her  agitated  mind.  Should  she  conceal  from  Gas- 
tone  the  birth  of  his  son?  To  confess  was  to  expose  herself  to 
many  dangers.  It  was  placing  herself  at  the  mercy  of  a  man — 
a  loyal,  honorable  man,  to  sure — confiding  to  him  not  only  her 
own  honor  and  happiness,  but  the  honor  of  her  husband  and 
her  sons.  Still,  silence  would  be  a  crime.  After  abandoning  her 
child,  and  depriving  him  of  a  mother's  care  and  affection,  she 
would  rob  him  of  his  father's  name  and  fortune. 

She  was  still  undecided  when  the  servant  announced  dinner. 
But  she  had  not  the  courage  to  meet  the  glances  of  her  sons. 
She  sent  word  that  she  was  not  well,  and  would  not  be  down 
to  dinner.  For  the  first  time  in  her  life  she  rejoiced  at  her 
husband's  absence.  Madeleine  came  hurrying  into  her  aunt's 
room  to  see  what  was  the  matter;  but  Valentine  dismissed  her, 


FILE   NUMBER   113  1113 

saying  she  would  try  to  sleep  off  her  indisposition.  She  wished 
to  be  alone  in  her  trouble,  and  her  mind  tried  to  imagine  what 
the  morrow  would  bring  forth.  This  dreaded  morrow  soon 
came.  She  counted  the  hours  until  two  o'clock ;  then  she  counted 
the  minutes.  At  half-past  two  the  servant  announced:  "Mon- 
sieur the  Marquis  de  Clameran." 

Madame  Fauvel  had  promised  herself  to  be  calm,  even  cold. 
During  a  long,  sleepless  night,  she  had  mentally  arranged  before- 
hand every  detail  of  this  painful  meeting.  She  had  even  de- 
cided upon  what  she  should  say.  But,  at  the  dreaded  moment, 
her  strength  gave  way;  a  frightful  emotion  fixed  her  to  her 
seat;  she  could  neither  speak  nor  think.  He,  however,  bowed 
respectfully,  and  remained  waiting  in  the  middle  of  the  room. 
He  appeared  about  fifty  years  of  age,  with  iron-gray  hair  and 
mustache,  and  a  cold,  severe  cast  of  countenance;  his  expres- 
sion was  of  haughty  severity  as  he  stood  there  in  his  full  suit 
of  black.  The  agitated  woman  tried  to  discover  in  his  face 
some  traces  of  the  man  whom  she  had  so  madly  loved,  who  had 
pressed  her  to  his  heart — the  father  of  her  son;  and  she  was 
surprised  to  find  in  the  person  before  her  no  resemblance  to  the 
youth  whose  memory  had  haunted  her  life — no,  nothing.  At 
length,  as  he  continued  to  remain  motionless,  she  faintly  mur- 
mured :  "Gaston !" 

But  he,  shaking  his  head,  replied :  "I  am  not  Gaston,  madame ; 
my  brother  succumbed  to  the  misery  and  suffering  of  exile. 
I  am  Louis  de  Clameran."  What!  it  was  not  Gaston,  then, 
who  had  written  to  her — it  was  not  Gaston  who  stood  before 
her?  She  trembled  with  terror;  her  head  whirled,  and  her 
eyes  grew  dim.  What,  then,  could  this  man  want — this  brother 
in  whom  Gaston  had  never  cared  to  confide?  A  thousand 
probabilities,  each  one  more  terrible  than  the  other,  flashed 
across  her  brain.  Yet  she  succeeded  in  overcoming  her  weak- 
ness, so  that  Louis  scarcely  perceived  it. 

Pointing  to  a  chair,  she  said  to  Louis  with  affected  indiffer- 
ence: "Will  you  be  kind  enough,  then,  sir,  to  explain  the  object 
of  this  most  unexpected  visit?"  The  marquis,  seeming  not 
to  notice  this  sudden  change  of  manner,  took  a  seat  without 
removing  his  eyes  from  Madame  Fauvel's  face.  "First  of  all, 
madame,"  he  began,  "I  must  ask  if  we  can  be  overheard  by  any 
one?" — "Why  this  question?  You  can  have  nothing  to  say  to 
me  that  my  husband  and  children  should  not  hear."  Louis 
shrugged  his  shoulders,  and  said:  "Be  good  enough  to  answer 


1114  FILE   NUMBER   113 

me,  madame;  not  for  my  sake,  but  for  your  own." — "Speak, 
then,  sir,  you  will  not  be  heard." 

In  spite  of  this  assurance,  the  marquis  drew  his  chair  close 
to  the  sofa  where  Madame  Fauvel  sat,  so  as  to  speak  in  a 
very  low  tone,  as  if  almost  afraid  to  hear  his  own  voice.  "As 
I  told  you,  madame,"  he  resumed,  "Gaston  is  dead;  and  it- was 
I  who  closed  his  eyes,  and  received  his  last  wishes.  Do  you 
understand?"  The  poor  woman  understood  only  too  well,  but 
was  racking  her  brain  to  discover  what  could  be  the  purpose 
of  this  fatal  visit.  Perhaps  it  was  only  to  claim  Gaston's 
jewels. — "It  is  unnecessary  to  recall,"  continued  Louis,  "the 
painful  circumstances  which  blasted  my  brother's  life.  However 
happy  your  own  lot  has  been,  you  can  not  entirely  have  for- 
gotten that  friend  of  your  youth  who,  unhesitatingly,  sacrificed 
himself  in  defense  of  your  honor."  Not  a  muscle  of  Madame 
Fauvel's  face  moved;  she  appeared  to  be  trying  to  recall  the 
circumstances  to  which  Louis  alluded. — "Have  you  forgotten, 
madame?"  he  asked  with  bitterness.  "Then  I  must  try  and 
explain  myself  more  clearly.  A  long,  long  time  ago  you  loved 
my  unfortunate  brother." — "Sir !" — "Ah,  it  is  useless  to  deny  it, 
madame.  I  told  you  that  Gaston  confided  everything  to  me — 
everything,"  he  added  significantly. 

But  Madame  Fauvel  was  not  frightened  by  this  information. 
This  "everything"  could  not  be  of  any  importance,  for  Gaston 
had  gone  abroad  in  total  ignorance  of  her  secret.  She  rose, 
and  said  with  an  apparent  assurance  she  was  far  from  feeling: 
"You  forget,  sir,  that  you  are  speaking  to  a  woman  who  is 
now  advanced  in  life,  who  is  married,  and  who  is  the  mother 
of  a  family.  If  your  brother  loved  me,  it  was  his  affair,  and  not 
yours.  If,  young  and  ignorant,  I  was  led  into  imprudence,  it  is 
not  your  place  to  remind  me  of  it.  He  would  not  have  done  so. 
This  past  which  you  evoke  I  buried  in  oblivion  twenty  years  ago." 

"Then  you  have  forgotten  all  that  happened?" — "Absolutely 
all." — "Even  your  child,  madame?"  This  question,  accompanied 
by  one  of  those  looks  which  penetrate  the  innermost  recesses 
of  the  soul,  fell  upon  Madame  Fauvel  like  a  thunderbolt.  She 
dropped,  tremblingly,  into  her  seat,  murmuring :  "He  knows ! 
How  did  he  discover  it?"  Had  her  own  happiness  alone  been 
at  stake,  she  would  have  instantly  thrown  herself  upon  De 
Clameran's  mercy.  But  she  had  her  family  to  defend,  and 
the  consciousness  of  this  gave  her  strength  to  resist  him.  "Do 
you  wish  to  insult  me,  sir?"  she  asked. 


FILE   NUMBER   113  1115 

"It  is  true,  then,  you  have  forgotten  Valentine  Raoul  ?"  She 
saw  that  this  man  did  indeed  know  all.  How?  It  little  mat- 
tered. He  certainly  knew;  but  she  determined  to  deny  every- 
thing, even  in  the  face  of  the  most  positive  proofs,  if  he  should 
produce  them.  She  thought  it  best  to  find  out  what  he  was 
driving  at.  "Well,"  she  asked,  with  a  forced  laugh,  "what  is 
it  you  want?" 

"Listen,  madame.  Two  years  ago  the  vicissitudes  of  exile 
took  my  brother  to  London.  There,  at  the  house  of  a  friend, 
he  met  a  young  man  bearing  the  name  of  Raoul.  Gaston  was 
so  struck  by  the  youth's  appearance  and  intelligence,  that  he 
inquired  who  he  was,  and  discovered  that  beyond  a  doubt  this 
boy  was  his  son,  and  your  son,  madame." — "This  is  quite  a 
romance  you  are  relating." — "Yes,  madame,  a  romance,  the 
denouement  of  which  is  in  your  hands.  The  comtesse,  your 
mother,  certainly  used  every  precaution  to  conceal  your  secret; 
but  the  best-laid  plans  always  have  some  weak  point.  After 
your  departure,  one  of  your  mother's  London  friends  came  to 
the  village  where  you  had  been  staying.  This  lady  pronounced 
your  real  name  before  the  farmer's  wife  who  was  bringing  up 
the  child.  Thus  everything  was  revealed.  My  brother  wished 
for  proofs,  he  procured  the  most  positive,  the  most  unobjection- 
able." He  stopped  and  closely  watched  Madame  Fauvel's  face 
to  see  the  effect  of  his  words.  To  his  astonishment  she  be- 
trayed not  the  slightest  agitation  or  alarm;  she  was  smiling. 
"Well,  what  next?"  she  asked  carelessly. 

"Then,  madame,  Gaston  acknowledged  the  child.  But  the 
De  Clamerans  are  poor ;  my  brother  died  in  a  lodging-house, 
and  I  have  only  an  annuity  of  twelve  hundred  francs  to  live 
upon.  What  is  to  become  of  Raoul,  alone  without  relations  or 
friends  to  assist  him?  This  anxiety  embittered  my  brother's 
last  moments." — "Really,  sir — "  "I  will  conclude,"  interrupted 
Louis.  "It  was  then  that  Gaston  opened  his  heart  to  me.  He 
told  me  to  seek  you.  'Valentine,'  said  he,  'Valentine  will  remem- 
ber; she  will  not  allow  our  son  to  want  for  everything,  even 
bread;  she  is  wealthy,  very  wealthy;  I  die  in  peace.'" 

Madame  Fauvel  rose  from  her  seat,  evidently  with  the  inten- 
tion of  dismissing  her  visitor.  "You  must  confess,  sir,"  she 
said,  "that  I  have  shown  great  patience." — This  imperturbable 
assurance  amazed  Louis  so  much  that  he  did  not  reply. — "I  do 
not  deny,"  she  continued,  "that  I  at  one  time  possessed  the  con- 
fidence of  M.  Gaston  de  Clameran.    I  will  prove  it  to  you  by 


1116  FILE   NUMBER   113 

restoring  to  you  your  mother's  jewels,  with  which  he  entrusted 
me  at  the  time  of  his  departure."  While  speaking  she  took  from 
beneath  the  sofa-cushion  the  bag  of  jewels,  and  handed  it  to 
Louis.  "Here  they  are,  sir,"  she  added ;  "permit  me  to  express 
my  surprise  that  your  brother  never  asked  me  for  them." — 
Had  he  been  less  master  of  himself,  Louis  would  have  shown 
how  great  was  his  surprise.  "I  was  told,"  he  said  sharply,  "not 
to  mention  this  matter." 

Madame  Fauvel,  without  making  any  reply,  laid  her  hand  on 
the  bell-rope.  "You  will  allow  me,  sir,"  she  said,  "to  end  this 
interview,  which  was  only  granted  for  the  purpose  of  placing 
in  your  hands  these  precious  jewels." — Thus  dismissed,  M. 
de  Clameran  was  obliged  to  take  his  leave  without  attaining 
his  object.  "As  you  will,  madame,"  he  said ;  "I  leave  you ;  but 
before  doing  so  I  must  tell  you  the  rest  of  my  brother's  dying 
injunctions:  'If  Valentine  disregards  the  past,  and  refuses  to 
provide  for  our  son,  I  enjoin  upon  you  to  compel  her  to  do 
her  duty.'  Meditate  upon  these  words,  madame,  for  what  I  have 
sworn  to  do,  upon  my  honor,  shall  be  done !" 

At  last  Madame  Fauvel  was  alone.  She  could  give  vent  to 
her  despair.  Exhausted  by  her  efforts  at  self-restraint  during 
De  Clameran's  presence,  she  felt  weary  and  crushed  in  body 
and  spirit.  She  had  scarcely  strength  to  drag  herself  up  to  her 
bed-chamber  and  to  lock  the  door.  Now  there  was  no  room  for 
doubt;  her  fears  had  become  realities.  She  could  fathom  the 
abyss  into  which  she  was  about  to  be  hurled,  and  knew  that  in 
her  fall  she  would  drag  her  family  with  her.  God  alone,  in 
this  hour  of  danger,  could  help  her,  could  save  her  from  destruc- 
tion. She  prayed.  "Oh,  God,"  she  cried,  "punish  me,  for  I  am 
very  guilty,  and  I  will  evermore  adore  Thy  chastising  hand. 
Punish  me,  for  I  have  been  a  bad  daughter,  an  unworthy 
mother,  and  a  perfidious  wife.  In  Thy  just  anger  spare  the 
innocent;  have  pity  on  my  husband  and  my  children!"  Ah, 
why  did  she  listen  to  her  mother?  Why  did  she  hold  her 
tongue?  Hope  had  fled  forever.  This  man  who  had  left  her 
presence  with  a  threat  upon  his  lips  would  return;  she  knew 
it  well.  What  answer  could  she  give  him?  To-day  she  had 
succeeded  in  subduing  her  heart  and  conscience;  would  she 
again  have  the  strength  to  master  her  feelings  ?  She  well  knew 
that  her  calmness  and  courage  were  entirely  due  to  De  Cla- 
meran's unskilfulness.  Why  did  he  not  use  entreaties  instead 
of  threats?     When  Louis  spoke  of  Raoul,  she  could  scarcely 


FILE   NUMBER   113  1117 

conceal  her  emotion;  her  maternal  heart  yearned  toward  the 
innocent  child  who  was  expiating  his  mother's  faults.  A  chill 
of  horror  passed  over  her  at  the  idea  of  his  enduring  the  pangs 
of  hunger.  Her  child  wanting  bread,  when  she,  his  mother, 
was  rolling  in  wealth !  With  what  delight  would  she  undergo 
the  greatest  privations  for  his  sake !  If  she  could  but  send 
him  enough  money  to  support  him  comfortably!  But  no;  she 
could  not  take  this  step  without  compromising  herself  and  her 
family.  Prudence  forbade  her  acceptance  of  Louis  de  Cla- 
meran's  intervention.  To  confide  in  him  was  placing  herself, 
and  all  she  held  dear,  at  his  mercy,  and  this  inspired  her  with 
instinctive  terror.  Then  she  began  to  ask  herself  if  he  had 
really  spoken  the  truth.  In  thinking  over  Louis's  story,  it 
seemed  improbable  and  disconnected.  If  Gaston  had  been  liv- 
ing in  Paris,  in  the  poverty  described  by  his  brother,  why  had 
he  not  demanded  of  the  married  woman  the  deposit  entrusted  to 
the  maiden?  Why,  when  anxious  about  their  child's  future, 
had  he  not  come  to  her,  since  he  believed  her  to  be  so  rich 
that,  on  his  deathbed,  it  was  she  he  relied  upon.  A  thousand 
vague  apprehensions  beset  her  mind ;  she  felt  suspicion  and  dis- 
trust of  every  one  and  everything.  She  was  aware  that  a 
decisive  step  would  bind  her  forever,  and  then,  what  would  not 
be  exacted  of  her?  For  a  moment  she  thought  of  throwing 
herself  at  her  husband's  feet  and  confessing  all.  She  pictured 
to  herself  the  mortification  and  sorrow  that  her  noble-hearted 
husband  would  suffer  upon  discovering,  after  a  lapse  of  twenty 
years,  how  shamefully  he  had  been  deceived.  Having  been 
deceived  from  the  very  first,  would  he  not  believe  that  it  had 
been  so  ever  since?  Would  he  believe  in  her  fidelity  as  a  wife 
when  he  discovered  her  perfidy  as  a  young  girl?  She  under- 
stood Andre  well  enough  to  know  that  he  would  say  nothing, 
and  would  use  every  means  to  conceal  the  scandal.  But  his 
domestic  happiness  would  be  gone  forever.  He  would  forsake 
his  home;  his  sons  would  shun  her  presence,  and  every  family 
bond  would  be  severed.  She  thought  of  ending  her  doubts  by 
suicide ;  but  her  death  would  not  silence  her  implacable  enemy, 
who,  not  able  to  disgrace  her  while  alive,  would  dishonor  her 
memory. 

Fortunately,  the  banker  was  still  absent;  and  during  the 
two  days  succeeding  Louis's  visit  Madame  Fauvel  was  able  to 
keep  to  her  room  under  pretense  of  illness.  But  Madeleine, 
with  her  feminine  instinct,  saw  that  her  aunt  was  troubled  by 


1118  FILE    NUMBER    113 

something  worse  than  the  nervous  attack  for  which  the  phy- 
sician was  prescribing  all  sorts  of  remedies.  She  noticed,  too, 
that  this  sudden  illness  seemed  to  have  been  caused  by  the  visit 
of  a  stern-looking  stranger,  who  had  been  closeted  for  a  long 
time  with  her  aunt.  Madeleine  felt  so  sure  that  something  was 
wrong,  that,  on  the  second  day,  seeing  Madame  Fauvel  more 
anxious  still,  she  ventured  to  say:  "What  makes  you  so  sad, 
dear  aunt?  Tell  me,  shall  I  ask  our  good  priest  to  come  and 
see  you?"  With  a  sharpness  foreign  to  her  nature,  which  was 
gentleness  itself,  Madame  Fauvel  refused  to  listen  to  her  niece's 
suggestion.  What  Louis  calculated  upon  happened.  After  long 
reflection,  not  seeing  any  issue  to  her  deplorable  situation,  Ma- 
dame Fauvel  little  by  little  determined  to  yield.  By  consent- 
ing to  all,  she  had  a  chance  of  saving  everything.  She  well 
knew  that  to  act  thus  was  to  prepare  a  life  of  torture  for  her- 
self; but  she  alone  would  be  the  victim,  and,  at  any  rate,  she 
would  be  gaining  time.  In  the  mean  time,  M.  Fauvel  had  re- 
turned home,  and  Valentine  resumed  her  accustomed  ways.  But 
she  was  no  longer  the  happy  mother  and  devoted  wife,  whose 
smiling  presence  was  wont  to  fill  the  house  with  sunshine  and 
comfort.  She  was  beset  by  the  most  frightful  anxieties.  Hear- 
ing nothing  of  De  Clameran,  she  expected  to  see  him  appear, 
so  to  say,  at  any  moment ;  trembling  at  every  ring  of  the  bell, 
turning  pale  whenever  the  door  opened,  and  not  daring  to  leave 
the  house,  for  fear  he  should  come  during  her  absence.  De 
Clameran  did  not  come;  he  wrote,  or  rather,  as  he  was  too 
prudent  to  furnish  arms  which  could  be  used  against  himself, 
he  had  a  note  written,  which  Madame  Fauvel  alone  might  un- 
derstand, in  which  he  said  that,  being  ill,  he  begged  she  would 
excuse  his  being  obliged  to  make  an  appointment  with  her  for 
the  next  day  at  the  Hotel  du  Louvre.  The  letter  was  almost 
a  relief  to  Madame  Fauvel.  Anything  was  preferable  to  sus- 
pense. She  was  ready  to  consent  to  everything.  She  burned 
the  letter,  and  said  to  herself:  "I  will  go." 

The  next  day,  toward  the  appointed  time,  she  dressed  herself 
in  the  plainest  of  her  black  dresses,  in  the  bonnet  which  con- 
cealed her  face  the  most,  placed  a  thick  veil  in  her  pocket,  and 
started  forth.  It  was  not  until  she  found  herself  a  considerable 
distance  from  her  home  that  she  ventured  to  hail  a  cab,  which 
soon  set  her  down  at  the  Hotel  du  Louvre.  Her  circle  of  ac- 
quaintances being  large,  she  was  in  terror  of  being  recognized. 
What  would  her  friends  think,  if  they  saw  her  at  the  Hotel  du 


FILE    NUMBER    113  1119 

Louvre  dressed  as  she  was?  Any  one  would  naturally  suspect 
an  intrigue,  a  rendezvous ;  and  her  character  would  be  ruined 
forever.  This  was  the  first  time  since  her  marriage  that  she 
had  had  occasion  for  mystery ;  and,  in  her  inexperience,  her 
efforts  to  escape  notice  were  in  every  way  calculated  to  attract 
attention.  The  concierge  said  that  the  Marquis  de  Clameran's 
room  was  on  the  third  floor.  She  hurried  up  the  stairs,  glad 
to  escape  the  scrutinizing  glances  which  she  imagined  were 
fixed  upon  her;  but,  in  spite  of  the  minute  directions  given  by 
the  concierge,  she  lost  her  way  in  the  immense  hotel,  and  for 
a  long  time  wandered  about  the  interminable  corridors.  Finally, 
she  found  a  door  bearing  the  number  sought — 317.  She  stood 
leaning  against  the  wall  with  her  hand  pressed  to  her  throbbing 
heart,  which  seemed  ready  to  burst.  The  sight  of  a  stranger 
traversing  the  corridor  ended  her  hesitations.  With  a  trembling 
hand  she  knocked  at  the  door.  "Come  in,"  said  a  voice.  She 
entered.  But  it  was  not  the  Marquis  de  Clameran  who  stood 
in  the  middle  of  the  room,  it  was  quite  a  young  man,  almost  a 
youth,  who  looked  at  her  with  a  singular  expression.  Ma- 
dame Fauvel  thought  that  she  had  mistaken  the  room.  "Excuse 
me,  sir,"  she  said,  blushing  deeply:  "I  thought  that  this  was 
the  Marquis  de  Clameran's  room." 

"It  is  his  room,  madame,"  replied  the  young  man ;  then  see- 
ing she  was  silent,  and  about  to  leave,  he  added:  "I  presume 
I  have  the  honor  of  addressing  Madame  Fauvel  ?"  She  nodded 
affirmatively,  shuddering  at  the  sound  of  her  own  name,  and 
frightened  at  this  proof  of  De  Clameran's  betrayal  of  her  secret 
to  a  stranger.  With  visible  anxiety  she  awaited  an  explanation. 
"Fear  nothing,  madame,"  resumed  the  young  man:  "you  are  as 
safe  here  as  if  you  were  in  your  own  drawing-room.  M.  de 
Clameran  desired  me  to  make  his  excuses ;  you  will  not  see 
him." — "But.  sir,  from  an  urgent  letter  sent  by  him  yesterday, 
T  was  led  to  suppose — I  inferred — " 

"When  he  wrote  to  you,  madame,  he  had  projects  in  view 
which  he  has  since  renounced  forever." 

Madame  Fauvel  was  too  surprised,  too  agitated  to  think 
clearly.  Beyond  the  present  she  could  see  nothing.  "Do  you 
mean,"  she  asked  with  distrust,  "that  he  has  changed  his  inten- 
tions?" The  young  man's  face  was  expressive  of  sad  compas- 
sion, as  if  he  shared  the  unhappy  woman's  sufferings.  "The 
marquis  has  renounced,"  he  said  in  a  melancholy  tone,  "what 
he  wrongly  considered  a  sacred  duty.    Believe  me,  he  hesitated 


1120  FILE   NUMBER    113 

a  long  time  before  he  could  decide  to  apply  to  you  on  a  subject 
painful  to  you  both.  You  repelled  him,  you  were  obliged  to  re- 
fuse to  hear  him.  He  knew  not  what  imperious  reasons  dictated 
your  conduct.  Blinded  by  unjust  anger,  he  swore  to  obtain  by 
threats  what  you  refused  to  give  him  voluntarily.  Resolved  to 
attack  your  domestic  happiness,  he  had  collected  overwhelming 
proofs  against  you.  Pardon  him:  an  oath  given  to  his  dying 
brother  bound  him."  He  took  from  the  mantelpiece  a  bundle 
of  papers  through  which  he  glanced  as  he  continued  speaking: 
"These  proofs  that  can  not  be  denied,  I  now  hold  in  my  hand. 
This  is  the  certificate  of  the  Rev.  Mr.  Sedley ;  this  the  declara- 
tion of  Mrs.  Dobbin,  the  farmer's  wife;  and  these  others  are 
the  statements  of  the  physician  and  of  several  persons  who 
were  acquainted  with  Madame  de  la  Verberie  during  her  stay 
near  London.  Not  a  single  link  is  missing.  I  had  great  diffi- 
culty in  getting  these  papers  away  from  M.  de  Clameran.  Per- 
haps he  had  a  suspicion  of  my  intentions.  This,  madame,  is 
what  I  intended  doing  with  these  proofs." 

With  a  rapid  motion  he  threw  the  bundle  of  papers  into  the 
fire,  where  they  blazed  up,  and,  in  a  moment,  nothing  remained 
of  them  but  a  little  heap  of  ashes.  "All  is  now  destroyed,  ma- 
dame," he  resumed,  his  eyes  sparkling  with  the  most  generous 
resolutions.  "The  past,  if  you  desire  it,  is  as  completely  anni- 
hilated as  those  papers.  If  any  one,  hereafter,  dares  accuse  you 
of  having  had  a  son  before  your  marriage,  treat  him  as  a  vile 
calumniator.     There  are  no  longer  any  proofs;  you  are  free." 

Madame  Fauvel  began  to  understand  the  sense  of  this  scene 
— the  truth  dawned  upon  her  bewildered  mind.  This  noble 
youth,  who  protected  her  from  De  Clameran's  anger,  who  re- 
stored her  peace  of  mind  and  the  exercise  of  her  own  free  will, 
by  destroying  all  proofs  of  her  past,  who  in  fact  saved  her,  was, 
must  be,  the  child  whom  she  had  abandoned — Valentine  Raoul. 
At  this  moment  she  forgot  everything.  Maternal  tenderness,  so 
long  restrained,  now  welled  up  and  overflowed  as,  in  a  scarcely 
audible  voice,  she  murmured :  "Raoul !"  At  this  name,  uttered 
in  so  thrilling  a  tone,  the  young  man  staggered,  as  if  overcome 
by  an  unhoped-for  happiness.  "Yes,  Raoul,"  he  cried ;  "Raoul, 
who  would  rather  die  a  thousand  times  than  cause  his  mother 
the  slightest  pain;  Raoul,  who  would  shed  his  life's  blood  to 
spare  her  one  tear." 

She  made  no  attempt  to  struggle  or  resist;  all  her  body 
trembled   as   she   recognized   her  first-born.     She  opened   her 


FILE   NUMBER    113  1121 

arms,  and  Raoul  sprang  into  them,  saying,  in  a  choked  voice: 
"Mother !  my  dear  mother !  Bless  you  for  this  first  kiss !" 
Alas !  this  was  the  sad  truth.  This  dear  son  she  had  never 
seen  before.  He  had  been  taken  from  her,  despite  her  prayers 
and  tears,  without  a  mother's  embrace ;  and  this  kiss  she  had 
just  given  him  was  indeed  the  first.  But  joy  so  great,  follow- 
ing upon  so  much  anguish,  was  more  than  the  excited  mother 
could  bear;  she  sank  back  in  her  chair  almost  fainting,  and, 
with  a  sort  of  meditative  rapture,  gazed  in  an  eager  way  upon 
her  long-lost  son,  who  was  now  kneeling  at  her  feet.  With 
her  hand  she  stroked  his  soft  curls ;  she  admired  his  white 
forehead,  pure  as  a  young  girl's,  and  his  large,  trembling  eyes; 
and  she  hungered  after  his  red  lips. 

"Oh,  mother !"  he  said ;  "words  can  not  describe  my  feelings 
when  I  heard  that  my  uncle  had  dared  to  threaten  you.  Ah! 
when  my  father  told  him  to  apply  to  you,  he  was  no  longer  in 
his  right  mind.  I  have  known  you  for  a  long,  long  time.  Often 
have  my  father  and  I  hovered  around  your  happy  home  to  catch 
a  glimpse  of  you  through  the  window.  When  you  passed  by 
in  your  carriage,  he  would  say  to  me:  'There  is  your  mother, 
Raoul !'  To  look  upon  you  was  our  greatest  joy.  When  we 
knew  you  were  going  to  a  ball,  we  would  wait  near  the  door 
to  see  you  enter,  beautiful  and  adored.  How  often,  in  the 
depth  of  winter,  have  I  raced  with  your  fast  horses,  to  admire 
you  till  the  last  moment!" 

Tears — the  sweetest  tears  she  had  ever  shed — coursed  down 
Madame  Fauvel's  cheeks,  as  she  listened  to  the  musical  tones 
of  Raoul's  voice.  This  voice  was  so  like  Gaston's  that  it  re- 
called to  her  the  fresh  and  adorable  sensations  of  her  youth. 
She  seemed  to  live  over  again  those  early  stolen  meetings — to 
feel  once  more  the  beatings  of  her  virgin  heart.  It  seemed  as 
though  nothing  had  happened  since  Gaston  folded  her  in  his 
fond  embrace.  Andre,  her  two  sons,  Madeleine — all  were  for- 
gotten in  this  new-found  affection. 

Raoul  went  on  to  say:  "Only  yesterday  I  learned  that  my 
uncle  had  been  to  demand  for  me  a  few  crumbs  of  your  wealth. 
Why  did  he  take  such  a  step  ?  I  am  poor,  it  is  true — very  poor ; 
but  I  am  too  familiar  with  poverty  to  be  frightened  by  it.  I 
have  a  clear  brain  and  willing  hands — they  will  earn  me  a 
living.  You  are  very  rich,  I  have  been  told.  What  is  that 
to  me?  Keep  all  your  fortune,  my  darling  mother;  but  give 
me  a  corner  in  your  heart.    Let  me  love  you.    Promise  me  that 


1122  FILE   NUMBER   113 

this  first  kiss  shall  not  be  the  last.    No  one  will  ever  know ;  be 
not  afraid.    I  shall  be  able  to  hide  my  happiness." 

And  Madame  Fauvel  had  dreaded  this  son !  Ah !  how  bit- 
terly did  she  now  reproach  herself  for  not  having  sooner  flown 
to  meet  him.  She  questioned  him  regarding  the  past;  she 
wished  to  know  how  he  had  lived — what  he  had  been  doing. 
He  replied  that  he  had  nothing  to  conceal;  his  existence  had 
been  that  of  every  poor  man's  child.  The  farmer's  wife  who 
had  brought  him  up  had  always  treated  him  with  affection. 
She  had  even  given  him  an  education  superior  to  his  condition 
in  life,  and  rather  beyond  her  means,  because  she  thought  him 
so  handsome  and  intelligent.  When  about  sixteen  years  of  age, 
she  procured  him  a  situation  in  a  banking-house;  and  he  was 
commencing  to  earn  his  own  living,  when  one  day  a  stranger 
came  to  him,  and  said:  "I  am  your  father,"  and  took  him  away 
with  him.  Since  then  nothing  was  wanting  to  his  happiness, 
save  a  mother's  tenderness.  He  had  suffered  but  one  great  sor- 
row, and  that  was  the  day  when  Gaston  de  Clameran — his 
father — had  died  in  his  arms.  "But  now,"  he  said,  "all  is  for- 
gotten. Have  I  been  unhappy?  I  no  longer  know,  since  I  see 
you — since  I  love  you." 

Madame  Fauvel  was  oblivious  of  the  lapse  of  time,  but  for- 
tunately Raoul  was  on  the  watch.  "Why,  it  is  seven  o'clock !" 
he  suddenly  exclaimed.  This  exclamation  brought  Madame 
Fauvel  abruptly  back  to  the  reality.  Seven  o'clock !  What 
would  her  family  think  of  this  long  absence?  "Shall  I  see  you 
again,  mother?"  asked  Raoul,  as  they  were  about  to  separate — 
"Oh,  yes !"  she  replied,  fondly ;  "yes,  often,  every  day,  to- 
morrow." 

But  now  for  the  first  time  since  her  marriage,  Madame  Fau- 
vel perceived  that  she  was  not  mistress  of  her  actions.  Never 
before  had  she  had  occasion  to  wish  for  uncontrolled  liberty. 
She  left  her  heart  and  soul  behind  her  in  the  room  of  the  Hotel 
du  Louvre,  where  she  had  just  found  her  son.  She  was  com- 
pelled to  leave  him,  to  undergo  the  intolerable  agony  of  com- 
posing her  face  to  conceal  this  great  happiness,  which  had 
changed  her  whole  life  and  being.  Having  some  difficulty  in 
procuring  a  cab,  it  was  more  than  half-past  seven  when  she 
reached  the  Rue  de  Provence,  where  she  found  the  family 
waiting  dinner  for  her.  She  thought  her  husband  silly,  and 
even  vulgar,  when  he  joked  her  upon  being  late.  So  strange 
are  the  sudden  effects  of  a  new  passion,  that  she  regarded  al- 


FILE    NUMBER    113  1123 

most  with  contempt  this  unbounded  confidence  he  reposed  in 
her.  And  she,  ordinarily  so  timorous,  replied  to  his  jest  with 
imperturbable  calmness,  almost  without  an  effort.  So  intoxi- 
cating had  been  her  sensations  while  with  Raoul  that  in  her 
joy  she  was  incapable  of  desiring  anything  else — of  dreaming 
of  aught  save  the  renewal  of  those  delightful  emotions.  No 
longer  was  she  a  devoted  wife — an  incomparable  mother.  She 
scarcely  thought  of  her  two  sons.  They  had  always  been  happy 
and  beloved.  They  had  a  father — they  were  rich;  while  the 
other,  the  other !  oh,  how  much  reparation  was  owing  to  him ! 
In  her  blindness,  she  almost  regarded  her  family  as  responsible 
for  Raoul's  sufferings.  No  remorse  for  the  past,  no  apprehen- 
sions for  the  future,  disturbed  her  conscience.  To  her  the 
future  was  to-morrow;  eternity — the  sixteen  hours  which  sep- 
arated her  from  another  interview.  To  her,  Gaston's  death 
seemed  to  absolve  the  past  as  well  as  the  present.  But  she 
regretted  she  was  married.  Free,  she  could  have  consecrated 
herself  exclusively  to  Raoul.  She  was  rich,  but  how  gladly 
would  she  have  sacrificed  her  affluence  to  enjoy  poverty  with 
him !  Neither  her  husband  nor  sons  would  ever  suspect  the 
thoughts  which  absorbed  her  mind;  but  she  dreaded  her  niece. 
She  imagined  that  Madeleine  looked  at  her  strangely  on  her 
return  home.  Did  she  suspect  something.  For  several  days 
she  had  asked  embarrassing  questions.  She  must  beware  of 
her. 

This  uneasiness  changed  the  affection  which  Madame  Fauvel 
had  hitherto  felt  for  her  adopted  daughter  into  positive  dislike. 
She,  so  kind  and  loving,  regretted  having  placed  over  herself 
a  vigilant  spy  from  whom  nothing  escaped.  She  pondered  what 
means  she  could  take  to  avoid  the  penetrating  watchfulness  of 
a  girl  who  was  accustomed  to  read  in  her  face  every  thought 
that  crossed  her  mind.  With  unspeakable  satisfaction  she 
thought  of  a  way  which  she  imagined  would  please  all  parties. 
During  the  last  two  years  the  banker's  cashier  and  protege, 
Prosper  Bertomy,  had  been  devoted  in  his  attentions  to  Made- 
leine. Madame  Fauvel  decided  to  do  all  in  her  power  to  hasten 
matters,  so  that,  Madeleine  once  married  and  out  of  the  house, 
there  would  be  no  one  to  criticize  her  own  movements.  That 
very  evening,  with  a  duplicity  of  which  she  would  have  been 
incapable  a  few  days  before,  she  began  to  question  Madeleine 
about  her  sentiments  toward  Prosper. 

"Ah,  ah,  mademoiselle,"  she  said  gaily,  "is  it  thus  you  per- 


1124  FILE    NUMBER   113 

mit  yourself  to  choose  a  husband  without  my  permission." — 
"But,  aunt!  I  thought  you — " — "Yes,  I  know;  you  thought  I 
had  suspected  the  true  state  of  affairs?  That  is  precisely  what 
I  had  done."  Then,  in  a  serious  tone,  she  added:  "Therefore, 
nothing  remains  but  to  obtain  the  consent  of  Master  Prosper. 
Do  you  think  he  will  grant  it  ?" — "He !  aunt.  Ah !  if  he  only 
dared — " — "Ah,  indeed !  you  seem  to  know  all  about  it,  made- 
moiselle." 

Madeleine,  blushing  and  confused,  hung  her  head,  and  said 
nothing.  Madame  Fauvel  drew  her  toward  her,  and  continued 
in  her  most  affectionate  voice:  "My  dear  child,  do  not  be  dis- 
tressed. Did  you  think  that  Prosper  would  have  been  so  warmly 
welcomed  by  your  uncle  and  myself,  had  we  not  approved  of 
him  in  every  respect?" 

Madeleine  threw  her  arms  round  her  aunt's  neck,  and  mur- 
mured: "Oh,  thank  you,  my  dear  aunt,  thank  you;  you  are 
kind,  you  love  me!"  Madame  Fauvel  said  to  herself:  "I  will 
make  Andre  speak  to  Prosper,  and  before  two  months  are  over 
the  marriage  can  take  place." 

Unfortunately,  Madame  Fauvel  was  so  engrossed  by  her  new 
passion,  which  did  not  leave  her  a  moment  for  reflection,  that 
she  put  off  this  project.  Spending  a  portion  of  each  day  at  the 
Hotel  du  Louvre  with  Raoul,  she  did  not  cease  devoting  her 
thoughts  to  insuring  him  an  independent  fortune  and  a  good 
position.  She  had  not  yet  ventured  to  speak  to  him  on  the 
subject.  She  imagined  that  she  had  discovered  in  him  all  his 
father's  noble  pride  and  sensitiveness.  She  anxiously  won- 
dered if  he  would  ever  accept  the  least  assistance  from  her. 
The  Marquis  de  Clameran  quieted  her  doubts  on  this  point. 
She  had  frequently  met  him  since  the  day  on  which  he  had  so 
frightened  her,  and  to  her  first  aversion  had  succeeded  a  secret 
sympathy.  She  felt  kindly  toward  him  for  the  affection  he 
lavished  on  her  son.  If  Raoul,  with  the  heedlessness  of  youth, 
mocked  at  the  future,  Louis,  the  man  of  the  world,  seemed 
very  anxious  about  his  nephew's  welfare.  So  that,  one  day, 
after  a  few  general  observations,  he  approached  this  serious 
question:  "The  pleasant  life  my  nephew  leads  is  all  very  well," 
he  commenced,  "but  would  it  not  be  prudent  for  him  to  seek 
some  employment?  He  has  no  fortune." — "Ah,  my  dear  uncle, 
do  let  me  enjoy  my  present  happiness.  What  is  the  use  of  any 
change?  What  do  I  want?" — "You  want  for  nothing  at  pres- 
ent, Raoul;  but  when  your  resources  are  exhausted,  and  mine 


FILE   NUMBER   113  1125 

too — which  will  be  in  a  short  time — what  will  become  of  you?" 
"Oh !  I  will  enter  the  army.  All  the  De  Clamerans  are  born 
soldiers ;  and  if  a  war  breaks  out — " 

Madame  Fauvel  laid  her  hand  upon  his  lips,  and  said  in  a 
reproachful  tone:  "Cruel  boy!  become  a  soldier?  Would  you, 
then,  deprive  me  of  the  joy  of  seeing  you?" — "No,  mother  dear; 
no." — "You  see,"  insisted  Louis,  "that  you  must  listen  to  us." 
— "I  am  quite  willing;  but  some  other  time.  I  will  work  and 
earn  no  end  of  money." — "How,  poor  foolish  boy?  What  can 
you  do  ?" — "Oh !  never  mind.  I  don't  know  how ;  but  set  your 
mind  at  rest,  I  will  find  a  way." 

Finding  it  impossible  to  make  this  self-sufficient  youth  listen 
to  reason,  Louis  and  Madame  Fauvel,  after  discussing  the  mat- 
ter fully,  decided  that  assistance  must  be  forced  upon  him.  It 
>ras  difficult,  however,  to  choose  a  profession;  and  De  Cla- 
meran  thought  it  prudent  to  wait  a  while,  and  study  the  bent 
of  the  young  man's  mind.  In  the  mean  while,  it  was  decided 
that  Madame  Fauvel  should  place  funds  at  the  marquis's  dis- 
posal for  Raoul's  support.  Regarding  Gaston's  brother  in  the 
light  of  a  father  to  her  child,  Madame  Fauvel  soon  found  him 
indispensable.  She  continually  wanted  to  see  him,  either  to 
consult  him  concerning  some  new  idea  which  occurred  to  her, 
or  to  impress  upon  him  some  good  advice  to  be  given.  Thus 
she  was  well  pleased  when  one  day  he  requested  the  honor  of 
being  allowed  to  call  upon  her  at  her  own  house.  Nothing  was 
easier  than  to  introduce  the  Marquis  de  Clameran  to  her  hus- 
band as  an  old  friend  of  her  family;  and,  after  once  being  ad- 
mitted, he  could  soon  become  an  intimate  acquaintance.  Ma- 
dame Fauvel  soon  had  reason  to  congratulate  herself  upon  this 
arrangement.  Unable  to  continue  to  go  to  Raoul  every  day, 
$nd  not  daring,  if  she  wrote  to  him,  to  receive  his  replies,  she 
obtained  news  of  him  through  Louis. 

For  about  a  month  things  went  on  smoothly,  when  one  day 
the  marquis  confessed  that  Raoul  was  giving  him  a  great 
deal  of  trouble.  His  hesitating,  embarrassed  manner  frightened 
Madame  Fauvel.  She  thought  something  had  happened,  and 
that  he  was  trying  to  break  the  bad  news  gently.  "What  is 
the  matter?"  she  asked. — "I  am  sorry  to  say,"  replied  De  Cla- 
meran, "that  this  young  man  has  inherited  all  the  pride  and 
passions  of  his  ancestors.  He  is  one  of  those  natures  who  stop 
at  nothing,  who  find  incitement  in  opposition;  and  I  can  think 
of  no  way  of  checking  him  in  his  mad  career." — "Merciful 


1126  FILE   NUMBER   113 

heaven !  what  has  he  been  doing  ?" — "Nothing  particularly  cen- 
surable, nothing  irreparable,  certainly;  but  I  am  afraid  of  the 
future.  He  is  still  unaware  of  the  liberal  allowance  which  you 
have  placed  in  my  hands  for  his  benefit;  he  thinks  that  I  sup- 
port him,  and  yet  he  throws  away  money  as  if  he  were  the  son 
of  a  millionaire." 

Like  all  mothers,  Madame  Fauvel  attempted  to  excuse  her 
son.  "Perhaps  you  are  a  little  severe,"  she  said.  "Poor  child, 
he  has  suffered  so  much !  He  has  undergone  so  many  priva- 
tions during  his  childhood,  that  this  sudden  happiness  and 
wealth  has  turned  his  head ;  he  seizes  on  pleasure  as  a  starving 
man  seizes  on  a  piece  of  bread.  Is  it  so  surprising?  Ah,  only 
have  patience,  and  he  will  soon  return  to  the  path  of  duty; 
he  has  a  good  heart."  "He  has  suffered  so  much!"  was 
Madame  Fauvel's  constant  excuse  for  Raoul.  This  was  her 
invariable  reply  to  M.  de  Clameran's  complaints  of  his  nephew's 
conduct  And,  having  once  commenced,  he  was  now  constant 
in  his  accusations  against  Raoul.  "Nothing  restrains  his  ex- 
travagance and  dissipation,"  Louis  would  say  in  a  mournful 
voice ;  "the  instant  a  piece  of  folly  enters  his  head,  it  is  carried 
out,  no  matter  at  what  cost." 

But  Madame  Fauvel  saw  no  reason  why  her  son  should  be 
thus  harshly  judged.  "We  must  remember,"  she  replied  in 
an  aggrieved  tone,  "that  from  infancy  he  has  been  left  to 
his  own  unguided  impulses.  The  unfortunate  boy  never  had 
a  mother  to  tend  and  counsel  him.  You  must  remember,  too, 
that  in  his  childhood  he  never  knew  a  father's  guidance." — 
"There  is  some  excuse  for  him,  to  be  sure;  but  nevertheless  he 
must  change  his  present  course.  Could  you  not  speak  seriously 
to  him,  madame?    You  have  more  influence  over  him  than  I." 

She  promised,  but  did  not  keep  her  promise.  She  had  so 
little  time  to  devote  to  Raoul,  that  it  seemed  cruel  to  spend  it 
in  reprimands.  Sometimes  she  would  hurry  from  home  for 
the  purpose  of  following  the  marquis's  advice;  but,  the  instant 
she  saw  Raoul,  her  courage  failed,  a  pleading  look  from  his 
soft,  dark  eyes  silenced  the  rebuke  upon  her  lips,  the  sound  of 
his  voice  banished  every  anxious  thought  from  her  mind. 
But  De  Clameran  was  not  a  man  to  lose  sight  of  the  main 
object;  he  would  have  no  compromise  with  duty.  His  brother 
had  bequeathed  to  him,  as  a  precious  trust,  his  son  Raoul;  he 
regarded  himself,  he  said,  as  his  guardian,  and  would  be  held 
responsible  in  another  world  for  his  welfare.     He  entreated 


FILE   NUMBER   113  1127 

Madame  Fauvel  to  use  her  influence,  when  he  found  himself 
powerless  in  trying  to  check  the  heedless  youth  in  his  down- 
ward career.  She  ought,  for  the  sake  of  her  child,  to  see 
more  of  him,  in  fact,  every  day. 

"Alas,"  the  poor  woman  replied,  "that  would  be  my  heart's 
desire.  But  how  can  I  do  it  ?  Have  I  the  right  to  ruin  myself  ? 
I  have  other  children,  for  whom  I  must  be  careful  of  my 
reputation."  This  answer  appeared  to  astonish  De  Clameran. 
A  fortnight  before,  Madame  Fauvel  would  not  have  alluded 
to  her  other  sons.  "I  will  think  the  matter  over,"  said  Louis, 
"and  perhaps  when  I  see  you  next  I  shall  be  able  to  submit 
to  you  a  plan  which  will  reconcile  everything." 

The  reflections  of  a  man  of  so  much  experience  could  not 
be  fruitless.  He  had  a  relieved,  satisfied  look,  when  he  called 
to  see  Madame  Fauvel  in  the  following  week.  "I  think  I  have 
solved  the  problem,"  he  said. — "What  problem?" — "The  means 
of  saving  Raoul." 

He  explained  himself  by  saying  that  as  Madame  Fauvel 
could  not,  without  arousing  her  husband's '  suspicions,  visit 
Raoul  daily,  she  must  receive  him  at  her  own  house.  This 
proposition  shocked  Madame  Fauvel;  for  though  she  had  been 
imprudent,  even  culpable,  she  was  the  soul  of  honor,  and 
naturally  shrank  from  the  idea  of  introducing  Raoul  into  the 
midst  of  her  family,  and  seeing  him  welcomed  by  her  husband, 
and  perhaps  become  the  friend  of  her  sons.  Her  instinctive 
sense  of  justice  made  her  declare  that  she  would  never  con- 
sent to  such  an  infamous  step. 

"Yes,"  said  the  marquis  thoughtfully;  "but  then  it  is  the 
only  chance  of  saving  your  child."  But  this  time,  at  least, 
she  resisted,  and  with  an  indignation  and  an  energy  capable 
of  shaking  a  will  less  strong  than  the  Marquis  de  Clameran's. 
"No,"  she  repeated,  "no ;  I  can  never  consent." 

Before  a  week  had  passed  she  listened  to  this  project,  which 
at  first  had  filled  her  with  horror,  with  a  willing  ear,  and  even 
began  to  devise  means  for  its  speedy  execution.  Yes,  after 
a  cruel  struggle,  she  finally  yielded  to  the  pressure  of  De  Cla- 
meran's politely  uttered  threats  and  Raoul's  wheedling  en- 
treaties. "But  how?"  she  asked,  "upon  what  pretext  can  I 
receive  Raoul?" — "It  would  be  the  easiest  thing  in  the  world," 
replied  De  Clameran,  "to  introduce  him  as  an  ordinary  ac- 
quaintance, as  I,  myself,  have  the  honor  of  being.  But  Raoul 
must  be  more  than  that." 


1128  FILE   NUMBER   113 

After  torturing  Madame  Fauvel  for  a  long  time  and  almost 
driving  her  out  of  her  mind,  he  finally  revealed  his  scheme. 
"We  have  in  our  hands,"  he  said,  "the  solution  of  the  problem. 
It  is  an  inspiration."  Madame  Fauvel  eagerly  scanned  his 
face  as  she  listened  with  the  pitiable  resignation  of  a  martyr. 
"Have  you  not  a  cousin,  a  widow  lady,  who  had  two  daughters, 
living  at  St.  Remy?"  continued  Louis. — "Yes,  Madame  de 
Lagors." — "Precisely  so.  What  fortune  has  she?" — "She  is 
poor,  sir,  very  poor." — "And  but  for  the  assistance  you  render 
her  secretly,  she  would  be  thrown  upon  the  charity  of  the 
world."  Madame  Fauvel  was  bewildered  at  finding  the  marquis 
so  well  informed  of  her  private  affairs.  "How  could  you 
have  discovered  this?"  she  asked. — "Oh,  I  know  all  about  this 
affair,  and  many  others  besides.  I  know,  for  instance,  that 
your  husband  knows  none  of  your  relatives,  and  that  he  is 
scarcely  aware  of  the  existence  of  your  cousin  De  Lagors. 
Do  you  begin  to  comprehend  my  plan?"  She  understood  it 
slightly,  and  was  asking  herself  how  she  could  resist  it. 

"This,"  continued  Louis,  "is  what  I  have  planned.  To-mor- 
row or  next  day,  you  will  receive  a  letter  from  your  cousin  at 
St.  Remy,  telling  you  that  she  has  sent  her  son  to  Paris,  and 
begging  you  to  watch  over  him.  Naturally  you  show  this 
letter  to  your  husband;  and  a  few  days  afterward  he  warmly 
welcomes  your  nephew,  Raoul  de  Lagors,  a  handsome,  rich, 
attractive  young  man,  who  will  do  everything  he  can  to  please 
him,  and  who  will  succeed." 

"Never,  sir,"  replied  Madame  Fauvel,  "my  cousin  is  a 
pious,  honorable  woman,  and  nothing  would  induce  her  to 
countenance  so  shameful  a  transaction."  The  marquis  smiled 
scornfully,  and  asked:  "Who  told  you  that  I  intended  to  con- 
fide in  her?" — "But  you  would  be  obliged  to  do  so!" 

"You  are  very  simple,  madame.  The  letter  which  you  will 
receive,  and  show  to  your  husband,  will  be  dictated  by  me, 
and  posted  at  St.  Remy  by  a  friend  of  mine.  If  I  spoke  of 
the  obligations  under  which  you  have  placed  your  cousin,  it 
was  merely  to  show  you  that,  in  case  of  accident,  her  own 
interest  would  make  her  serve  you.  Do  you  see  any  other 
obstacle  to  this  plan,  madame?" 

Madame  Fauvel's  eyes  flashed  with  indignation.  "Is  my 
will  of  no  account?"  she  exclaimed.  "You  seem  to  have 
made  your  arrangements  without  consulting  me  at  all." — "Ex- 
cuse me,"  said  the  marquis  with  ironical  politeness;  "I  am 


FILE    NUMBER   113 


1129 


sure  that  you  will  take  the  same  view  of  the  matter  as  myself." 
— "But  it  is  a  crime,  sir,  that  you  propose — an  abominable 
crime !" 

This  speech  seemed  to  arouse  all  the  bad  passions  slum- 
bering in  De  Clameran's  bosom;  and  his  pale  face  had  a 
fiendish  expression  as  he  fiercely  replied:  "I  think  we  do  not 
quite  understand  each  other.  Before  you  begin  to  talk  about 
crime,  think  over  your  past  life.  You  were  not  so  timid  and 
scrupulous  when  you  gave  yourself  up  to  your  lover.  It  is 
true  that  you  did  not  hesitate  to  refuse  to  share  his  exile,  when 
for  your  sake  he  had  just  jeopardized  his  life  by  killing  two 
men.  You  felt  no  scruples  at  abandoning  your  child  in  London; 
although  rolling  in  wealth,  you  never  even  inquired  if  this 
poor  waif  had  bread  to  eat.  You  felt  no  scruples  about  mar- 
rying M.  Fauvel.  Did  you  tell  your  confiding  husband  of  the 
lines  of  shame  concealed  beneath  your  wreath  of  orange-blos- 
soms ?  No !  All  these  crimes  you  indulge  in ;  and,  when  in 
Gaston's  name  I  demand  reparation,  you  indignantly  refuse! 
It  is  too  late !  You  ruined  the  father ;  but  you  shall  save  the 
son,  or  I  swear  you  shall  no  longer  cheat  the  world  of  its 
esteem." — "I  will  obey  you,  sir,"  murmured  the  trembling, 
frightened   woman. 

The  following  week  Raoul,  now  Raoul  de  Lagors,  was  seated 
at  the  banker's  dinner-table,  between  Madame  Fauvel  and 
Madeleine. 


IT  was  not  without  the  most  acute  suffering  and  self-con- 
demnation that  Madame  Fauvel  submitted  to  the  will  of  the 
relentless  Marquis  de  Clameran.  She  had  used  every  argument 
and  entreaty  to  soften  him ;  but  he  merely  looked  upon  her  with 
a  triumphant,  sneering  smile  when  she  knelt  at  his  feet,  and 
implored  him  to  be  merciful.  Neither  tears  nor  prayers  moved 
his  depraved  soul.  Disappointed,  and  almost  desperate,  she 
sought  the  intercession  of  her  son.  Raoul  was  in  a  state  of 
furious  indignation  at  the  sight  of  his  mother's  distress,  and 

Gab. — Vol.  IV  J 


1130  FILE    NUMBER   113 

hastened  to  demand  an  apology  from  De  Clameran.  But  he 
had  reckoned  without  his  host.  He  soon  returned  with  down- 
cast eyes,  and  moodily  angry  at  his  own  powerlessness,  de- 
claring that  safety  demanded  a  complete  surrender  to  the 
tyrant.  Now  only  did  the  wretched  woman  fully  fathom 
the  abyss  into  which  she  was  being  dragged,  and  clearly  see  the 
labyrinth  of  crime  of  which  she  was  becoming  the  victim. 
And  all  this  suffering  was  the  consequence  of  a  fault,  an  in- 
terview granted  to  Gaston.  Ever  since  that  fatal  day  she  had 
been  vainly  struggling  against  the  implacable  logic  of  events. 
Her  life  had  been  spent  in  trying  to  overcome  the  past,  and 
now  it  had  risen  to  crush  her.  The  hardest  thing  of  all  to 
do,  the  act  that  most  wrung  her  heart,  was  showing  to  her 
husband  the  forged  letter  from  St.  Remy,  and  saying  that  she 
expected  soon  to  see  her  nephew,  a  quite  young  man,  and  very 
rich !  But  words  can  not  paint  the  torture  she  endured  on  the 
evening  she  introduced  Raoul  to  her  family.  It  was  with  a 
smile  on  his  lips  that  the  banker  welcomed  this  nephew,  of 
whom  he  had  never  heard  before.  "It  is  natural,"  said  he,  as 
he  held  out  his  hand,  "when  one  is  young  and  rich,  to  prefer 
Paris  to  St.  Remy."  Raoul  did  his  utmost  to  deserve  this  cor- 
dial reception.  If  his  early  education  had  been  neglected,  and 
he  lacked  those  delicate  refinements  of  manner  and  conversa- 
tion which  home  influence  imparts,  his  superior  tact  concealed 
these  defects.  He  possessed  the  happy  faculty  of  reading  char- 
acters, and  adapting  his  conversation  to  the  minds  of  his  lis- 
teners. Before  a  week  had  gone  by  he  was  a  favorite  with 
M.  Fauvel,  intimate  with  Abel  and  Lucien,  and  inseparable 
from  Prosper  Bertomy,  the  cashier,  who  then  spent  all  his 
evenings  with  the  banker's  family.  Charmed  at  the  favorable 
impression  made  by  Raoul,  Madame  Fauvel  recovered  compara- 
tive ease  of  mind,  and  at  times  almost  congratulated  herself 
upon  having  obeyed  the  marquis,  and  began  once  more  to  hope. 
Raoul's  intimacy  with  his  cousins  threw  him  among  a  set  of 
rich  young  men,  and  as  a  consequence,  instead  of  reforming, 
he  daily  grew  more  dissipated  and  reckless.  Gambling,  racing, 
expensive  suppers,  made  money  slip  through  his  fingers  like 
grains  of  sand.  This  proud  young  man,  whose  sensitive  deli- 
cacy not  long  since  made  him  refuse  to  accept  aught  save 
affection  from  his  mother,  now  never  approached  her  without 
demanding  large  sums  of  money.  At  first  she  gave  with  pleas- 
ure, without  stopping  to  count  the  cash.     But  she  soon  per- 


FILE   NUMBER   113  1131 

ceived  that  her  generosity,  if  she  did  not  keep  it  within  bounds, 
would  be  her  ruin.  This  rich  woman,  whose  magnificent  dia- 
monds, elegant  toilets,  and  superb  equipages  were  the  admira- 
tion and  envy  of  Paris,  knew  misery  in  its  bitterest  form:  that 
of  not  being  able  to  gratify  the  desires  of  a  beloved  being. 
Her  husband  had  never  thought  of  giving  her  a  fixed  sum  for 
expenses.  The  day  after  their  wedding  he  gave  her  a  key  to 
his  secretary,  and  ever  since  she  had  been  in  the  habit  of  freely 
taking  the  money  necessary  for  keeping  up  the  establishment, 
and  for  her  own  personal  requirements.  But  from  the  fact  of 
her  having  always  been  so  modest  in  her  personal  expenses,  that 
her  husband  used  to  jest  her  on  the  subject,  and  of  her  hav- 
ing managed  the  household  expenditure  in  a  most  judicious 
manner,  she  was  not  able  to  suddenly  dispose  of  large  sums 
without  giving  rise  to  embarrassing  questions.  M.  Fauvel,  the 
most  generous  of  millionaires,  would  have  been  delighted  to  see 
his  wife  indulge  in  any  extravagance,  no  matter  how  foolish; 
but  he  would  naturally  expect  to  see  traces  of  the  money  spent, 
something  to  show  for  it.  The  banker  might  suddenly  discover 
that  much  more  than  the  usual  amount  of  money  was  used  in 
the  house ;  and  if  he  should  ask  the  cause  of  this  astonishing 
outlay,  what  answer  could  she  give? 

In  three  months  Raoul  had  squandered  a  little  fortune.  In 
the  first  place,  he  was  obliged  to  have  bachelor's  apartments, 
prettily  furnished.  He  was  in  want  of  everything,  just  like  a 
shipwrecked  sailor.  He  asked  for  a  horse  and  brougham — how 
could  she  refuse  him?  Then  every  day  there  was  some  fresh 
whim  to  be  satisfied.  When  she  would  gently  remonstrate, 
Raoul's  beautiful  eyes  would  fill  with  tears,  and  in  a  sad,  hum- 
ble tone  he  would  say :  "Alas !  I  am  a  child,  a  poor  fool,  I  ask 
too  much.  I  forget  that  I  am  only  the  son  of  poor  Valentine, 
and  not  of  the  rich  banker's  wife !" 

This  touching  repentance  wrung  her  heart.  The  poor  boy 
had  suffered  so  much  that  it  was  her  duty  to  console  him,  and 
she  would  finish  by  excusing  him.  She  soon  discovered  that 
he  was  jealous  and  envious  of  his  two  brothers — for,  after  all, 
they  were  his  brothers — Abel  and  Lucien. 

"You  never  refuse  them  anything,"  he  would  say ;  "they  were 
fortunate  enough  to  enter  life  by  the  golden  gate.  Their  every 
wish  is  gratified;  they  enjoy  wealth,  position,  home  affection, 
and  have  a  splendid  future  awaiting  them." 

"But  what  is  lacking  to  your  happiness,   unhappy   child?" 


1132  FILE   NUMBER   113 

Madame  Fauvel  would  ask  in  despair. — "What  do  I  want?  ap- 
parently nothing,  in  reality  everything.  Do  I  possess  anything 
legitimately  ?  What  right  have  I  to  your  affection,  to  the  com- 
forts and  luxuries  you  heap  upon  me,  to  the  name  I  bear  ?  Have 
I  not,  so  to  say,  stolen  even  my  life?" 

When  Raoul  talked  in  this  strain,  she  was  ready  to  do  any- 
thing, so  that  he  should  not  be  envious  of  her  two  other  sons. 
As  spring  approached,  she  told  him  she  wished  him  to  spend 
the  summer  in  the  country,  near  her  villa  at  St.  Germain.  She 
expected  he  would  offer  some  objection.  But  not  at  all.  The 
proposal  seemed  to  please  him,  and  a  few  days  after  he  told 
her  he  had  rented  a  little  house  at  Vesinet,  and  intended  hav- 
ing his  furniture  moved  into  it.  "Then,  just  think,  dear  mother, 
what  a  happy  summer  we  will  spend  together!"  he  said  with 
beaming  eyes. 

She  was  delighted  for  many  reasons,  one  of  which  was  that 
the  prodigal's  expenses  would  probably  diminish.  Anxiety  as 
to  the  exhausted  state  of  her  finances  made  her  bold  enough  to 
chide  him  at  the  dinner  table  one  day  for  having  lost  two  thou- 
sand francs  at  the  races  the  day  before. 

"You  are  severe,  my  dear,"  said  M.  Fauvel,  with  the  care- 
lessness of  a  rich  man.  "Mama  de  Lagors  will  pay;  mamas 
were  created  for  the  special  purpose  of  paying."  And,  not  ob- 
serving the  effect  these  words  had  upon  his  wife,  he  turned  to 
Raoul,  and  added:  "Don't  worry  yourself,  my  boy;  when  you 
want  money,  come  to  me,  and  I  will  lend  you  some."  What 
could  Madame  Fauvel  say?  Had  she  not  followed  De  Cla- 
meran's  orders,  and  announced  that  Raoul  was  very  rich  ?  Why 
had  she  been  made  to  tell  this  unnecessary  lie?  She  all  at  once 
perceived  the  snare  which  had  been  laid  for  her;  but  now  she 
was  caught,  and  it  was  too  late  to  struggle.  The  banker's  offer 
was  soon  accepted.  That  same  week  Raoul  went  to  his  uncle 
and  boldly  borrowed  ten  thousand  francs.  When  Madame 
Fauvel  heard  of  this  piece  of  audacity,  she  wrung  her  hands 
in  despair.  "What  can  he  want  with  so  much  money?"  she 
moaned  to  herself. 

For  some  time  De  Clameran  had  kept  away  from  Madame 
Fauvel's  house.  She  decided  to  write  and  ask  him  to  call.  She 
hoped  that  this  energetic,  determined  man,  who  was  so  fully 
awake  to  his  duties  as  a  guardian,  would  make  Raoul  listen 
to  reason.  When  De  Clameran  heard  what  had  taken  place, 
his   surprise  and  anger  were   unbounded.     A   violent   alterca- 


FILE   NUMBER   113  1133 

tion  ensued  between  him  and  Raoul.  But  Madame  Fauvel's 
suspicions  were  aroused;  she  watched  them,  and  it  seemed  to 
her — could  it  be  possible — that  their  anger  was  feigned;  that, 
although  they  abused  and  even  threatened  each  other  in  the 
bitterest  language,  their  eyes  were  smiling.  She  dared  not 
breathe  her  doubts ;  but,  like  a  subtle  poison  which  disorgan- 
izes everything  with  which  it  comes  in  contact,  this  new  sus- 
picion filled  her  thoughts,  and  added  to  her  already  intolerable 
sufferings.  Yet  she  never  once  thought  of  blaming  Raoul,  for 
she  still  loved  him  madly.  She  accused  the  marquis  of  taking 
advantage  of  the  youthful  weaknesses  and  inexperience  of  his 
nephew.  She  knew  that  she  would  have  to  suffer  insolence  and 
extortion  from  this  man  who  had  her  completely  in  his  power ; 
but  she  could  not  penetrate  his  motive  for  acting  as  he  did. 
He  soon  acquainted  her  with  it. 

One  day,  after  complaining  more  bitterly  than  usual  of  Raoul, 
and  proving  to  Madame  Fauvel  that  it  was  impossible  for  this 
state  of  affairs  to  continue  much  longer,  the  marquis  declared 
that  he  saw  but  one  way  of  preventing  a  catastrophe.  This 
was,  that  he  (De  Clameran)  should  marry  Madeleine.  Madame 
Fauvel  had  long  ago  been  prepared  for  anything  his  cupidity 
could  attempt.  But  if  she  had  given  up  all  hope  of  happiness 
for  herself,  if  she  consented  to  the  sacrifice  of  her  own  peace 
of  mind,  it  was  because  she  thus  hoped  to  insure  the  security  of 
those  dear  to  her.  This  unexpected  declaration  shocked  her. 
"Do  you  suppose  for  an  instant,  sir,"  she  indignantly  exclaimed, 
"that  I  will  consent  to  any  such  disgraceful  project?"  With  a 
nod,  the  marquis  answered:  "Yes." — "What  sort  of  a  woman 
do  you  think  I  am,  sir  ?  Alas !  I  was  very  guilty  once,  but  the 
punishment  now  exceeds  the  fault.  And  does  it  become  you  to 
be  constantly  reproaching  me  with  my  long-past  imprudence? 
So  long  as  I  alone  had  to  suffer,  you  found  me  weak  and  timid ; 
but  now  that  you  attack  those  I  love,  I  rebel." — "Would  it 
then,  madame,  be  such  a  very  great  misfortune  for  Mademoi- 
selle Madeleine  to  become  the  Marquise  de  Clameran?" 

"My  niece,  sir,  chose,  of  her  own  free  will,  a  husband  whom 
she  will  shortly  marry.  She  loves  M.  Prosper  Bertomy."  The 
marquis  disdainfully  shrugged  his  shoulders.  "A  school-girl 
love  affair,"  said  he ;  "she  will  forget  all  about  it  when  you  wish 
her  to  do  so." — "I  will  never  wish  it." 

"Excuse  me,"  he  replied  in  the  low,  suppressed  tone  of  a 
man  trying  to  control  himself;  "let  us  not  waste  time  in  these 


1134  FILE    NUMBER    113 

idle  discussions.  Hitherto  you  have  always  commenced  by  pro- 
testing against  my  proposed  plans,  and  in  the  end  acknowledged 
the  good  sense  and  justness  of  my  arguments.  This  time,  also, 
you  will  oblige  me  by  yielding." — "Never,"  said  Madame  Fau- 
vel;  "never!"  , 

De  Clameran  paid  no  attention  to  this  interruption,  but  went 
on :  "If  I  insist  upon  this  marriage,  it  is  because  it  will  reestab- 
lish your  affairs,  as  well  as  ours.  Of  course  you  see  that  the 
allowance  you  give  your  son  is  insufficient  for  his  extravagant 
style  of  living.  The  time  approaches  when  you  will  have  noth- 
ing more  to  give  him,  and  you  will  no  longer  be  able  to  conceal 
from  your  husband  your  constant  encroachments  on  the  house- 
keeping money.     When  that  day  comes,  what  is  to  be  done?" 

Madame  Fauvel  shuddered.  The  dreaded  day  of  which  the 
marquis  spoke  could  not  be  far  off.  "Then,"  he  continued,  "you 
will  render  justice  to  my  wise  forethought,  and  to  my  good 
intentions.  Mademoiselle  Madeleine  is  rich;  her  dowry  will 
enable  me  to  supply  the  deficit,  and  save  you." — "I  would  rather 
be  ruined  than  be  saved  by  such  means." — "But  I  will  not  per- 
mit you  to  ruin  us  all.  Remember,  madame,  that  we  are  asso- 
ciated in  a  common  cause — Raoul's  future  welfare." — "Cease 
your  importunities,"  she  said,  looking  him  steadily  in  the  face. 
"I  have  made  up  my  mind  irrevocably." — "To  what?" — "To  do 
everything  and  anything  to  escape  your  shameful  persecution. 
Oh !  you  need  not  smile.  I  shall,  if  necessary,  throw  myself  at 
M.  Fauvel's  feet  and  confess  everything.  He  loves  me,  and, 
knowing  how  I  have  suffered,  will  forgive  me." — "Do  you  think 
so?"  asked  De  Clameran,  derisively. — "You  mean  to  say  that 
he  will  be  pitiless,  and  banish  me  from  his  roof !  So  be  it ;  it 
will  only  be  what  I  deserve.  There  is  no  torture  that  I  can  not 
bear  after  what  I  have  suffered  through  you." 

This  inconceivable  resistance  so  upset  all  the  marquis's  plans 
that  he  lost  all  constraint,  and,  dropping  the  mask  of  politeness, 
appeared  in  his  true  character.  "Indeed !"  he  said,  in  a  fierce, 
brutal  tone ;  "so  you  have  decided  to  confess  to  your  husband  ! 
A  famous  idea !  What  a  pity  you  did  not  think  of  it  before ! 
Confessing  everything  the  first  day  I  called  on  you,  you  might 
have  been  forgiven.  Your  husband  might  have  pardoned  a 
youthful  fault,  atoned  for  by  twenty  years  of  irreproachable 
conduct;  for  none  can  deny  that  you  have  been  a  faithful  wife 
and  a  good  mother.  But  picture  the  indignation  of  your  trust- 
ing husband  when  you  tell  him  that  this  pretended  nephew — 


FILE    NUMBER    113  1135 

whom  you  impose  upon  his  family  circle,  who  sits  at  his  table, 
who  borrows  his  money — is  your  illegitimate  son !  M.  Fauvel 
is,  no  doubt,  an  excellent,  kind-hearted  man ;  but  I  scarcely 
think  he  will  pardon  a  deception  of  this  nature,  which  betrays 
such  depravity,  duplicity,  and  audacity." 

All  that  the  angry  marquis  said  was  horribly  true ;  yet  Ma- 
dame Fauvel  listened  unflinchingly.  "Upon  my  word,"  he  went 
on,  "you  must  be  very  much  infatuated  with  this  M.  Bertomy  ! 
Between  the  honor  of  your  husband's  name,  and  pleasing  this 
love-sick  cashier,  you  refuse  to  hesitate.  Well,  I  suppose  it 
will  console  you  when  M.  Fauvel  separates  from  you,  and  Abel 
and  Lucien  avert  their  faces  at  your  approach,  and  blush  at 
being  your  sons — it  will  be  very  sweet  to  be  able  to  say :  'I  have 
made  Prosper  happy  !'  " 

"Happen  what  may,  I  shall  do  what  is  right,"  said  Madame 
Fauvel. — "You  shall  do  what  I  tell  you !"  cried  De  Clameran, 
threateningly.  "Do  you  suppose  that  I  will  allow  your  senti- 
mentality to  blast  all  my  hopes?  Your  niece's  fortune  is  indis- 
pensable to  us,  and,  more  than  that,  I  love  the  fair  Madeleine." 

The  blow  once  struck,  the  marquis  judged  it  prudent  to  await 
the  result.  With  cool  politeness,  he  added :  "I  will  leave  you 
now,  madame,  to  think  the  matter  over.  Believe  me,  consent 
to  this  sacrifice — it  will  be  the  last  required  of  you.  Think  of 
the  honor  of  your  family,  and  not  of  your  niece's  love  affairs. 
I  will  call  in  three  days  for  your  answer." — "You  will  come 
uselessly,  sir.  I  shall  tell  my  husband  everything  as  soon  as 
he  returns."  If  Madame  Fauvel  had  not  been  so  agitated  her- 
self she  would  have  detected  an  expression  of  alarm  upon  De 
Clameran's  face.  With  a  shrug,  which  meant,  "Just  as  you 
please,"  he  said :  "I  think  you  have  sense  enough  to  keep 
your  secret."  He  bowed  ceremoniously,  and  left  the  room,  but 
slammed  the  door  after  him  with  a  violence  that  betrayed  the 
constraint  he  had  imposed  upon  himself.  De  Clameran  had 
cause  for  fear.  Madame  Fauvel's  determination  was  not 
feigned.  "Yes,"  she  cried,  with  the  enthusiasm  of  a  noble 
resolution ;  "yes,  I  will  tell  Andre  everything." 

She  believed  herself  to  be  alone,  but  turned  round  suddenly 
at  the  sound  of  footsteps,  and  found  herself  face  to  face  with 
Madeleine,  who  was  pale  as  a  statue,  and  whose  eyes  were 
full  of  tears.  "You  must  obey  this  man,  aunt,"  she  quietly 
said.  Adjoining  the  drawing-room  were  two  little  card-rooms, 
shut  off  only  by  heavy  silk  surtains.     Madeleine,  unknown  to 


1136  FILE   NUMBER   113 

her  aunt,  was  sitting  in  one  of  the  little  rooms  when  the  mar- 
quis arrived,  and  had  overheard  the  conversation. 

"Good  heavens!"  cried  Madame  Fauvel  with  terror;  "do  you 
know?" — "I  know  everything,  aunt." — "And  you  wish  me  to 
sacrifice  you  to  this  fiend?" — "I  implore  you  to  let  me  save 
you." — "You  must  certainly  hate  M.  de  Clameran." — "I  hate 
him,  aunt,  and  despise  him.  He  will  always  be  for  me  the 
basest  of  men ;  nevertheless  I  will  marry  him." 

Madame  Fauvel  was  overcome  by  the  magnitude  of  this  de- 
votion. "And  what  is  to  become  of  Prosper,  my  poor  child — 
Prosper,  whom  you  love?"  Madeleine  stifled  a  sob,  and  replied 
in  a  firm  voice :  "To-morrow  I  will  break  off  my  engagement 
with  M.  Bertomy." — "I  will  never  permit  such  a  wrong,"  cried 
Madame  Fauvel.  "I  will  not  add  to  my  sins  by  suffering  an 
innocent  girl  to  bear  their  penalty." 

The  noble  girl  sadly  shook  her  head,  and  replied:  "Neither 
will  I  suffer  dishonor  to  fall  upon  this  house,  which  is  my  home, 
while  I  have  power  to  prevent  it.  Am  I  not  indebted  to  you  for 
more  than  life  ?  What  would  I  now  be  had  you  not  taken  pity  on 
me  ?  A  factory  girl  in  my  native  town.  You  warmly  welcomed 
the  poor  orphan,  and  became  a  mother  to  her.  Is  it  not  to  your 
husband  that  I  owe  the  fortune  which  excites  this  villain's 
cupidity  ?  Are  not  Abel  and  Lucien  brothers  to  me  ?  And  now, 
when  the  happiness  of  us  all  is  at  stake,  do  you  suppose  I  would 
hesitate?    No.    I  will  become  the  wife  of  De  Clameran." 

Then  began  a  struggle  of  self-sacrifice  between  Madame 
Fauvel  and  her  niece,  as  to  which  should  be  the  victim ;  and  all 
the  more  sublime,  because  each  offered  her  life  to  the  other, 
not  from  any  sudden  impulse,  but  deliberately  and  willingly. 
But  Madeleine  was  bound  to  triumph,  fired  as  she  was  by  that 
holy  enthusiasm  of  sacrifice  which  makes  martyrs. — "I  am  re- 
sponsible to  none  but  myself,"  she  said,  well  knowing  this  to 
be  the  most  vulnerable  point  she  could  attack ;  "while  you,  dear 
aunt,  are  accountable  to  your  husband  and  children.  Think 
of  my  uncle's  pain  and  sorrow  if  he  should  ever  learn  the 
truth !    It  would  kill  him." 

The  generous  girl  was  right.  After  having  sacrificed  her 
husband  to  her  mother,  Madame  Fauvel  was  about  to  immolate 
her  husband  and  children  for  Raoul.  As  an  impalpable  snow- 
flake  may  be  the  beginning  of  an  avalanche,  so  an  imprudence 
is  often  the  prelude  to  a  great  crime.  To  false  situations  there 
is  but  one  safe  issue — truth. 


FILE   NUMBER   113  1137 

Madame  Fauvel's  resistance  grew  weaker  and  weaker.  "But," 
she  faintly  argued,  "I  can  not  accept  your  sacrifice.  What 
sort  of  a  life  will  you  lead  with  this  man?" — "We  can  hope 
for  the  best,"  replied  Madeleine,  with  a  cheerfulness  she  was 
far  from  feeling;  "he  loves  me,  he  says;  perhaps  he  will  be 
kind  to  me." — "Ah,  if  I  only  knew  where  to  obtain  money!  It 
is  money  that  the  grasping  man  wants ;  money  alone  will  satisfy 
him." — "Does  he  not  want  it  for  Raoul?  Has  not  Raoul,  by 
his  extravagant  follies,  dug  an  abyss  which  must  be  bridged 
over  by  money?    If  I  could  only  believe  M.  de  Clameran!" 

Madame  Fauvel  looked  at  her  niece  with  bewildered  curi- 
osity. What !  this  inexperienced  girl  had  weighed  the  matter 
in  its  different  lights  before  deciding  upon  a  surrender ;  whereas, 
she,  a  wife  and  a  mother,  had  blindly  yielded  to  the  inspirations 
of  her  heart!  "What  do  you  mean?"  she  asked. — "I  mean  this, 
aunt,  that  I  do  not  believe  that  De  Clameran  has  any  thought 
of  his  nephew's  welfare.  Once  in  possession  of  my  fortune,  he 
may  leave  you  and  Raoul  to  your  fates.  And  there  is  another 
dreadful  suspicion  that  tortures  my  mind." — "A  suspicion?" — 
"Yes,  and  I  would  reveal  it  to  you,  if  I  dared ;  if  I  did  not  fear 
that  you — " — "Speak  !"  insisted  Madame  Fauvel.  "Alas  !  mis- 
fortune has  given  me  strength.  I  can  fear  nothing  worse  than 
what  has  already  happened.    I  am  ready  to  hear  anything." 

Madeleine  hesitated ;  she  wished  to  enlighten  her  credulous 
aunt,  and  yet  feared  to  distress  her.  "I  would  like  to  be  cer- 
tain," she  said,  "that  some  secret  understanding  between  M.  de 
Clameran  and  Raoul  does  not  exist,  that  they  are  not  acting  a 
part  agreed  upon  between  them  beforehand." 

Love  is  blind  and  deaf.  Madame  Fauvel  no  longer  remem- 
bered the  laughing  eyes  of  the  two  men,  upon  the  occasion  of 
the  pretended  quarrel  in  her  presence.  She  could  not,  she  would 
not,  believe  in  such  hypocrisy.  "It  is  impossible,"  she  said: 
"the  marquis  is  really  indignant  and  distressed  at  his  nephew's 
mode  of  life,  and  he  certainly  would  never  give  him  any  bad 
advice.  As  to  Raoul,  he  is  vain,  trifling,  and  extravagant ;  but 
he  has  a  good  heart.  Prosperity  has  turned  his  head,  but  he 
loves  me.  Ah,  if  you  could  see  and  hear  him,  when  I  reproach 
him  for  his  faults,  your  suspicions  would  fly  to  the  winds. 
When  he  tearfully  promises  to  be  more  prudent,  he  means  to 
keep  his  word.  If  he  breaks  his  promises,  it  is  because  per- 
fidious  friends  lead  him  astray." 

Mothers  always  blame  their  children's  friends.     The  friend 


1138  FILE   NUMBER   113 

is  the  guilty  one.  Madeleine  had  not  the  heart  to  undeceive 
her  aunt.  "God  grant  that  what  you  say  may  be  true,"  she 
said;  "if  so,  my  marriage  will  not  be  useless.  We  will  write 
to  M.  de  Clameran  to-night." — "Why  to-night,  Madeleine? 
We  need  not  hurry  so.  Let  us  wait  a  little;  something  might 
happen  to  save  us." 

These  words — this  confidence  in  chance,  in  a  mere  nothing — 
revealed  Madame  Fauvel's  true  character,  and  accounted  for 
her  troubles.  Timid,  hesitating,  easily  swayed,  she  never  could 
come  to  a  firm  decision,  form  a  resolution,  and  abide  by  it,  in 
spite  of  all  arguments  brought  to  bear  against  it.  In  the  hour 
of  peril  she  would  always  shut  her  eyes,  and  trust  to  chance 
for  a  relief  which  never  came.  Quite  different  was  Madeleine's 
character.  Beneath  her  gentle  timidity,  lay  a  strong,  self- 
reliant  will.  Once  decided  upon  a  sacrifice,  it  was  to  be  carried 
out  to  the  letter ;  she  shut  out  all  deceitful  illusions,  and  walked 
straight  forward  without  one  look  back. 

"We  had  better  end  the  matter  at  once,  dear  aunt,"  she  said, 
in  a  gentle  but  firm  tone.  "Believe  me,  the  reality  of  mis- 
fortune is  not  as  painful  as  its  apprehension.  You  can  not 
bear  the  shocks  of  sorrow,  and  delusive  hopes  of  happiness, 
much  longer.  Do  you  know  what  anxiety  of  mind  has  done  to 
you?  Have  you  looked  in  your  mirror  during  the  last  four 
months?"  She  led  her  aunt  up  to  a  looking-glass,  and  said: 
"Look  at  yourself."  Madame  Fauvel  was,  indeed,  a  mere 
shadow  of  her  former  self.  She  had  reached  the  age  when 
a  woman's  beauty,  like  a  full-blown  rose,  fades  in  a  day.  Four 
months  of  trouble  had  made  her  an  old  woman.  Sorrow  had 
stamped  its  fatal  seal  upon  her  brow.  Her  fair,  soft  skin  was 
wrinkled,  her  hair  was  streaked  with  silver.  "Do  you  not  agree 
with  me,"  continued  Madeleine,  pityingly,  "that  peace  of  mind 
is  necessary  to  you?  Do  you  not  see  that  you  are  a  wreck  of 
your  former  self?  Is  it  not  a  miracle  that  M.  Fauvel  has  not 
noticed  this  sad  change  in  you?"  Madame  Fauvel,  who  flat- 
tered herself  that  she  had  displayed  wonderful  dissimulation, 
shook  her  head.  "Alas !  my  poor  aunt !  did  I  not  discover  that 
you  had  a  secret?" 

"You,  Madeleine?"— "Yes!  only  I  thought—  Oh!  pardon 
an  unjust  suspicion,  but  I  was  wicked  enough  to  suppose — " 
She  stopped,  too  distressed  to  finish  her  sentence ;  then,  making 
a  painful  effort,  she  added :  "I  was  afraid  that  perhaps  you  loved 
another  man  better  than  my  uncle." 


FILE   NUMBER   113  1139 

Madame  Fauvel  sobbed  aloud.  Madeleine's  suspicion  might 
be  entertained  by  others.  "My  reputation  is  gone,"  she  moaned. 
— "No,  dear  aunt,  no,"  exclaimed  the  young  girl,  "do  not  be 
alarmed.  Have  courage :  we  two  can  fight  now ;  we  will  defend 
ourselves,  we  will  save  ourselves." 

The  Marquis  de  Clameran  was  agreeably  surprised  that  even- 
ing by  receiving  a  letter  from  Madame  Fauvel,  saying  that  she 
consented  to  everything,  but  must  have  a  little  time  to  carry  out 
the  plan.  Madeleine,  she  said,  could  not  break  off  her  engage- 
ment with  M.  Bertomy  in  a  day.  M.  Fauvel  would  make  ob- 
jections, for  he  had  an  affection  for  Prosper,  and  had  tacitly 
approved  of  the  match.  It  would  be  wiser  to  leave  to  time  the 
smoothing  away  of  certain  obstacles  which  a  sudden  attack 
might  render  insurmountable.  A  line  from  Madeleine,  at  the 
bottom  of  her  letter,  assured  him  of  her  consent. 

Poor  girl !  she  did  not  spare  herself.  The  next  day  she  took 
Prosper  aside,  and  forced  from  him  the  fatal  promise  to  shun 
her  in  the  future,  and  to  take  upon  himself  the  responsibility 
of  breaking  their  engagement.  He  implored  Madeleine  to  at 
least  explain  the  reason  of  this  banishment,  which  destroyed 
all  his  hopes  of  happiness.  She  simply  replied  that  her  peace 
of  mind  and  honor  depended  upon  his  obedience.  He  left  her 
sick  at  heart.  As  he  went  out  of  the  house,  the  marquis 
entered.  Yes,  he  had  the  audacity  to  come  in  person,  to  tell 
Madame  Fauvel  that,  now  he  had  the  promise  of  herself  and 
Madeleine,  he  would  consent  to  wait  awhile.  He  himself  saw 
the  necessity  of  patience,  knowing  that  he  was  not  liked  by 
the  banker.  Having  the  aunt  and  niece  in  his  power,  he  was 
certain  of  success.  He  said  to  himself  that  the  moment  would 
come  when  a  deficit  impossible  to  be  replaced  would  force  them 
to  hasten  the  wedding.  And  Raoul  did  all  he  could  to  bring 
matters  to  a  crisis.  Madame  Fauvel  went  sooner  than  usual 
to  her  country  seat,  and  Raoul  at  once  moved  into  his  house 
at  Vesinet.  But  living  in  the  country  did  not  lessen  his  ex- 
penses. Gradually  he  laid  aside  all  hypocrisy,  and  only  came 
to  see  his  mother  when  he  wanted  money;  and  his  demands 
were  frequent  and  more  exorbitant  each  time.  As  for  the 
marquis,  he  prudently  absented  himself,  awaiting  the  propi- 
tious moment.  And  it  was  quite  by  chance  that  three  weeks 
later,  meeting  the  banker  at  a  friend's,  he  was  invited  to  din- 
ner the  next  day. 

Twenty  people  were  seated  at  the  table;  and  as  the  dessert 


1140  FILE   NUMBER   113 

was  being  served,  the  banker  suddenly  turned  to  De  Clameran 
and  said:  "I  have  a  question  to  ask  you,  marquis.  Have  you 
any  relatives  bearing  your  name?" — "None  that  I  know  of, 
sir." — "I  am  surprised.  About  a  week  ago,  I  became  acquainted 
with  another  Marquis  de  Clameran." 

Although  so  hardened  by  crime,  impudent  enough  to  deny 
anything,  De  Clameran  was  taken  aback  and  turned  pale.  "Oh, 
indeed !  That  is  strange.  A  De  Clameran  may  exist ;  but  I 
can  not  understand  the  title  of  marquis." 

M.  Fauvel  was  not  sorry  to  have  the  opportunity  of  annoying 
a  guest  whose  aristocratic  pretensions  had  often  piqued  him. 
"Marquis  or  not,"  he  replied,  "the  De  Clameran  in  question 
seems  to  be  able  to  do  honor  to  the  title." — "Is  be  rich?" — 
"I  have  reason  to  suppose  that  he  is  very  wealthy.  I  have 
been  authorized  to  collect  for  him  four  hundred  thousand 
francs." 

De  Clameran  had  a  wonderful  faculty  of  self-control;  he 
had  so  schooled  himself  that  his  face  never  betrayed  what  was 
passing  through  his  mind.  But  this  news  was  so  startling,  so 
strange,  so  pregnant  of  danger,  that  his  usual  assurance  de- 
serted him.  He  detected  a  peculiar  look  of  irony  in  the  banker's 
eye.  The  only  persons  who  noticed  this  sudden  change  in  the 
marquis's  manner  were  Madeleine  and  her  aunt.  They  saw 
him  turn  pale,  and  exchange  a  meaning  look  with  Raoul. 

"Then  I  suppose  this  new  marquis  is  a  merchant,"  said  De 
Clameran,  after  a  moment's  pause. — "You  ask  too  much.  All 
that  I  know  is,  that  four  hundred  thousand  francs  are  to  be 
deposited  to  his  account  by  some  shipowners  of  Havre,  after 
the  sale  of  the  cargo  of  a  Brazilian  ship." — "Then  he  comes 
from  Brazil  ?" — "I  do  not  know,  but  I  can,  if  you  like,  give  you 
his  Christian  name." — "I  would  be  obliged." 

M.  Fauvel  rose  from  the  table,  and  brought  from  the  next 
room  a  memorandum-book,  and  began  to  read  over  the  names 
written  in  it.  "Wait  a  moment,"  he  said :  "let  me  see — the  22d, 
no,  it  was  later  than  that.  Ah,  here  it  is :  De  Clameran,  Gaston. 
His  name  is  Gaston." 

But  this  time  Louis  betrayed  no  emotion  or  alarm;  he  had 
had  sufficient  time  to  recover  his  self-possession,  and  nothing 
could  now  throw  him  off  his  guard.  "Gaston?"  he  queried 
carelessly.  "I  know  who  he  is  now.  He  must  be  the  son  of 
my  father's  sister,  whose  husband  lived  at  Havana.  I  suppose, 
upon  his  return  to  France,  he  must  have  taken  his  mother's 


FILE   NUMBER   113  1141 

name,  which  is  more  sonorous  than  his  father's,  that  being,  if 
I  recollect  aright,  Moirot  or  Boirot." 

The  banker  laid  down  his  memorandum-book,  and,  resuming 
his  seat,  said:  "Boirot  or  De  Clameran,  I  hope  to  have  the 
pleasure  of  inviting  you  to  dine  with  him  before  long.  Of  the 
four  hundred  thousand  francs  which  I  was  ordered  to  collect 
for  him,  he  only  wishes  to  draw  one  hundred,  and  tells  me  to 
keep  the  rest  on  current  account.  I  judge  from  this,  that  he 
intends  coming  to  Paris." — "I  shall  be  delighted  to  make  his 
acquaintance." 

De  Clameran  broached  another  topic,  and  seemed  to  have 
entirely  forgotten  the  news  told  him  by  the  banker.  Although 
apparently  engrossed  in  the  conversation  at  the  table,  he  closely 
watched  Madame  Fauvel  and  her  niece.  He  saw  that  they  were 
unable  to  conceal  their  agitation,  and  stealthily  exchanged  sig- 
nificant looks.  Evidently  the  same  terrible  idea  had  crossed  their 
minds.  Madeleine  seemed  more  nervous  and  startled  than  her 
aunt.  When  M.  Fauvel  uttered  Gaston's  name,  she  saw  Raoul 
begin  to  draw  back  his  chair  and  glance  in  a  frightened  manner 
toward  the  window,  like  a  detected  thief  looking  for  means  of 
escape.  Raoul,  less  experienced  than  his  uncle,  was  thoroughly 
discountenanced.  He,  the  original  talker,  the  lion  of  a  dinner 
party,  never  at  a  loss  for  some  witty  speech,  was  now  perfectly 
dumb:  he  sat  anxiously  watching  Louis.  At  last  the  dinner 
ended,  and  as  the  guests  passed  into  the  drawing-rooms,  De 
Clameran  and  Raoul  managed  to  remain  last  in  the  dining-room. 
When  they  were  alone,  they  no  longer  attempted  to  conceal  their 
anxiety. 

"It  is  he !"  said  Raoul.— "I  have  no  doubt  of  it."— "Then  all 
is  lost;  we  had  better  make  our  escape." 

But  a  bold  adventurer  like  De  Clameran  had  no  idea  of 
giving  up  the  ship  till  forced  to  do  so.  "Who  knows  what 
may  happen  ?"  he  asked  thoughtfully.  "There  is  hope  yet. 
Why  did  not  that  muddle-headed  banker  tell  us  where  this  De 
Clameran  is  to  be  found?"  Here  he  uttered  a  joyful  excla- 
mation. He  saw  M.  Fauvel's  memorandum  book  lying  on  the 
side-board.    "Watch !"  he  said  to  Raoul. 

Seizing  the  note-book,  he  hurriedly  turned  over  the  leaves, 
and,  in  an  undertone,  read :  "Gaston,  Marquis  de  Clameran, 
Oloron,  Lower  Pyrenees." — "Well,  does  finding  out  his  address 
assist  us?"  inquired  Raoul  eagerly. — "It  may  save  us:  that  is 
all.     Let  us  return  to  the  drawing-room;  our  absence  might  be 


1142  FILE   NUMBER   113 

observed.  Exert  yourself  to  appear  unconcerned  and  gay.  You 
almost  betrayed  us  once  by  your  agitation." — "The  two  women 
suspect  something." — "Well,  suppose  they  do  ?" — "It  is  not  safe 
for  us  here." — "Were  you  any  better  in  London?  Don't  be  so 
easily  frightened.     I  am  going  to  plant  my  batteries." 

They  joined  the  other  guests.  But,  if  their  conversation  had 
not  been  overheard,  their  movements  had  been  watched.  Made- 
leine had  come  on  tiptoe,  and,  looking  through  the  half-open 
door,  had  seen  De  Clameran  consulting  her  uncle's  note-book. 
But  what  benefit  would  she  derive  from  this  proof  of  the  mar- 
quis's anxiety?  She  no  longer  doubted  the  villainy  of  the  man 
to  whom  she  had  promised  her  hand.  As  he  had  said  to  Raoul, 
neither  Madeleine  nor  her  aunt  could  escape  him.  Two  hours 
later,  De  Clameran  was  on  the  road  to  Vesinet  with  Raoul, 
explaining  to  him  his  plans. 

"It  is  he,  and  no  mistake,"  he  said.  "But  we  are  too  easily 
alarmed,  my  fine  nephew." — "Nonsense !  the  banker  is  expect- 
ing him;  he  may  be  among  us  to-morrow." — "Don't  be  an 
idiot!"  interrupted  De  Clameran.  "Does  he  know  that  Fauvel 
is  Valentine's  husband?  If  he  knows  that  little  fact,  we  must 
take  to  our  heels;  if  he  is  ignorant  of  it,  our  case  is  not  des- 
perate."— "How  can  we  find  out?" — "By  simply  going  and  ask- 
ing him." — "That  is  a  brilliant  idea,"  said  Raoul,  admiringly; 
"but  dangerous."— "It  is  not  as  dangerous  as  not  doing  it. 
And,  as  to  running  away  at  the  first  suspicion  of  alarm,  it 
would  be  downright  imbecility." 

"And  who  will  go  and  see  him?" 

"I  will !" 

"Oh,  oh,  oh !"  exclaimed  Raoul  in  three  different  tones.  De 
Clameran's  audacity  confounded  him.  "But  what  am  I  to  do  ?" 
he  inquired. 

"You  will  oblige  me  by  remaining  here.  At  the  least  sign 
of  danger,  I  will  send  you  a  telegram,  and  then  you  must 
make  off." 

As  they  parted  at  Raoul's  door,  De  Clameran  said:  "It  is 
then  understood  you  will  remain  here.  But  mind,  so  long  as 
my  absence  lasts,  become  once  more  the  best  of  sons.  Set 
yourself  against  me,  calumniate  me  if  you  can.  But  no  non- 
sense. No  demands  for  money.  So  now,  good-by !  To-morrow 
night  I  shall  be  at  Oloron  and  shall  have  seen  this  De  Clameran. 


FILE    NUMBER    113 


1143 


A  FTER  leaving  Valentine  de  la  Verberie,  Gaston  underwent 
"^^  great  peril  and  difficulty  in  effecting  his  escape.  But  for 
the  experienced  and  faithful  Menoul,  he  never  would  have 
succeeded  in  embarking.  Having  left  his  mother's  jewels  with 
Valentine,  his  sole  fortune  consisted  of  not  quite  a  thousand 
francs ;  and  it  is  not  with  a  paltry  sum  like  that  that  a  fugitive 
who  has  just  killed  two  men  can  pay  for  his  passage  on  board 
a  ship.  But  Menoul  was  a  man  of  experience.  While  Gaston 
remained  concealed  in  a  farmhouse  at  Camargue,  Menoul  went 
to  Marseilles,  and  the  same  evening  learned  that  a  three-masted 
American  vessel  was  in  the  roadstead,  whose  commander,  Cap- 
tain Warth,  a  not  overscrupulous  person,  would  be  glad  to  wel- 
come on  board  an  able-bodied  man  who  would  be  of  assistance 
to  him  at  sea,  and  would  not  trouble  himself  about  his  ante- 
cedents. After  visiting  the  vessel  and  taking  a  glass  of  rum 
with  the  captain,  old  Menoul  returned  to  Gaston. 

"If  it  was  a  question  of  myself,  sir,"  he  said,  "I  should  avail 
myself  of  the  opportunity,  but  you?" — "What  suits  you,  suits 
me,"  interrupted  Gaston. — "You  see,  the  fact  is,  you  will  be 
obliged  to  work  very  hard.  You  will  only  be  a  common  sailor, 
you  know !  And  I  must  confess  that  the  ship's  company  is  not 
the  most  moral  one  I  ever  saw.  The  captain,  too,  seems  a 
swaggering  bully." — "I  have  no  choice,"  said  Gaston.  "I  will 
go  on  board  at  once." 

Old  Menoul's  suspicions  were  correct.  Before  Gaston  had 
been  on  board  the  "Tom  Jones"  forty-eight  hours,  he  saw 
that  chance  had  cast  him  among  a  collection  of  the  most  de- 
praved bandits  and  cut-throats.  The  crew,  recruited  seem- 
ingly anywhere,  contained  specimens  of  the  rascals  of  almost 
every  country.  But  Gaston's  mind  was  undisturbed  as  to  the 
character  of  the  people  with  whom  his  lot  was  cast  for  several 
months.  It  was  only  his  body  that  the  vessel  was  carrying  to 
another  land.  His  heart  and  soul  rested  in  the  shady  park  of 
La  Verberie,  beside  his  beloved  Valentine.     And  what  would 


1144  FILE    NUMBER    113 

become  of  her  now,  poor  child,  when  he  was  no  longer  there 
to  love,  console,  and  defend  her?    Happily,  he  had  no  time  for 
sad  reflections.     His  every  moment  was  occupied  in  learning 
the  rough  apprenticeship  of  a  sailor's  life.     All  his  energies 
were  spent   in  bearing  up   under  the  heavy   burden   of   labor 
allotted  to  him.     This  was  his  salvation.     Physical  suffering 
calmed  and  deadened  his  mental  agony.    The  few  hours'  relaxa- 
tion granted  him  were  spent  in  sleep.     He  had  sworn  that  he 
would  return  before  the  end  of  three  years,  rich  enough   to 
satisfy  the  exactions  of  Madame  de  la  Verberie.    Judging  from 
the  conversation  of  his  companions,  he  was  not  now  on  the 
road  to  the  fortune  he  so  much  desired.    The  "Tom  Jones"  was 
sailing  for  Valparaiso,  but  certainly  went  in  a  roundabout  way 
to  reach  her  destination.    The  real  fact  was  that  Captain  Warth 
proposed  visiting  the  Gulf  of  Guinea.    A  friend  of  his,  a  black 
prince,   he   said,  with  a  loud  laugh,  was  waiting  for   him   at 
Badagri,  to  exchange  a  cargo  of  "ebony"   for  some  pipes  of 
rum,  and  a  hundred  flint-lock  muskets  which  were  on  board. 
Gaston  soon  saw  that  he  was  serving  his  apprenticeship  on  one 
of  the   numerous   slavers   equipped   yearly   by   some   free   and 
philanthropic  Americans.     Although  this  discovery  filled  Gas- 
ton with  indignation  and   shame,   he   was  prudent  enough   to 
conceal  his  impressions.     His   remonstrances,   no  matter   how 
eloquent,  would  have  made  no  change  in  Captain  Warth's  opin- 
ions regarding  a  traffic  which  brought  him  in  more  than  one 
hundred  per  cent,  in  spite  of  the  French  and  English  cruisers, 
the    damages,    sometimes    entire    loss    of    cargoes,    and    many 
other  risks.     The  crew  had  a  certain  respect  for  Gaston  when 
the  story  of  his  having  killed  two  men,  as  related  by  Menoul  to 
the  captain,  transpired.     To  have   given  vent  to   his  feelings 
would  have  incurred  the  enmity  of  the  whole  of  his  shipmates, 
without  bettering  his  own  situation.     He  therefore  kept  quiet, 
but  swore  mentally  that  he  would  desert  on  the  first  opportu- 
nity.    This  opportunity,  like  everything  impatiently  longed  for, 
came  not.     By  the  end  of  three  months  Captain  Warth  found 
Gaston   indispensable.     Seeing  him   so   intelligent,   he   took   a 
fancy  to  him,  liked  to  have  him  at  his  own  table,  listened  to 
his  conversation  with  pleasure,  and  was  glad  of  his  company 
in  a  game  of  cards.    The  mate  of  the  ship  dying,  Gaston  was 
chosen  to  replace  him.    In  this  capacity  he  made  two  successive 
voyages  to  Guinea,  bringing  back  a  thousand  blacks,  whom  he 
superintended   during   a   trip  of  fifteen   hundred  leagues,   and 


FILE   NUMBER   113  1145 

finally  landed  clandestinely  on  the  coast  of  Brazil.  When 
Gaston  had  been  about  three  years  on  board,  the  "Tom  Jones" 
put  into  Rio  de  Janeiro.  He  now  had  an  opportunity  of  leaving 
the  captain,  who  was  after  all  a  worthy  man,  who  never  would 
have  engaged  in  the  diabolical  traffic  of  human  beings  but  for 
his  little  daughter's  sake,  his  little  Mary,  whose  dowry  he 
wished  to  make  a  magnificent  one.  Gaston  had  saved  twelve 
thousand  francs  out  of  his  share  of  the  profits,  when  he  landed 
in  Brazil.  As  a  proof  that  the  slave  trade  was  repugnant  to 
his  nature  he  left  the  slaver  the  moment  he  possessed  a  little 
capital  with  which  to  enter  some  honest  business.  But  he  was 
no  longer  the  high-minded,  pure-hearted  Gaston,  who  had  been 
so  beloved  by  the  little  fairy  of  La  Verberie.  As  the  exposure 
to  rain,  sun,  and  sea  air  first  darkened  and  then  hardened  his 
skin,  so  did  wicked  associates  first  shock  and  then  destroy  the 
refinement  and  purity  of  Gaston's  mind.  His  heart  had  become 
as  hard  and  coarse  as  his  sailor  hands.  He  still  remembered 
Valentine,  and  sighed  for  her  presence ;  but  though  she  was 
still  the  most  beloved,  she  was  no  longer  the  one  woman 
in  the  world  to  him.  However,  the  three  years,  after  which 
he  had  pledged  himself  to  return,  had  passed;  perhaps  Valen- 
tine was  expecting  him.  Before  deciding  on  any  definite  proj- 
ect, he  wrote  to  an  intimate  friend  at  Beaucaire  to  learn  what 
had  happened  during  his  long  absence.  He  also  wrote  to  his 
father,  to  whom  he  had  already  sent  several  letters,  whenever 
he  had  an  opportunity  of  doing  so.  At  the  end  of  a  year,  he 
received  his  friend's  reply.  It  told  him  that  his  father  was 
dead,  that  his  brother  had  left  France,  that  Valentine  was  mar- 
ried, and,  finally,  that  he,  Gaston,  had  been  sentenced  to  several 
years'  imprisonment  for  manslaughter.  Henceforth  he  was 
alone  in  the  world,  with  no  country,  disgraced  by  a  public 
sentence.  Valentine  was  married,  and  he  had  no  further  ob- 
ject in  life!  He  would  hereafter  have  faith  in  no  one,  since 
she,  Valentine,  had  cast  him  off  and  forgotten  him,  had  lacked 
the  courage  to  keep  her  promise  and  wait  for  him.  In  his 
despair,  he  almost  regretted  the  "Tom  Jones." 

But  Gaston  was  not  a  man  to  be  long  cast  down.  "I  will 
earn  money,  then,"  he  cried  with  rage,  "since  money  is  the  only 
thing  in  this  world  which  never  deceives !"  And  he  set  to 
work  with  a  greedy  activity  which  increased  every  day.  He 
tried  all  the  many  speculations  open  to  adventurers.  Alter- 
nately he  traded  in  furs,  worked  a  mine,  and  cultivated  lands. 


1146  FILE   NUMBER    113 

Five  timies  he  went  to  bed  rich,  and  waked  up  ruined;  five 
times,  with  the  patience  of  the  beaver,  whose  hut  is  swept 
away  by  the  current,  he  recommenced  the  building  of  his  for- 
tune. Finally,  after  long,  weary  years  of  toil  and  struggle,  he 
was  worth  about  a  million  in  gold,  besides  immense  tracts  of 
land.  He  had  often  said  that  he  would  never  leave  Brazil,  that 
he  wanted  to  end  his  days  in  Rio.  He  had  forgotten  that  love 
for  his  native  land  never  dies  in  a  Frenchman's  breast.  Now 
that  he  was  rich,  he  wished  to  die  in  France.  He  made  in- 
quiries, and  found  that  the  law  of  limitations  would  permit  him 
to  return  without  being  disturbed  by  the  authorities.  He  real- 
ized what  he  could  of  his  property,  and,  leaving  the  rest  in 
charge  of  an  agent,  embarked  for  France.  Twenty-three  years 
and  four  months  had  elapsed  since  he  fled  from  home,  when, 
on  a  bright  day  in  January,  1866,  he  stood  upon  the  quays  at 
Bordeaux.  He  had  departed  a  young  man,  with  his  heart  brim- 
ful of  hope ;  he  returned  gray-haired,  and  believing  in  nothing. 
His  health,  too,  on  his  arrival,  began  to  suffer  from  the  sudden 
change  of  climate.  Rheumatism  confined  him  to  his  bed  for 
several  months.  As  soon  as  he  could  sit  up,  the  physicians  sent 
him  to  some  baths,  where  they  said  he  would  regain  his  health. 
When  cured,  he  felt  that  inactivity  would  kill  him.  Charmed 
with  the  beauty  of  the  Pyrenees,  and  the  lovely  valley  of  Aspe, 
he  resolved  to  take  up  his  abode  there.  An  iron  foundry  was 
for  sale  near  Oloron,  on  the  banks  of  the  Gave;  he  bought  it 
with  the  intention  of  utilizing  the  immense  quantity  of  wood, 
which  for  want  of  means  of  transport  was  wasting  in  the 
mountains. 

He  had  been  settled  some  weeks  in  his  new  house,  when  one 
evening  his  servant  brought  him  the  card  of  a  stranger  who  de- 
sired to  see  him.  He  read  the  name  on  the  card :  Louis  de 
Clameran.  Many  years  had  passed  since  Gaston  had  experi- 
enced such  violent  agitation.  His  blood  rushed  to  his  head, 
and  he  trembled  like  a  leaf.  The  old  home  affections  which 
he.  thought  dead  now  sprung  up  anew  in  his  heart.  A  thou- 
sand confused  memories  rushed  through  his  mind.  Words  rose 
to  his  lips,  but  he  was  unable  to  utter  them.  "My  brother !"  he 
at  length  gasped,  "my  brother !"  Hurriedly  passing  by  the 
frightened  servant,  he  ran  downstairs.  In  the  hall  a  man, 
Louis  de  Clameran,  stood  waiting.  Gaston  threw  his  arms 
round  his  neck  and  held  him  in  a  close  embrace  for  some 
minutes,  and  then  drew  him  into  a  room.     Seated  close  beside 


FILE   NUMBER    113  1147 

Louis,  and  tightly  clasping  his  two  hands,  Gaston  gazed  on  his 
face  as  a  fond  mother  would  gaze  at  her  son  just  returned 
from  the  battlefield. 

"And  is  this  really  Louis?"  he  cried.  "My  dearly  loved 
brother?  Why,  I  should  have  recognized  you  among  a  thou- 
sand; the  expression  of  your  face  has  not  in  the  least  changed, 
your  smile  is  the  same  as  it  used  to  be." 

Louis  did  indeed  smile,  just  as  he  perhaps  smiled  on  that 
fatal  night  when  his  horse  stumbled,  and  prevented  Gaston's 
escape.  He  smiled  now  as  if  he  were  perfectly  happy ;  he  seemed 
overjoyed.  He  had  exerted  all  the  courage  he  possessed  to 
venture  upon  this  meeting.  Nothing  but  the  most  terrible  neces- 
sity would  have  induced  him  to  present  himself  thus.  His  teeth 
chattered  and  he  trembled  in  every  limb  when  he  rang  Gaston's 
bell,  and  handed  the  servant  his  card,  saying:  "Take  this  to 
your  master."  The  few  moments  that  elapsed  before  Gaston's 
appearance  seemed  to  him  centuries.  He  said  to  himself :  "Per- 
haps it  is  not  he.  And  if  it  is,  does  he  know?  Does  he  sus- 
pect anything?"  He  was  so  anxious  that,  when  he  saw  Gaston 
rushing  downstairs,  he  felt  like  fleeing  from  the  house.  Not 
knowing  the  nature  of  Gaston's  feelings  toward  him,  he  stood 
perfectly  motionless.  But  one  glance  at  his  brother's  face  con- 
vinced him  that  he  was  the  same  affectionate,  credulous,  trust- 
ing Gaston  of  old ;  and,  now  that  he  was  almost  certain  that  his 
brother  harbored  no  suspicions,  he  recovered  himself  and  smiled. 

"After  all,"  continued  Gaston,  "I  am  not  alone  in  the  world; 
I  shall  have  some  one  to  love,  some  one  to  care  for  me."  Then, 
as  if  suddenly  struck  by  a  thought,  he  asked:  "Are  you  mar- 
ried, Louis?" — "No." — "That  is  a  pity,  a  great  pity.  It  would 
so  have  added  to  my  happiness  to  see  you  the  husband  of  a 
good,  affectionate  woman,  the  father  of  bright,  lovely  children  ! 
It  would  have  been  a  comfort  to  have  a  happy  family  about  me. 
I  should  have  looked  upon  them  all  as  my  own.  To  live  alone, 
without  a  loving  wife  to  share  one's  joys  and  sorrows,  is  not 
living  at  all.  Oh,  the  sadness  of  having  only  one's  self  to  care 
for!  But  what  am  I  saying?  I  have  you,  Louis,  and  is  not 
that  enough  ?  I  have  a  brother,  a  friend  with  whom  I  can  talk 
aloud,  as  I  have  for  so  long  talked  to  myself." 

"Yes,  Gaston,  yes,  a  good  friend !" — "Of  course !  for  are 
you  not  my  brother?  So  you  are  not  married!  Then  we  will 
keep  house  together.  We  will  live  like  two  old  bachelors,  as 
we  are,  and  be  as  happy  as  kings;  we  will  amuse  each  other, 


1148  FILE   NUMBER   113 

we  will  thoroughly  enjoy  ourselves.  What  a  capital  idea !  Yow 
make  me  feel  young  again,  barely  twenty.  I  feel  as  active  and 
strong  as  I  did  the  night  I  swam  across  the  swollen  Rhone. 
And  that  was  long,  long  ago;  and  since,  I  have  struggled,  I 
have  suffered,  I  have  cruelly  aged  and  changed." 

"You  I"  interrupted  Louis ;  "why,  you  have  not  aged  as  much 
as  I  have." — "You  are  jesting." — "I  assure  you." — "Would  you 
have  recognized  me  ?" — "Instantly.    You  are  very  little  changed." 

And  Louis  was  right.  He  himself  had  a  worn-out,  used-up 
appearance  rather  than  an  aged  one;  while  Gaston,  in  spite  of 
his  gray  hair  and  weather-beaten  face,  was  a  robust  man,  in  his 
prime.  It  was  a  relief  to  turn  from  Louis's  restless  eyes  and 
crafty  smiles  to  Gaston's  frank,  honest  face.  "But,"  said  Gas- 
ton, "how  did  you  know  that  I  was  living?  What  kind  fairy 
guided  you  to  my  house  ?" 

Louis  was  prepared  for  this  question.  During  his  eighteen 
hours'  ride  in  the  train  he  had  had  time  to  arrange  all  his 
answers.  "We  must  thank  Providence  for  this  happy  meeting," 
he  replied.  "Three  days  ago,  a  friend  of  mine  returned  from 
some  baths,  and  mentioned  that  he  had  heard  that  a  Marquis 
de  Clameran  was  near  there,  in  the  Pyrenees.  You  can  im- 
agine my  surprise.  I  instantly  supposed  that  some  impostor 
had  assumed  our  name.  I  took  the  next  train,  and  finally  found 
my  way  here." 

"Then  you  did  not  expect  to  see  me?" — "My  dear  brother, 
how  could  I  hope  for  that?  I  thought  that  you  were  drowned 
twenty-three  years  ago." — "Drowned !  Mademoiselle  de  la  Ver- 
berie  certainly  told  you  of  my  escape.  She  promised  that  she 
would  go  herself,  the  next  day,  and  tell  my  father  of  my  safety." 
Louis  assumed  a  distressed  look,  as  if  he  hesitated  to  tell  the 
sad  truth,  and  murmured  in  a  regretful  tone :  "Alas !  she  never 
told  us." 

Gaston's  eyes  flashed  with  indignation.  He  thought  that 
perhaps  Valentine  had  been  glad  to  get  rid  of  him.  "She  did 
not  tell  you?"  he  exclaimed.  "Did  she  have  the  cruelty  to  let 
you  mourn  my  death?  To  let  my  old  father  die  of  a  broken 
heart  ?  Ah !  she  must  have  been  very  fearful  of  the  world's 
opinion.  She  sacrificed  me,  then,  for  the  sake  of  her  repu- 
tation." 

"But  why  did  you  not  write  to  us?"  asked  Louis. — "I  did 
write  as  soon  as  I  had  an  opportunity;  and  Lafourcade  wrote 
back,  saying  that  my  father  was  dead,  and  that  you  had  left 


FILE   NUMBER   113  1U? 

the  neighborhood." — "I  left  Clameran  because  I  believed  you  to 
be  dead." 

Gaston  rose,  and  walked  up  and  down  the  room  as  if  to  shake 
off  a  feeling  of  sadness ;  then  he  said  cheerfully :  "Well,  it's  of 
no  use  mourning  over  the  past.  All  the  memories  in  the  world, 
good  or  bad,  are  not  worth  one  slender  hope  for  the  future ; 
and,  thank  heaven,  we  have  a  bright  future  before  us."  Louis 
was  silent.  His  footing  was  not  sure  enough  to  risk  any 
questions.  "But  here  I  have  been  talking  incessantly  for  an 
hour,"  said  Gaston,  "and  I  dare  say  that  you  have  not  dined." 
— "No,  I  have  not,  I  own." — "Why  did  you  not  say  so  before? 
I  forgot  that  I  had  not  dined  myself.  I  will  not  let  you  starve 
the  first  day  of  your  arrival.  Ah  !  I  have  some  splendid  old 
Cape  wine." 

He  pulled  the  bell,  and  ordered  the  servant  to  hasten  dinner; 
and  within  half  an  hour  the  two  brothers  were  seated  at  a 
sumptuous  repast.  Gaston  kept  up  an  uninterrupted  stream  of 
questions.  He  wished  to  know  all  that  had  happened  during 
his  absence.     "What  about  Clameran?"  he  abruptly  asked. 

Louis  hesitated  a  moment.  Should  he  tell  the  truth  or  not? 
"I  have  sold  Clameran,"  he  finally  said. — "The  chateau  too?" — 
"Yes." 

"You  acted  as  you  thought  best,"  said  Gaston,  sadly;  "but 
it  seems  to  me  that,  if  I  had  been  in  your  place,  I  should  have 
kept  the  old  homestead.  Our  ancestors  lived  there  for  many 
generations,  and  our  father  died  there."  Then  seeing  Louis 
appeared  sad  and  distressed,  he  quickly  added:  "However,  it 
is  just  as  well;  it  is  in  the  heart  that  memory  dwells,  and  not 
in  a  pile  of  old  stones.  I  myself  had  not  the  courage  to  return 
to  Provence.  I  could  not  trust  myself  to  go  to  Clameran,  where 
I  would  have  to  gaze  on  the  park  of  La  Verberie.  Alas,  the 
only  happy  moments  of  my  life  were  spent  there !" 

Louis's  countenance  immediately  cleared.  The  certainty  that 
Gaston  had  not  been  to  Provence  relieved  his  mind  of  an  im- 
mense weight.  The  next  day  he  telegraphed  to  Raoul :  "Wis- 
dom and  prudence.  Follow  my  directions.  All  goes  well.  Be 
sanguine." 

All  was  going  well ;  and  yet  Louis,  in  spite  of  his  skilfully 
plied  questions,  had  obtained  none  of  the  information  which 
he  had  come  to  seek.  Gaston  was  communicative  on  every  sub- 
ject except  the  one  in  which  Louis  was  most  interested.  Louis, 
like  all  villains,  was  ever  ready  to  attribute  to  others  the  bad 


1150  FILE   NUMBER   113 

motives  by  which  he  himself  would  be  influenced.  Anything 
was  better  than  this  uncertainty;  he  determined  to  ask  his 
brother  what  he  intended  doing.  They  had  just  sat  down  to 
lunch,  and  he  thought  the  moment  an  opportune  one.  "Do  you 
know,  my  dear  Gaston,"  he  began  by  saying,  "that  thus  far 
we  have  spoken  of  everything  except  serious  matters?" — "Why 
do  you  look  so  solemn,  Louis!  What  are  the  grave  subjects 
you  allude  to?" — "Well,  there  is  this:  believing  you  to  be  dead, 
I  inherited  all  our  father  left." — "Is  that  what  you  call  a  seri- 
ous matter?"  asked  Gaston  with  an  amused  smile. — "Certainly. 
I  owe  you  an  account  of  your  share;  you  have  a  right  to  half." 
— "I  have,"  interrupted  Gaston,  "a  right  to  ask  you  never  to 
allude  to  the  subject  again.  What  you  have  is  yours  by  limi- 
tation."— "No,  I  can  not  accept  it." — "But  you  must.  Our 
father  wished  to  have  only  one  of  us  to  inherit  his  property ; 
we  will  be  carrying  out  his  wishes  by  not  dividing  it."  Seeing 
that  Louis's  face  still  remained  clouded,  Gaston  added:  "Come 
now,  you  must  be  very  rich,  or  think  me  very  poor,  to  insist  thus." 

Louis  started  at  this  remark.  What  could  he  say  so  as  not 
to  commit  himself?  "I  am  neither  rich  nor  poor,"  he  finally 
observed. — "I  am  delighted  to  hear  it,"  exclaimed  his  brother. 
"I  wish  you  were  as  poor  as  Job,  so  that  I  might  share  what 
I  have  with  you." 

Luncheon  over,  Gaston  rose  and  said :  "Come,  I  want  to 
show  you  my — that  is,  our  property."  Louis  uneasily  followed. 
It  seemed  to  him  that  Gaston  obstinately  shunned  anything  like 
an  explanation.  Could  all  this  brotherly  affection  be  assumed 
to  blind  him  as  to  his  real  plans?  Louis's  fears  were  again 
aroused,  and  he  almost  regretted  his  hasty  telegram.  But  his 
calm,  smiling  face  betrayed  none  of  the  anxious  thoughts  which 
filled  his  mind.  He  was  called  upon  to  examine  everything. 
First  he  was  taken  over  the  house  and  then  the  servants'  quar- 
ters, the  stables,  kennels,  and  the  vast,  beautifully  laid-out 
garden.  Across  a  pretty  meadow  was  the  iron  foundry  in  full 
operation.  Gaston,  with  all  the  enthusiasm  of  a  new  proprie- 
tor, explained  everything,  down  to  the  smallest  file  and  hammer. 
He  detailed  all  his  projects;  how  he  intended  substituting  wood 
for  coal,  and  how,  besides  having  plenty  to  work  the  forge,  he 
could  make  immense  profits  by  felling  the  forest  trees,  which 
had  hitherto  been  considered  impracticable.  Louis  approved 
of  everything;  but  only  answered  in  monosyllables:  "Ah,  in- 
deed !  excellent  idea  r  quite  a  success  !"    His  mind  was  tortured 


FILE   NUMBER   113  1151 

by  a  new  pain ;  he  was  paying  no  attention  to  Gaston's  remarks, 
but  enviously  comparing  all  this  wealth  and  prosperity  with  his 
own  poverty.  He  found  Gaston  rich,  respected,  and  happy,  en- 
joying the  price  of  his  own  industry;  while  he —  Never  had 
he  so  cruelly  felt  the  misery  of  his  condition,  which  was  of  his 
own  making.  After  a  lapse  of  twenty-three  years,  all  the  envy 
and  hate  he  had  felt  toward  Gaston,  when  they  were  boys 
together,  revived. 

"What  do  you  think  of  my  purchase?"  asked  Gaston  when 
the  inspection  was  over. — "I  think  you  possess,  my  dear  brother, 
a  most  charming  property,  situated  in  the  loveliest  spot  in  the 
world.  It  is  enough  to  excite  the  envy  of  any  poor  Parisian." — 
"Do  you  really  think  so  ?"— "Certainly." 

"Then,  my  dear  Louis,"  said  Gaston  joyfully,  "this  property 
is  yours,  as  well  as  mine.  You  like  it,  then  live  here  always. 
Do  you  really  care  for  your  foggy  Paris?  Do  you  not  prefer 
this  beautiful  Beara  sky?  The  scanty  and  paltry  luxury  of 
Paris  is  not  equal  to  the  good  and  plentiful  living  you  will 
find  here.  You  are  a  bachelor,  therefore  you  have  no  ties. 
Remain,  we  shall  want  for  nothing.  And,  to  employ  our  time, 
there  is  the  foundry.    Does  my  plan  suit  you?" 

Louis  was  s^ent.  A  year  ago  this  proposal  would  have  been 
eagerly  welcomed.  How  gladly  he  would  have  seized  this  offer 
of  a  comfortable,  luxurious  home,  after  having  been  buffeted 
about  the  world  so  long!  How  delightful  it  would  have  been 
to  turn  over  a  new  leaf  and  become  an  honest  man !  But  he 
saw,  with  disappointment  and  rage,  that  he  would  now  be  com- 
pelled to  decline  it.  No,  he  was  no  longer  free.  He  could  not 
leave  Paris.  He  had  become  entangled  in  one  of  those  haz- 
ardous plots  which  are  lost  if  neglected,  and  the  loss  of  which 
generally  leads  the  projector  into  penal  servitude.  Alone,  he 
could  easily  remain  where  he  was ;  but  he  was  trammeled  with 
an  accomplice. 

"You  do  not  answer  me,"  said  Gaston,  with  surprise;  "are 
there  any  obstacles  to  my  plans  ?"— "None."— "What  is  the  mat- 
ter, then?" — "The  matter  is,  my  dear  brother,  that  the  salary 
of  an  appointment  which  I  hold  in  Paris  is  all  that  I  have  to 
support  me." — "Is  that  your  only  objection?  Yet  you  just  now. 
wanted  to  pay  me  back  half  of  the  family  inheritance !  Louis, 
that  is  unkind;  you  are  not  acting  as  a  brother  should."  Louis 
hung  his  head.  Gaston  was  unconsciously  telling  the  truth. 
"I  should  be  a  burden  to  you,  Gaston." 


1152  FILE    NUMBER   113 

"A  burden !  Why,  Louis,  you  must  be  mad !  Did  I  not  tell 
you  I  was  very  rich?  Do  you  suppose  that  you  have  seen  all 
I  possess?  This  house  and  the  iron-works  do  not  constitute  a 
fourth  of  my  fortune.  Do  you  think  that  I  would  have  risked 
my  twenty  years'  savings  in  an  experiment  of  this  sort?  I 
have  invested,  in  State  securities,  an  income  of  twenty-four 
thousand  francs.  And  that  is  not  all;  it  seems  that  I  shall  be 
able  to  sell  my  grants  in  Brazil;  I  am  lucky!  My  agent  has 
already  forwarded  me  four  hundred  thousand  francs." 

Louis  trembled  with  pleasure.  He  was,  at  last,  to  know  the 
extent  of  the  danger  menacing  him.  "What  agent?"  he  asked, 
with  assumed  indifference. — "Why,  my  old  partner  at  Rio,  of 
course.  The  money  is  now  at  my  Paris  banker's,  quite  at  my 
disposal." — "Some  friend  of  yours?" — "Well,  no.  He  was  rec- 
ommended to  me  by  my  banker  at  Pau,  as  a  very  rich,  prudent, 
and  reliable  man.  His  name  is — let  me  see — Andre  Fauvel,  and 
he  lives  in  the  Rue  de  Provence." 

Master  of  himself  as  he  was,  and  prepared  for  what  he  was 
about  to  hear,  Louis  turned  pale  and  red  by  turns.  "Do  you 
know  this  banker?"  asked  Gaston,  who,  full  of  his  own  thoughts, 
did  not  notice  his  brother's  condition. — "Only  by  reputation." 

"Then  we  can  shortly  make  his  acquaintance  together,  for 
I  think  of  accompanying  you  to  Paris  when  you  return  there  to 
wind  up  your  affairs  before  establishing  yourself  here." 

At  this  unexpected  announcement  of  a  step  which  would 
prove  his  utter  ruin,  Louis  managed  to  maintain  his  self-pos- 
session. It  seemed  to  him  that  his  brother  was  looking  him 
through  and  through.  "You  are  going  to  Paris  ?"  he  uttered. — 
"Certainly  I  am.  What  is  there  extraordinary  in  that  ?" — "Oh  ! 
nothing." — "I  hate  Paris,  although  I  have  never  been  there; 
but  I  am  called  there  by  interest,  by  sacred  duties,"  he  hesi- 
tatingly said.  "The  truth  is,  I  understand  that  Mademoiselle 
de  la  Verberie  lives  in  Paris,  and  I  wish  to  see  her  again." — 
"Ah !" 

Gaston  was  silent  and  thoughtful  for  some  moments,  and 
then  resumed,  nervously:  "I  can  tell  you,  Louis,  why  I  wish 
to  see  her.  When  I  went  away,  I  left  our  mother's  jewels  in 
.her  keeping." — "And  you  intend,  after  a  lapse  of  twenty-three 
years,  to  claim  these  jewels?" — "Yes — or  rather  no;  that  is  only 
a  vain  excuse  for  seeing  her,  with  which  I  try  to  satisfy  my- 
self. I  must  see  her,  because — because — I  loved  her;  that  is 
the  truth."— "But  how  will  you  find  her?"— "Oh!  that  is  easy 


FILE   NUMBER   113  1153 

enough.  Any  one  can  tell  me  her  husband's  name,  and  then 
I  will  go  to  see  her.  I  will  write  to-morrow,  to  Beaucaire, 
for  the  information." 

Louis  made  no  reply.  Men  of  his  character,  when  brought 
face  to  face  with  imminent  danger,  always  weigh  their  words, 
and  say  as  little  as  possible,  for  fear  of  committing  themselves 
by  some  indiscreet  remark.  Above  all  things,  Louis  was  care- 
ful to  avoid  raising  any  objections  to  his  brother's  proposed 
trip  to  Paris.  To  oppose  a  man's  wishes  has  generally  the 
effect  of  fixing  them  more  firmly  in  his  mind.  Each  argument 
is  like  striking  a  nail  with  a  hammer.  Knowing  this,  Louis 
changed  the  conversation,  and  nothing  more  during  the  day  was 
said  of  Valentine  or  Paris.  At  night,  alone'  in  his  room,  he 
brought  his  cunning  mind  to  bear  upon  the  difficulties  of  his 
situation,  and  wondered  by  what  means  he  could  extricate  him- 
self. During  the  twenty  years  Louis  had  been  at  war  with 
society,  trusted  by  none,  living  upon  his  wits  and  the  credulity 
of  foolish  men,  he  had,  many  a  time,  found  himself  in  a  des- 
perate position.  He  had  been  caught  at  the  gaming-table  with 
his  hands  full  of  marked  cards ;  he  had  been  tracked  all  over 
Europe  by  the  police,  and  obliged  to  fly  from  city  to  city  under 
an  assumed  name ;  he  had  sold  to  cowards  his  skilful  handling 
of  the  sword  and  pistol ;  he  had  been  thrown  into  a  prison,  and 
miraculously  made  his  escape.  He  had  braved  everything,  and 
feared  nothing.  He  had  often  conceived  and  carried  out  the 
most  criminal  plans  without  the  slightest  hesitation  or  re- 
morse. And  now  here  he  sat,  utterly  bewildered — unable  to 
think  clearly ;  his  usual  impudence  and  ready  cunning  seemed 
to  have  deserted  him.  Thus  driven  into  a  corner,  he  saw  no 
means  of  escape,  and  was  almost  tempted  to  give  in,  and  retire 
from  the  struggle.  He  asked  himself  if  it  would  not  be  wiser 
to  borrow  a  large  sum  from  Gaston  and  fly  the  country.  Fatally, 
inevitably,  he  was  about  to  be  caught  in  a  trap  laid  by  himself. 
He  had  to  fear  the  wrath  of  M.  Fauvel,  his  wife,  and  niece. 
Gaston  would  have  speedy  vengeance  the  moment  he  discov- 
ered the  truth ;  and  Raoul,  his  accomplice,  would  certainly  turn 
against  him  in  the  hour  of  misfortune,  and  become  his  most 
implacable  enemy.  Was  there  no  possible  way  of  preventing  a 
meeting  between  Valentine  and  Gaston  ?  No,  none  that  he  could 
think  of.    And  their  meeting  would  be  his  destruction. 

Daybreak  found  him  sitting  at  the  window,  exposing  to  the 
morning  breeze  his  burning  brow,  which  seemed  on  the  point 

Gab. — Vol.  IV  K 


1154  FILE   NUMBER    113 

of  bursting.  "It  is  useless  for  me  to  think,"  he  muttered.  "There 
is  nothing  to  be  done  but  gain  time,  and  wait  for  an  oppor- 
tunity." The  fall  of  the  horse  at  Clameran  was,  no  doubt, 
what  Louis  called  "an  opportunity."  He  closed  the  window, 
threw  himself  upon  the  bed,  and  so  accustomed  was  he  to  dan- 
ger that  he  soon  slept.  At  the  breakfast-table  his  calm,  smiling 
face  bore  no  traces  of  a  wakeful,  anxious  night.  He  was  in  a 
gayer,  more  talkative,  and  affectionate  mood  than  usual,  and 
said  he  would  like  to  ride  about  the  country.  Before  leaving 
the  table  he  had  planned  several  excursions  in  the  neighborhood. 
The  truth  is,  he  hoped  to  keep  Gaston  so  amused  and  occupied 
that  he  would  forget  all  about  going  to  Paris  in  search  of  Val- 
entine. He  thought  that,  with  time,  and  skilfully  put  objec- 
tions, he  could  dissuade  his  brother  from  seeking  out  his  former 
love.  He  relied  upon  being  able  to  convince  him  that  this  abso- 
lutely unnecessary  interview  would  be  painful  to  both,  embar- 
rassing to  him,  and  dangerous  to  her.  As  to  the  jewels,  if 
Gaston  persisted  in  claiming  them,  Louis  could  safely  offer  to 
go  and  get  them  for  him,  as  he  well  knew  where  they  were. 
But  his  hopes  and  plans  were  soon  scattered  to  the  winds. 

"You  know,"  said  Gaston  one  morning,  "I  have  written." 
Louis  knew  well  enough  to  what  he  alluded,  but  pretended 
to  be  very  much  surprised,  and  said:  "Written?  To  whom? 
Where?  What  for?" — "To  Beaucaire,  to  ask  Lafourcade  the 
name  of  Valentine's  husband." — "You  are,  then,  still  thinking 
of  her?" — "Always." — "You  have  not  given  up  your  idea  of 
going  to  see  her?" — "Not  in  the  least." 

"Alas !  brother,  you  forget  that  she  whom  you  once  loved 
is  now  the  wife  of  another,  and  possibly  the  mother  of  a  fam- 
ily. How  do  you  know  that  she  will  consent  to  see  you  ?  Why 
run  the  risk  of  destroying  her  domestic  happiness  and  plant- 
ing seeds  of  remorse  in  your  own  bosom?" — "I  know  I  am  a 
fool,  but  my  folly  is  dear  to  me." 

The  quiet  determination  of  Gaston's  tone  convinced  Louis 
that  all  remonstrances  would  be  unavailing.  Yet  he  remained 
the  same  in  his  manner  and  behavior,  apparently  engrossed  in 
pleasure  parties ;  but,  in  reality,  his  only  thought  was  of  the 
letters  delivered  at  the  house.  He  always  managed  to  be  near 
the  door  when  the  postman  came.  When  he  and  Gaston  were 
out  together  at  the  time  of  the  postman's  visit,  he  would  hurry 
into  the  house  first,  so  as  to  look  over  the  letters  delivered  in 
their  absence.     His  watchfulness   was  at  last  rewarded.     The 


FILE    NUMBER    113  1155 

following  Sunday,  among  the  letters  handed  to  him  by  the  post- 
man, was  one  bearing  the  postmark  of  Beaucaire.  He  quickly 
slipped  it  into  his  pocket ;  and,  although  he  was  on  the  point  of 
mounting  his  horse,  to  ride  with  Gaston,  he  found  a  pretext  for 
running  up  to  his  room,  so  as  to  gratify  his  impatient  desire 
to  read  the  letter.  He  tore  it  open,  and,  seeing  "Lafourcade" 
signed  at  the  bottom  of  three  closely  written  pages,  hastily  de- 
voured the  contents.  After  reading  a  detailed  account  of  events 
entirely  uninteresting  to  him,  Louis  came  to  the  following  pas- 
sage relating  to  Valentine :  "Mademoiselle  de  la  Verberie's  hus- 
band is  an  eminent  banker,  named  Andre  Fauvel.  I  have  not 
the  honor  of  his  acquaintance,  but  I  intend  going  to  see  him 
shortly.  I  am  anxious  to  submit  to  him  a  project  that  I  have 
conceived  for  the  benefit  of  this  part  of  the  country.  If  he 
approves  of  it,  I  shall  ask  him  to  invest  in  it,  as  his  name  will 
be  of  great  assistance  to  the  scheme.  I  suppose  you  have  no 
objections  to  my  mentioning  your  name  as  a  reference."  Louis 
trembled  like  a  man  who  had  just  had  a  narrow  escape  from 
death.  He  well  knew  that  he  would  have  to  fly  if  Gaston  re- 
ceived this  letter.  But  though  the  danger  was  warded  off  for 
the  while,  it  might  return  and  destroy  him  at  any  moment. 
Gaston  would  wait  a  week  or  so  for  an  answer,  then  he  would 
write  again ;  Lafourcade  would  instantly  reply  to  express  sur- 
prise that  his  first  letter  had  not  been  received ;  all  this  corre- 
spondence would  occupy,  at  the  most,  not  more  than  twelve 
days.  And  then,  Lafourcade's  visit  to  Paris  was  another  source 
of  danger,  for  the  instant  he  mentioned  the  name  of  De  Cla- 
meran  to  the  banker,  everything  would  be  discovered. 

But  Gaston  was  getting  tired  of  waiting.  "Are  you  coming?" 
he  cried. — "I  am  coming  now,"  replied  Louis. 

Hastily  thrusting  Lafourcade's  letter  into  a  secret  compart- 
ment of  his  trunk,  Louis  ran  down  to  his  brother.  He  had  made 
up  his  mind  to  borrow  a  large  sum  from  Gaston,  and  go  off  to 
America ;  and  Raoul  might  get  out  of  the  scrape  as  best  he 
could.  The  only  thing  which  he  regretted  was  the  sudden  fail- 
ure of  the  most  skilful  combination  he  had  ever  conceived;  but 
he  was  not  a  man  to  fight  against  destiny,  so  he  determined  to 
make  the  best  of  the  emergency,  and  hope  for  better  fortune 
in  his  next  scheme.  The  following  day,  about  dusk,  while  walk- 
ing along  the  pretty  road  leading  from  the  foundry  to  Oloron, 
be  commenced  the  prologue  of  a  little  story,  which  was  to  con- 
clude  by   asking   Gaston  to   lend   him  two   hundred  thousand 


1156  FILE   NUMBER    113 

francs.     As  they  went  slowly  along,  arm  in  arm,  about  half 
mile  from  the  foundry  they  met  a  young  laborer,  who  bov 
as  he  passed  them.     Louis  started  back  so  violently  that  his 
brother  asked  him  in  surprise  what  was  the  matter.    "Nothing, 
except  I  struck  my  foot  against  a  stone,  and  it  hurt  me." 

Gaston  might  have  known,  by  the  tremulous  tones  of  Louis's 
voice,  that  this  was  a  lie.  Louis  de  Clameran  had  reason  to 
tremble,  for  in  the  workman  he  recognized  Raoul  de  Lagors. 
Instinctive  fear  paralyzed  and  overwhelmed  him.  His  volubil- 
ity was  gone;  and  he  silently  walked  along  by  his  brother's 
side,  like  an  automaton,  totally  incapable  of  thinking  or  acting 
for  himself.  He  seemed  to  listen — he  did  listen ;  but  the  words 
fell  upon  his  ear  unmeaningly;  he  could  not  understand  what 
Gaston  was  saying,  and  mechanically  answered  "yes"  or  "no," 
like  one  in  a  dream.  While  necessity — absolute  necessity — kept 
him  at  Gaston's  side,  his  thoughts  were  all  with  the  young  man 
who  had  just  passed  by.  What  had  brought  Raoul  to  Oloron? 
What  plot  was  he  hatching?  Why  was  he  disguised  as  a  la- 
borer? Why  had  he  not  answered  the  many  letters  which 
Louis  had  written  him  from  Oloron?  He  had  ascribed  this 
silence  to  Raoul's  carelessness,  but  now  he  saw  it  was  pre- 
meditated. Something  disastrous  must  have  happened  at  Paris ; 
and  Raoul,  afraid  to  commit  himself  by  writing,  had  come  him- 
self to  bring  the  bad  news.  Had  he  come  to  say  that  the  game 
was  up,  and  they  must  fly?  But,  after  all,  he  might  have  been 
mistaken.  Perhaps  it  was  some  workman  bearing  a  strong  re- 
semblance to  Raoul.  If  he  could  only  run  after  the  stranger 
and  speak  to  him  !  His  anxiety  increased  minute  by  minute, 
and  at  length  became  intolerable.  Fortunately,  Gaston  was 
rather  tired  that  evening,  and  returned  home  much  earlier  than 
usual.  He  went  to  his  own  room  at  once.  At  last  Louis  was 
free !  He  lit  a  cigar,  and,  telling  the  servant  not  to  sit  up  for 
him,  went  out.  He  expected  that  Raoul,  if  it  was  Raoul,  would 
be  prowling  near  the  house,  waiting  for  him.  He  was  not  mis- 
taken. He  had  hardly  proceeded  thirty  yards  when  a  man  sud- 
denly sprang  from  behind  a  tree  and  stood  before  him.  The 
night  was  clear,  and  Louis  at  once  recognized  Raoul. 

"What  is  the  matter?"  he  impatiently  demanded;  "what  has 
happened  ?"— "Nothing."— "What !  Do  you  mean  to  say  that 
nothing  has  gone  wrong  in  Paris?"— "Nothing  whatever.  I 
will  add,  too,  that,  but  for  your  inordinate  greed  of  gain,  every- 
thing would  be  going  on  swimmingly."— "Then  why  have  you 


FILE   NUMBER   113  1157 

come  here?"  cried  Louis  fiercely.  "Who  gave  you  permission 
to  desert  your  post,  at  the  risk  of  ruining  us  both?" — "That  is 
my  business,"  said  Raoul  coolly. 

Louis  seized  the  young  man's  wrists,  and  almost  crushed  them 
in  his  vise-like  grasp.  "Explain  this  strange  conduct  of  yours," 
he  exclaimed  in  a  tone  of  suppressed  rage.  Without  apparent 
effort,  Raoul  released  his  hands  from  their  imprisonment,  and 
jeeringly  said:  "Gently,  my  friend!  I  don't  like  being  roughly 
treated,  and  I  have  other  means  of  answering  you."  At  the 
same  time  he  drew  a  revolver  from  his  pocket. 

"You  must  and  shall  explain  yourself,"  insisted  Louis;  "if 
you  don't." — "Well,  if  I  don't?  Now  you  might  just  as  well 
spare  yourself  the  trouble  of  trying  to  frighten  me.  I  intend 
to  answer  your  questions  when  I  choose ;  but  it  certainly  won't 
be  here,  in  the  middle  of  the  road,  with  the  bright  moonlight 
showing  us  off  to  advantage.  How  do  you  know  people  are  not 
watching  us  this  very  minute?  Come  this  way."  They  strode 
through  the  fields,  regardless  of  the  plants,  which  they  tram- 
pled under  foot  in  order  to  take  a  short  cut. 

"Now,"  began  Raoul  when  they  were  at  a  safe  distance  from 
the  road,  "now,  my  dear  uncle,  I  will  tell  you  what  brings 
me  here.  I  have  received  and  carefully  read  your  letters,  and 
read  them  more  than  once.  You  wished  to  be  prudent,  and 
the  consequence  was  that  your  letters  were  unintelligible.  Only 
one  thing  did  I  understand  clearly :  we  are  in  danger." — "Only 
the  more  reason  for  your  watchfulness  and  obedience." — "Very 
well  put.  Only,  before  braving  danger,  my  venerable  and  be- 
loved uncle,  I  want  to  know  its  extent.  I  am  not  a  man  to 
retreat  in  the  hour  of  peril,  but  I  want  to  know  exactly  how 
much  risk  I  am  running." 

"Did  I  not  tell  you  to  keep  quiet?" 

"But  to  do  this  would  imply  that  I  have  perfect  confidence  in 
you,  my  dear  uncle,"  said  Raoul,  sneeringly. 

"And  why  should  you  not?  What  reasons  for  distrust  have 
you  after  all  that  I  have  done  for  you?  Who  went  to  London, 
and  rescued  you  from  a  state  of  privation  and  ignominy  ?  I  did. 
Who  gave  you  a  name  and  position  when  you  had  neither?  I 
did.  And  who  is  working  even  now  to  maintain  your  present 
life  of  ease,  and  insure  you  a  splendid  future?    I  am." 

"Superb,  magnificent,  inimitable !"  said  Raoul  with  mocking 
admiration.  "But,  while  on  the  subject,  why  don't  you  prove 
that  you  have  sacrificed  yourself  for  my  sake?     You  did  not 


1158  FILE   NUMBER    113 

need  me  as  a  tool  for  carrying  out  plans  for  your  own  benefit; 
did  you  ?  oh,  no,  not  at  all !  Dear,  kind,  generous,  disinterested 
uncle !  You  ought  to  have  the  Montyon*  prize ;  I  must  recom- 
mend you  for  it." 

De  Clameran  was  so  enraged  that  he  feared  to  trust  himself 
to  speak. 

"Now,  my  good  uncle,"  continued  Raoul  more  seriously,  "we 
had  better  end  this  child's  play,  and  come  to  a  clear  under- 
standing. I  followed  you  here  because  I  thoroughly  understand 
your  character,  and  have  just  as  much  confidence  in  you  as  you 
deserve,  and  not  a  particle  more.  If  it  were  for  your  advantage 
to  ruin  me,  you  would  not  hesitate  one  instant.  If  danger 
threatened  us,  you  would  fly  aione,  and  leave  your  dutiful 
nephew  to  make  his  escape  the  best  way  he  could.  Oh !  don't 
look  shocked  and  pretend  to  deny  it ;  your  conduct  is  perfectly 
natural,  and  in  your  place  I  would  act  the  same  way.  Only 
remember  this,  that  I  am  not  a  man  to  be  trifled  with.  Now 
let  us  cease  these  unnecessary  recriminations,  and  come  to  the 
point:  what  has  been  happening  here?" 

Louis  saw  that  his  accomplice  was  too  shrewd  to  be  deceived, 
and  that  the  safest  course  was  to  trust  all  to  him,  and  to  pre- 
tend that  he  had  intended  doing  so  all  along.  Without  any 
show  of  anger,  he  briefly  and  clearly  related  all  that  had  oc- 
curred at  his  brother's.  He  told  the  truth  about  everything 
except  the  amount  of  his  brother's  fortune,  the  importance  of 
which  he  lessened  as  much  as  possible. 

"Well,"  said  Raoul,  when  the  report  was  ended,  "we  are  in 
a  nice  fix.  And  you  expect  to  get  out  of  it,  do  you?" — "Yes, 
if  you  don't  betray  me." — "I  wish  you  to  understand,  marquis, 
that  I  have  never  betrayed  any  one  yet.  What  steps  will  you 
take  to  get  free  of  this  entanglement?" — "I  don't  know  yet;  but 
something  will  turn  up.  Oh,  don't  be  alarmed;  I'll  find  some 
means  of  escape :  so  you  can  return  home  with  your  mind  set 
at  rest.  You  run  no  risk  in  Paris,  and  I  will  stay  here  to 
watch  Gaston." 

Raoul  reflected  for  some  moments,  and  then  said :  "Are  you 
sure  I  am  out  of  danger  in  Paris?" — "What  are  you  afraid  of? 
We  have  Madame  Fauvel  so  completely  in  our  power  that  she 
would  not  dare  speak  a  word  against  us,  even  if  she  knew  the 
whole  truth,  which  no  one  but  you  and  I  know:  she  would  not 
open  her  lips,  but  be  only  too  glad  to  hush  up  matters,  so  as 

*  A  prize  for  virtue  awarded  by  the  French  Academy. 


FILE   NUMBER   113  1159 

to  escape  punishment  for  her  fault  from  her  deceived  husband 
and  a  censuring  world." 

"That  is  so.  I  know  we  have  a  secure  hold  on  her,"  said 
Raoul.  "It  is  not  of  her  I  am  afraid."— "Of  whom,  then  ?"— "An 
enemy  of  your  own  making,  my  respected  uncle,  a  most  im- 
placable enemy — Madeleine." — "Fiddlesticks  !"  replied  De  Cla- 
meran  disdainfully. 

"It  is  all  very  well  for  you  to  treat  her  with  contempt,"  said 
Raoul  gravely;  "but  I  can  tell  you,  you  are  much  mistaken  in 
your  estimate  of  her  character.  I  have  studied  her  lately,  and 
see  that  she  has  devoted  herself  to  save  her  aunt;  but  she  has 
not  given  in.  She  has  promised  to  marry  you,  she  has  dis- 
carded Prosper,  who  is  broken-hearted,  it  is  true ;  but  she  has 
not  given  up  hope.  You  imagine  her  to  be  weak  and  yielding, 
easily  frightened  ?  It's  a  great  mistake :  she  is  self-reliant  and 
fearless.  More  than  that,  she  is  in  love,  my  good  uncle;  and 
a  woman  will  defend  her  love  as  a  tigress  defends  her  young." 

"She  is  worth  five  hundred  thousand  francs." — "So  she  is; 
and  at  five  per  cent  we  would  each  have  an  income  of  twelve 
thousand  five  hundred  francs.  But,  for  all  that,  you  had  better 
take  my  advice,  and  give  up  Madeleine." — "Never,  I  swear  by 
heaven  !"  exclaimed  De  Clameran.  "Rich  or  poor,  she  shall  be 
mine !  I  first  wanted  her  for  her  money,  but  now  I  want  her — 
I  love  her  for  herself,  Raoul !" 

Raoul  seemed  to  be  amazed  at  this  declaration  of  his  uncle. 
He  raised  his  hands,  and  started  back  with  astonishment.  "Is 
it  possible,"  he  said,  "that  you  are  in  love  with  Madeleine? — 
you !" — "Yes,"  replied  Louis  in  a  tone  of  suspicion.  "Is  there 
anything  so  very  extraordinary  in  it  ?" — "Oh,  no ;  certainly  not ! 
only  this  sentimental  state  you  are  in  explains  your  strange 
behavior.  So,  you  love  Madeleine!  Then,  my  venerable  uncle, 
we  may  as  well  surrender  at  once." — "Why  so?" — "Because  you 
know  the  axiom,  'When  the  heart  is  interested,  the  head  is 
lost.'  The  day  is  not  far  off  when  your  infatuation  for  Made- 
leine will  make  you  sell  us  both  for  a  smile.  And,  mark  my 
words,  she  is  shrewd,  and  watching  us  as  only  an  enemy  can 
watch." 

With  a  forced  laugh  De  Clameran  interrupted  his  nephew. 
"Just  see  how  you  fire  up  for  nothing,"  he  said.  "You  must 
dislike  the  charming  Madeleine,  then,  very  much." — "She  will 
prove  to  be  our  ruin;  that  is  all." — "You  might  as  well  be 
frank,  and  say  you  are  in  love  with  her  yourself." — "I  am  only 


1160  FILE   NUMBER    113 

in  love  with  her  money,"  retorted  Raoul  with  an  angry  frown. — 
"Then  what  are  you  complaining  of?  I  shall  give  you  half 
her  fortune.  You  will  have  the  money  without  being  troubled 
with  the  wife;  the  profit  without  the  burden." 

"I  am  not  over  fifty  years  old,"  said  Raoul  conceitedly. — 
"Enough  of  this,"  interrupted  Louis  angrily.  "The  day  I  re- 
lieved your  pressing  wants,  and  brought  you  to  Paris,  it  was 
agreed  that  I  should  be  the  master." — "Yesi;  but  you  forget  that 
my  liberty,  perhaps  my  life,  is  at  stake.  You  may  hold  the 
cards,  but  I  must  have  the  right  of  advising  you." 

It  was  midnight  before  the  accomplices  separated.  "It  won't 
do  to  stand  idle,"  said  Louis.  "I  agree  with  you  that  some- 
thing must  be  done  at  once;  but  I  can't  decide  what  it  shall 
be  on  the  spur  of  the  moment.  Meet  me  here  at  this  hour 
to-morrow  night,  and  I  will  have  some  plan  ready  for  you." 

"Very  good.    I  will  be  here." 

"And  remember,  don't  be  imprudent !" 

"My  costume  ought  to  convince  you  that  I  am  not  anxious 
to  be  recognized  by  any  one.  I  left  such  an  ingenious  alibi, 
that  I  defy  anybody  to  prove  that  I  have  been  absent  from 
the  house  at  Vesinet.  I  even  took  the  precaution  of  traveling 
here  third-class.    Well,  good  night ;  I  am  going  to  the  inn." 

Raoul  went  off  after  these  words,  apparently  unconscious  of 
having  aroused  suspicion  in  the  breast  of  his  accomplice.  Dur- 
ing his  adventurous  life,  De  Clameran  had  transacted  "busi- 
ness" with  too  many  scamps  not  to  know  the  precise  amount 
of  confidence  to  place  in  a  man  like  Raoul.  He  foresaw  already 
a  thousand  reasons  for  fear  and  disputes.  "Why,"  he  pon- 
dered, "did  Raoul  assume  this  disguise?  Why  this  alibi  at 
Paris  ?  Can  he  be  laying  a  trap  for  me  ?  It  is  true  that  I  have 
a  hold  upon  him ;  but,  then,  I  am  completely  at  his  mercy.  Those 
accursed  letters  which  I  have  written  to  him,  while  here,  are  so 
many  proofs  against  me.  Can  he  be  thinking  of  cutting  loose 
from  me  and  making  off  with  all  the  profits  of  our  enterprise?" 

Louis  never  once  during  the  night  closed  his  eyes;  but  by 
daybreak  he  had  fully  made  up  his  mind  how  to  act,  and  with 
feverish  impatience  waited  for  night.  His  anxiety  made  him 
so  restless  that  the  unobserving  Gaston  finally  noticed  it,  and 
asked  him  what  the  matter  was ;  if  he  was  ill,  or  troubled  about 
anything.  At  last  evening  came,  and  Louis  was  able  to  join 
Raoul,  whom  he  found  lying  on  the  grass,  smoking  in  the  field 
where  they  had  talked  on  the  preceding  evening. 


FILE   NUMBER   113  1161 

"Well,"  he  carelessly  asked,  as  Louis  approached,  "have  you 
decided  upon  anything?" — "Yes,  I  have  two  projects,  either 
of  which  is,  I  think,  sure  of  success." — "I  am  listening." 

Louis  was  silent  for  a  minute,  as  if  arranging  his  thoughts 
so  as  to  present  them  as  clearly  and  briefly  as  possible.  "My 
first  plan,"  he  began,  "depends  upon  your  approval.  What 
would  you  say  if  I  proposed  to  you  to  give  up  the  affair  alto- 
gether?"— "What!" — "Would  you  consent  to  disappear,  leave 
France,  and  return  to  London,  if  I  paid  you  a  good  round  sum  ?" 
— "What  do  you  call  a  good  round  sum?" — "I  could  give  you 
a  hundred  and  fifty  thousand  francs." 

"My  respected  uncle,"  said  Raoul,  with  a  contemptuous  shrug, 
"I  am  distressed  to  see  how  little  you  know  me  !  You  try  to 
deceive  me,  to  outwit  me,  which  is  ungenerous  and  foolish  on 
your  part — ungenerous,  because  it  fails  to  carry  out  your  agree- 
ment ;  foolish,  because,  as  you  ought  to  know  by  now,  my  power 
equals  yours." — "I  don't  understand  you." — "I  am  sorry  for  it. 
I  understand  myself,  and  that  is  sufficient.  Oh,  I  know  you, 
my  dear  uncle !  I  have  watched  you  with  careful  eyes,  which 
are  not  to  be  deceived;  I  see  through  you  clearly.  If  you  offer 
me  one  hundred  and  fifty  thousand  francs,  it  is  because  you 
intend  to  walk  off  with  a  million  for  yourself." 

"You  are  talking  like  a  fool,"  said  De  Clameran,  with  virtu- 
ous indignation. — "Not  at  all;  I  only  judge  the  future  by  the 
past.  Of  all  the  large  sums  extorted  from  Madame  Fauyel, 
often  against  my  wishes,  I  have  scarcely  received  a  tenth  part." 
— "But  you  know  we  have  a  reserve  fund." 

"All  very  good ;  but  you  have  the  keeping  of  it,  my  good 
uncle.  If  our  little  plot  were  to  be  discovered  to-morrow,  you 
would  walk  off  with  the  money-box,  and  leave  your  devoted 
nephew  to  be  sent  to  prison." — "Ungrateful  fellow !"  mut- 
tered Louis,  as  if  distressed  at  these  undeserved  reproaches. — 
"Bravo!"  cried  Raoul;  "you  said  it  splendidly.  But  we  have 
not  time  for  this  nonsense.  I  will  end  the  matter  by  proving 
how  you  have  been  trying  to  deceive  me." 

"I  would  like  to  hear  you  do  so,  if  you  can." — "Very  good. 
In  the  first  place,  you  told  me  that  your  brother  only  possessed 
a  modest  competency.  Now,  I  learn  that  Gaston  has  an  income 
of  at  least  sixty  thousand  francs ;  it  is  useless  for  you  to  deny 
it.  And  how  much  is  this  property  worth?  A  hundred  thou- 
sand crowns.  He  has  four  hundred  thousand  francs  deposited 
in  M.  Fauvel's  bank.     Total,  seven  hundred  thousand  francs. 


1162  FILE   NUMBER   113 

And  besides  all  this,  the  broker  in  Oloron  has  instructions  to 
buy  up  a  large  amount  of  government  stock  for  him.  I  have 
not  wasted  my  day,  as  you  see." 

Raoul's  information  was  too  concise  and  exact  for  Louis  to 
deny  it.  "You  might  have  sense  enough,"  Raoul  went  on,  "to 
know  how  to  manage  your  forces  if  you  undertake  to  be  a  com- 
mander. We  had  a  splendid  game  in  our  hands;  and  you,  who 
held  the  cards,  have  made  a  perfect  muddle  of  it." 

"I  think—" 

"That  the  game  is  lost?  That  is  my  opinion  too,  and  all 
through  you." — "I  could  not  control  events." 

"Yes,  you  could,  if  you  had  been  shrewd.  What  did  we 
agree  upon  in  London?  We  were  to  implore  my  good  mother 
to  assist  us  a  little,  and  if  she  complied  with  our  wishes,  we 
were  to  be  flattering  and  affectionate  in  our  devotion  to  her ; 
but,  at  the  risk  of  killing  the  golden  goose,  you  have  made  me 
torment  the  poor  woman  until  she  is  almost  crazy." 

"It  was  prudent  to  hasten  matters." — "You  think  so,  do  you  ? 
Was  it  also  to  hasten  matters  that  you  took  it  into  your  head 
to  marry  Madeleine?  That  made  it  necessary  to  let  her  into 
the  secret;  and,  ever  since,  she  has  advised  and  set  her  aunt 
against  us.  I  would  not  be  surprised  if  she  makes  her  confess 
everything  to  M.  Fauvel,  or  even  inform  against  us  at  the 
Prefecture  of  Police." 

"I  love  Madeleine !" — "You  told  me  that  before.  And  sup- 
pose you  do  love  her.  You  led  me  into  this  piece  of  business 
without  having  studied  its  various  bearings — without  knowing 
what  you  were  about.  No  one  but  an  idiot,  my  beloved  uncle, 
would  go  and  put  his  foot  into  a  trap,  and  then  say :  Tf  I 
had  only  known  about  it !'  You  should  have  made  it  your  busi- 
ness to  know  everything.  You  came  to  me,  and  said:  'Your 
father  is  dead.'  But  not  at  all,  he  is  living:  and,  after  what 
we  have  done,  I  dare  not  appear  before  him.  He  would  have 
left  me  a  million,  and  now  I  shall  not  get  a  sou.  He  will  find 
his  Valentine,  and  then  good-by." 

"Enough !"  angrily  interrupted  Louis.  "If  I  have  made  a 
mistake,  I  know  how  to  redeem  it.  I  can  save  everything  yet." 
— "You  can?  How  so?" — "That  is  my  secret,"  said  Louis, 
gloomily. 

Louis  and  Raoul  were  silent  for  a  minute ;  and  this  silence 
between  them,  in  this  lonely  spot,  at  dead  of  night,  was  so  hor- 
ribly significant  that  both  of  them  shuddered.     An  abominable 


FILE   NUMBER    113  1168 

thought  had  flashed  across  their  evil  minds,  and,  without  a 
word  or  look  they  understood  each  other.  Louis  broke  the 
ominous  silence  by  abruptly  saying:  "Then  you  refuse  to  dis- 
appear if  I  pay  you  a  hundred  and  fifty  thousand  francs  ?  Think 
it  over  before  deciding;  it  is  not  too  late  yet." — "I  have  fully 
thought  it  over.  I  know  you  will  not  attempt  to  deceive  me 
any  more.  Between  certain  ease  and  the  probability  of  an 
immense  fortune,  I  choose  the  latter  at  all  risks.  I  will  share 
your  success  or  your  failure ;  we  will  swim  or  sink  together." 
— "And  you  will  follow  my  instructions?" — "Blindly." 

Raoul  must  have  been  very  certain  of  Louis's  intentions,  for 
he  did  not  ask  him  a  single  question.  Perhaps  he  dared  not. 
Perhaps  he  preferred  doubt  to  shocking  certainty,  as  if  he 
could  thus  escape  the  remorse  attendant  upon  criminal  com- 
plicity. "In  the  first  place,"  said  Louis,  "you  must  at  once  re- 
turn to  Paris." — "I  will  be  there  in  forty-eight  hours." — "You 
must  be  constantly  at  Madame  Fauvel's  and  keep  me  informed 
of  everything  that  takes  place  in  the  family." — "I  understand." 

Louis  laid  his  hand  on  Raoul's  shoulder,  as  if  to  impress  upon 
his  mind  what  he  was  about  to  say.  "You  have  a  sure  means 
of  being  restored  to  your  mother's  confidence  and  affection  by 
blaming  me  for  everything  that  has  happened  to  distress  her. 
Abuse  me  constantly.  The  more  odious  you  render  me  in  her 
eyes  and  those  of  Madeleine,  the  better  you  will  serve  me. 
Nothing  would  please  me  more  than  to  be  denied  admittance 
to  the  house  when  I  return  to  Paris.  You  must  say  that  you 
have  quarreled  with  me,  and  that  if  I  still  come  to  see  you, 
it  is  because  you  can  not  prevent  it.  That  is  the  scheme :  you 
can  develop  it." 

Raoul  listened  to  these  strange  instructions  with  astonish- 
ment. "What!"  he  cried;  "you  adore  Madeleine,  and  take  this 
means  of  winning  her  good  graces  ?  An  odd  way  of  carrying 
on  a  courtship,  I  must  confess !  I  will  be  shot  if  I  can  com- 
prehend."— "There  is  no  necessity  for  your  comprehending." — 
"All  right,"  said  Raoul,  submissively.    "If  you  say  so." 

"Did  you  ever  hear,"  Louis  asked  Raoul,  "of  the  man  who 
burned  down  his  lady-love's  house  so  as  to  have  the  bliss  of 
carrying  her  out  in  his  arms?" — "Yes;  what  of  it?" 

"At  the  proper  time,  I  will  charge  you  to  set  fire  morally  to 
Madame  Fauvel's  house;  and  I  will  rush  in  and  save  her  and 
her  niece.  Now,  in  the  eyes  of  those  women,  my  conduct  will 
appear  more  magnanimous  and  noble  in  proportion  to  the  con- 


1164  FILE   NUMBER   113 

tempt  and  abuse  they  have  heaped  upon  me.  I  gain  nothing 
by  patient  devotion;  I  have  everything  to  hope  from  a  sudden 
change  of  tactics.  A  well-managed  stroke  will  transform  a 
demon  into  an  angel." 

"Very  well ;  a  good  idea !"  said  Raoul,  approvingly,  when  his 
uncle  had  finished. — "Then  you  understand  what  is  to  be 
done ?"—" Yes ;  but  you  will  write  to  me?"— "Of  course;  and 
if  anything  should  happen  at  Paris?"— "I  will  telegraph  to 
you."— "And  never  lose  sight  of  my  rival,  the  cashier."— "Pros- 
per? Not  much  danger  of  our  being  troubled  by  him,  poor 
boy !  He  is  just  now  my  most  devoted  friend.  Trouble  has 
driven  him  into  a  path  of  life  which  will  soon  prove  his  destruc- 
tion. Every  now  and  then  I  pity  him  from  the  bottom  of  my 
soul." — "Pity  him  as  much  as  you  like." 

The  two  men  shook  hands  and  separated,  apparently  the  best 
friends  in  the  world;  in  reality,  the  bitterest  enemies.  Raoul 
would  not  forgive  Louis  for  having  attempted  to  appropriate 
all  the  booty  and  leave  him  in  the  lurch,  when  it  was  he  who 
had  risked  the  greatest  dangers.  Louis,  on  his  part,  was 
alarmed  at  the  attitude  taken  by  Raoul.  Thus  far  he  had  found 
him  tractable,  and  even  blindly  obedient;  and  now  he  had  sud- 
denly become  rebellious  and  threatening.  Instead  of  ordering 
Raoul,  he  was  forced  to  consult  and  bargain  with  him.  What 
could  be  more  wounding  to  his  vanity  and  self-conceit  than  the 
reproaches,  well  founded  though  they  were,  to  which  he  had 
been  obliged  to  listen  from  a  mere  youth?  As  he  walked  back 
to  his  brother's  house,  thinking  over  what  had  just  occurred, 
Louis  swore  that  sooner  or  later  he  would  be  revenged,  and 
that  as  soon  as  he  could,  he  would  take  means  of  getting  rid 
of  Raoul  forever.  But  for  the  present  he  was  so  afraid  of  his 
young  accomplice  that,  according  to  his  promise,  he  wrote  to 
him  the  next  day,  and  every  succeeding  day,  full  particulars 
of  everything  that  happened.  Seeing  how  important  it  was  to 
restore  his  shaken  confidence,  Louis  entered  into  the  most  mi- 
nute details  of  his  plans.  The  situation  remained  the  same :  the 
dark  cloud  hung  threateningly  near,  but  grew  no  larger. 

Gaston  seemed  to  have  forgotten  that  he  had  written  to  Beau- 
caire,  and  never  mentioned  Valentine's  name  once.  Like  all 
men  accustomed  to  a  busy  life,  Gaston  was  miserable  except 
when  occupied,  and  spent  his  whole  time  in  the  foundry,  which 
seemed  to  absorb  him  entirely.  It  was  losing  money  when  he 
purchased  it;  but  he  determined  to  work  it  until  it  should  be 


FILE    NUMBER   113  1165 

equally  beneficial  to  himself  and  the  neighborhood.  He  engaged 
the  services  of  an  intelligent  engineer,  and,  thanks  to  untiring 
energy  and  new  improvements  in  machinery,  his  receipts  soon 
more  than  equaled  his  expenses. 

"Now  that  we  are  doing  so  well,"  said  Gaston  joyously,  "we 
shall  certainly  make  twenty-five  thousand  francs  next  year." 
Next  year !  Alas,  poor  Gaston !  Five  days  after  Raoul's  de- 
parture, one  Saturday  afternoon,  Gaston  was  suddenly  taken 
ill.  He  had  a  sort  of  vertigo,  and  was  so  dizzy  that  he  was 
forced  to  lie  down.  "I  know  what  is  the  matter,"  he  said.  "I 
have  often  been  ill  in  this  way  at  Rio.  A  couple  of  hours'  sleep 
will  cure  me.  I  will  lie  down,  and  you  can  send  some  one  to 
awaken  me  when  dinner  is  ready,  Louis." 

But  when  the  servant  came  to  announce  dinner,  he  found 
Gaston  much  worse.  He  had  a  violent  headache,  a  choking  sen- 
sation in  his  throat,  and  dimness  of  vision.  But  his  worst 
symptom  was  dysphonia;  he  would  try  to  articulate  one  word, 
and  find  himself  using  another.  His  jaw-bones  became  so  stiff 
that  it  was  with  the  greatest  difficulty  that  he  opened  his  mouth. 
Louis  came  up  to  his  brother's  room,  and  urged  him  to  send  for 
the  physician.  "No,"  said  Gaston,  "I  won't  have  any  doctor 
to  make  me  ill  with  all  sorts  of  medicines.  I  know  what  is 
the  matter  with  me,  and  my  indisposition  will  be  cured  by  a 
simple  remedy  which  I  have  always  used."  At  the  same  time 
he  ordered  Manuel,  his  old  Spanish  servant,  who  had  lived  with 
him  for  ten  years,  to  prepare  him  some  lemonade. 

The  next  day  Gaston  apeared  to  be  much  better.  He  ate 
his  breakfast,  and  was  about  to  take  a  walk,  when  the  pains 
of  the  previous  day  suddenly  returned  in  a  more  violent  form. 
Without  consulting  his  brother,  Louis  sent  to  Oloron  for  Dr. 

C ,  whose  wonderful  cures  had  won  him  a  wide  reputation. 

The  doctor  declared  that  there  was  no  danger,  and  merely 
prescribed  a  dose  of  valerian,  and  a  blister  with  some  grains 
of  morphine  sprinkled  on  it.  But  in  the  middle  of  the  night, 
all  the  symptoms  suddenly  changed  for  the  worse.  The  pain 
in  the  head  was  succeeded  by  a  fearful  oppression,  and  the  sick 
man  suffered  torture  in  trying  to  get  his  breath.  Daybreak 
found  him  still  tossing  restlessly  from  pillow  to  pillow.     When 

Dr.  C came  early  in  the  morning,  he  appeared  very  much 

surprised  at  this  change  for  the  worse.  He  inquired  if  they  had 
not  used  too  much  morphine.  Manuel  said  that  he  had  put 
the  blister  on  his  master,  and  the  doctor's  directions  had  been 


1166  FILE   NUMBER   113 

accurately  followed.  The  doctor,  after  having  examined  Gas- 
ton, and  found  his  breathing  heavy  and  irregular,  prescribed 
leeches  and  a  heavy  dose  of  sulphate  of  quinine;  he  then  re- 
tired, saying  he  would  return  the  next  day.  As  soon  as  the 
doctor  had  gone,  Gaston  sent  for  a  friend  of  his,  a  lawyer,  to 
come  to  him  as  soon  as  possible. 

"For  Heaven's  sake !  what  do  you  want  with  a  lawyer  ?"  in- 
quired Louis. — "I  want  his  advice,  brother.  It  is  useless  to  try 
and  deceive  ourselves ;  I  know  I  am  extremely  ill.  Only  timid 
fools  are  superstitious  about  making  their  wills.  I  would  rather 
have  the  lawyer  at  once,  and  then  my  mind  will  be  at  rest." 

Gaston  did  not  think  he  was  about  to  die;  but,  knowing 
the  uncertainty  of  life,  determined  to  be  prepared  for  the  worst. 
He  had  too  often  imperiled  his  life,  and  been  face  to  face  with 
death,  to  feel  any  fear  now.  He  had  made  his  will  while  ill 
at  Bordeaux;  but  now  that  he  had  found  Louis,  he  wished 
to  leave  him  all  his  property,  and  sent  for  his  business  man 
to  advise  as  to  the  best  means  of  disposing  of  his  wealth  for 
his  benefit.  The  lawyer  was  a  shrewd,  wiry  little  man,  very 
popular,  and  perfectly  familiar  with  all  the  intricacies  of  the 
law.  Nothing  delighted  him  more  than  to  succeed  in  eluding 
some  stringent  article  of  the  Code;  and  he  often  sacrificed 
large  fees  for  the  sake  of  outwitting  his  opponent,  and  con- 
troverting the  justness  of  a  decision.  Once  aware  of  his  client's 
wishes  and  intentions,  he  had  but  one  idea,  and  that  was  to 
carry  them  out  as  inexpensively  as  possible,  by  skilfully  evading 
the  heavy  costs  to  be  paid  by  the  inheritor  of  the  estate.  He 
explained  to  Gaston  that  he  could,  by  an  act  of  partnership, 
associate  Louis  in  his  business  enterprises,  by  signing  an  ac- 
knowledgment that  half  of  the  money  invested  in  these  various 
concerns  belonged  to  and  had  been  advanced  by  his  brother;  so 
that  in  the  event  of  Gaston's  death,  Louis  would  only  have  to 
pay  taxes  on  half  the  fortune.  Gaston  eagerly  took  advantage 
of  this  fiction ;  not  that  he  thought  of  the  money  saved  by  the 
transaction  if  he  died,  but  this  would  be  a  favorable  opportu- 
nity for  sharing  his  riches  with  Louis  without  wounding  his 
delicate  sensibility.  A  deed  of  partnership  between  Gaston  and 
Louis  de  Clameran,  for  the  working  of  a  cast-iron  mill,  was 
drawn  up;  this  deed  acknowledged  Louis  to  have  invested  five 
hundred  thousand  francs  as  his  share  of  the  capital. 

When  Louis  was  called  in  to  sign  the  paper,  he  violently 
opposed  his  brother's  project.     "Why  do  you  distress  me  by 


FILE    NUMBER    113  1167 

making  these  preparations  for  death,  merely  because  you  are 
suffering  from  a  slight  indisposition?  Do  you  think  that  I 
would  consent  to  accept  your  wealth  during  your  lifetime?  If 
you  die,  I  am  your  heir;  if  you  live,  I  enjoy  your  property  as 
if  it  were  my  own.    What  more  can  you  wish?" 

Vain  remonstrances.  Gaston  was  not  a  man  to  be  persuaded 
from  accomplishing  a  purpose  upon  which  he  had  fully  set  his 
heart.  When,  after  mature  deliberation,  he  made  a  resolution, 
he  always  carried  it  out  in  spite  of  all  opposition.  After  a 
long  and  heroic  resistance,  which  showed  great  nobleness  of 
character  and  rare  disinterestedness,  Louis,  urged  by  the  physi- 
cian, finally  yielded,  and  signed  his  name  to  the  papers  drawn 
up  by  the  lawyer.  It  was  done.  Now  he  was  legally  Gaston's 
partner,  and  possesser  of  half  his  fortune.  No  court  of  law 
could  deprive  him  of  what  had  been  deeded  with  all  the  legal 
formalities,  even  if  his  brother  should  change  his  mind  and  try 
to  get  back  his  property.  The  strangest  sensations  now  filled 
Louis's  breast.  He  was  in  a  state  of  delirious  excitement,  often 
felt  by  persons  suddenly  raised  from  poverty  to  affluence. 
Whether  Gaston  lived  or  died,  Louis  was  the  lawful  possessor 
of  an  income  of  twenty-five  thousand  francs,  without  counting 
the  eventual  profits  of  the  iron-works.  At  no  time  in  his  life 
had  he  hoped  for  or  dreamed  of  such  wealth.  His  wildest 
wishes  were  surpassed.  What  more  could  he  want  ?  Alas ! 
he  wanted  the  power  of  enjoying  these  riches  in  peace:  they 
had  come  too  late.  This  fortune,  fallen  from  the  skies,  should 
have  filled  his  heart  with  joy,  whereas  it  only  made  him  melan- 
choly and  angry.  This  unlooked-for  happiness  seemed  to  have 
been  sent  by  cruel  fate  as  a  punishment  for  his  past  sins.  Al- 
though his  conscience  told  him  that  he  deserved  this  misery,  he 
blamed  Gaston  entirely  for  his  present  torture.  Yes,  he  held 
Gaston  responsible  for  the  horrible  situation  in  which  he  found 
himself.  His  letters  to  Raoul  for  several  days  expressed  all  the 
fluctuations  of  his  mind,  and  revealed  glimpses  of  coming  evil. 

"I  have  twenty-five  thousand  francs  a  year,"  he  wrote  to 
him,  a  few  hours  after  signing  the  deed  of  partnership;  "and 
I  possess  in  my  own  right  five  hundred  thousand  francs.  One- 
fourth  of  this  sum  would  have  made  me  the  happiest  of  men 
a  year  ago;  now  it  is  of  no  use  to  me.  All  the  gold  on  earth 
could  not  remove  one  of  the  difficulties  of  our  situation.  Yes, 
you  were  right.  I  have  been  imprudent;  but  I  pay  dear  for 
my  precipitation.    Rich  or  poor,  I  have  cause  to  tremble  as  long 


1168  FILE    NUMBER    113 

as  there  is  any  risk  of  a  meeting  between  Gaston  and  Valentine. 
How  can  they  be  kept  apart?  Will  my  brother  renounce  his 
plan  of  discovering  the  whereabouts  of  this  woman  whom  he 
so  loved?" 

No;  Gaston  would  never  be  turned  from  his  search  for  his 
first  love,  as  he  proved  by  calling  her  in  the  most  beseeching 
tones  when  he  was  suffering  his  worst  paroxysms  of  pain..  He 
grew  no  better.  In  spite  of  the  most  careful  nursing  his  symp- 
toms changed,  but  showed  no  improvement.  Each  attack  was 
more  violent  than  the  preceding  one.  Toward  the  end  of  the 
week,  however,  the  pains  left  his  head,  and  he  felt  well  enough 
to  get  up  and  partake  of  a  slight  nourishment.  But  poor 
Gaston  was  a  mere  shadow  of  his  former  self.  In  one  week  he 
had  aged  ten  years.  His  strong  constitution  was  broken.  He, 
who  ten  days  ago  was  boasting  if  his  vigorous  health,  was  now 
weak  and  bent  like  an  old  man.  He  could  hardly  drag  himself 
along,  and  shivered  in  the  warm  sun  as  if  he  were  bloodless. 
Leaning  on  Louis's  arm,  he  slowly  walked  down  to  look  at  the 
forge,  and,  seating  himself  before  a  furnace  at  full  blast,  he 
declared  that  he  felt  very  much  better,  that  this  intense  heat 
revived  him.  His  pains  were  all  gone,  and  he  could  breathe 
without  difficulty. 

His  spirits  rose,  and  he  turned  to  the  workmen  gathered 
around,  and  said  cheerfully:  "I  was  not  blest  with  a  good 
constitution  for  nothing,  my  friends,  and  I  shall  soon  be  well 
again." 

When  the  neighbors  called  to  see  him,  and  insisted  that  this 
illness  was  entirely  owing  to  change  of  climate,  Gaston  replied 
that  he  supposed  they  were  right,  and  that  he  ought  to  return 
to  Rio  as  soon  as  he  was  well  enough  to  travel.  What  hope 
this  answer  roused  in  Louis's  breast!  "Yes,"  he  eagerly  said, 
"I  will  go  with  you.    A  trip  to  Brazil  would  be  charming !" 

But  the  next  day  Gaston  had  changed  his  mind.  He  told 
Louis  that  he  felt  almost  well,  and  was  determined  not  to  leave 
France.  He  proposed  going  to  Paris  to  consult  the  best  phy- 
sicians, and  then  he  would  see  Valentine.  As  his  illness  in- 
creased, he  became  more  surprised  and  troubled  at  not  hearing 
from  Beaucaire.  He  wrote  again  in  the  most  pressing  terms, 
and  asked  for  a  reply  by  return  of  post.  This  letter  was  never 
received  by  Lafourcade.  That  night,  Gaston's  sufferings  re- 
turned with  renewed  violence,  and  for  the  first  time  Dr.  C 

was   uneasy.     A   fatal  termination  seemed  possible.     Gaston's 


FILE   NUMBER   113 


1169 


pain  left  him  in  a  measure,  but  he  was  growing  weaker  every 
moment.  His  heart  beat  slower,  and  his  feet  were  as  cold  as  ice. 
On  the  fourteenth  day  of  his  illness,  after  lying  in  a  stupor 
for  several  hours,  he  revived  sufficiently  to  ask  for  a  priest, 
saying  that  he  would  follow  the  example  of  his  ancestors, 
and  die  like  a  Christian.  The  priest  left  him  after  half  an  hour's 
interview,  and  all  the  workmen  were  summoned  to  receive 
their  master's  farewell.  Gaston  spoke  a  few  kind  words  to 
them  all,  saying  that  he  had  provided  for  them  in  his  will. 
After  they  had  gone,  he  made  Louis  promise  to  carry  on  the 
iron-works,  embraced  him  for  the  last  time,  and  sank  back  on 
his  pillow  in  a  dying  state.  As  the  bell  tolled  for  noon  he 
quietly  breathed  his  last.  Now  Louis  was  in  reality  Marquis 
de  Clameran,  and  a  millionaire  besides.  Two  weeks  later, 
having  made  arrangements  with  the  engineer  in  charge  of 
the  iron-works  to  attend  to  everything  during  his  absence,  he 
took  his  seat  in  the  train  for  Paris.  He  had  sent  the  following 
significant  telegram  to  Raoul  the  night  previous:  "I  arrive 
to-morrow." 


U^AITHFUL  to  the  program  laid  down  by  his  accomplice, 
while  Louis  watched  at  Oloron,  Raoul  remained  in  Paris 
with  the  purpose  of  recovering  Madame  Fauvel's  confidence 
and  affection,  and  of  lulling  any  suspicions  which  might  have 
arisen  in  her  breast.  The  task  was  difficult,  but  not  impos- 
sible. Madame  Fauvel  had  been  distressed  by  Raoul's  wild 
extravagance,  but  had  never  ceased  to  love  him.  Whatever 
faults  he  had  committed,  whatever  future  follies  he  might 
indulge  in,  he  would  always  remain  her  best  loved  child,  her 
first-born,  the  living  image  of  her  noble,  handsome  Gaston, 
the  lover  of  her  youth.  She  adored  her  two  sons,  Lucien  and 
Abel;  but  she  could  not  overcome  an  indulgent  weakness  for 
the  unfortunate  child,  torn  from  her  arms  the  day  of  his  birth, 
abandoned  to  the  mercies  of  hired  strangers,  and  for  twenty 
years  deprived  of  home  influences  and  a  mother's  love.     She 


1170  FILE   NUMBER   113 

blamed  herself  for  Raoul's  misconduct,  and  accepted  the  re- 
sponsibility of  it,  saying  to  herself:  "It  is  my  fault."  Knowing 
these  to  be  her  sentiments,  Raoul  did  not  hesitate  to  take 
advantage  of  them.  Never  were  more  irresistible  fascina- 
tions employed  for  the  accomplishment  of  a  wicked  object. 
Beneath  an  air  of  innocent  frankness,  this  precocious  scoundrel 
concealed  wonderful  astuteness  and  penetration.  He  could 
at  will  adorn  himself  with  the  confiding  artlessness  of  youth, 
so  that  angels  might  have  yielded  to  the  soft  look  of  his 
large  dark  eyes.  There  were  few  women  living  who  could 
have  resisted  the  thrilling  tones  of  his  sympathetic  voice. 
During  the  month  of  Louis's  absence,  Madame  Fauvel  was 
in  a  state  of  comparative  happiness.  Never  had  this  mother 
and  wife — this  pure,  innocent  woman,  in  spite  of  her  first 
and  only  fault — enjoyed  such  tranquillity.  She  felt  as  one 
under  the  influence  of  enchantment,  while  reveling  in  the  sun- 
shine of  filial  love,  which  almost  bore  the  character  of  a 
lover's  passion;  for  Raoul's  devotion  was  ardent  and  constant, 
his  manner  so  tender  and  winning,  that  any  one  would  have 
taken  him  for  Madame  Fauvel's  suitor.  As  she  was  still 
at  her  country  house,  and  M.  Fauvel  went  to  town  every 
morning,  she  had  the  whole  of  her  time  to  devote  to  Raoul. 
When  she  had  spent  the  morning  with  him  at  his  house  in 
Vesinet,  she  would  often  bring  him  home  to  dine  and  spend 
the  evening  with  her.  All  his  past  faults  were  forgiven,  or 
rather  the  whole  blame  of  them  was  laid  upon  De  Clameran; 
for,  now  that  he  was  absent,  had  not  Raoul  once  more  become 
her  noble,  generous  and  affectionate  son?  Raoul  enjoyed 
the  life  he  was  leading,  and  took  such  an  interest  in  the  part 
that  he  was  playing,  that  his  acting  was  perfect.  He  possessed 
the  faculty  which  makes  cheats  successful — faith  in  his  own 
impostures.  Sometimes  he  would  stop  to  think  whether  he 
was  telling  the  truth,  or  acting  a  shameful  comedy.  His  success 
was  wonderful.  Even  Madeleine,  the  prudent,  distrustful 
Madeleine,  without  being  able  to  shake  off  her  prejudice  against 
the  young  adventurer,  confessed  that  perhaps  she  had  been 
influenced  by  appearances,  and  had  judged  unjustly.  Raoul 
never  asked  for  money  now.    He  seemed  to  live  on  nothing. 

Affairs  were  in  this  happy  state  when  Louis  arrived  from 
Oloron.  Although  now  immensely  rich,  he  resolved  to  make 
no  change  in  his  style  of  living,  but  returned  to  his  apartments 
at  the  Hotel  du  Louvre.    His  only  outlay  was  the  purchase  of 


FILE   NUMBER    113  1171 

a  handsome  carriage ;  and  this  was  driven  by  Manuel,  who  con- 
sented to  enter  his  service,  although  Gaston  had  left  him  a 
sufficient  sum  to  support  him  comfortably.  Louis's  dream,  the 
height  of  his  ambition,  was  to  be  ranked  among  the  great 
manufacturers  of  France.  He  was  prouder  of  being  called 
"iron-founder"  than  of  his  marquisate.  During  his  adventurous 
life,  he  had  met  with  so  many  titled  gamblers  and  cut-throats, 
that  he  no  longer  believed  in  the  prestige  of  nobility.  It  was 
impossible  to  distinguish  the  counterfeit  from  the  genuine.  He 
thought  what  was  so  easily  imitated  was  not  worth  the  having. 
Dearly  bought  experience  had  taught  him  that  our  unromantic 
century  attaches  no  value  to  armorial  bearings,  unless  their 
possessor  is  rich  enough  to  display  them  upon  a  splendid 
coach.  One  can  be  a  marquis  without  a  marquisate,  but  it 
•  is  impossible  to  be  forge-master  without  owning  a  forge. 
Louis  now  thirsted  for  the  homage  of  the  world.  All  the  badly 
digested  humiliations  of  the  past  weighed  upon  him.  He  had 
suffered  so  much  contempt  and  scorn  from  his  fellow-men,  that 
he  burned  to  avenge  himself.  After  a  disgraceful  youth,  he 
longed  to  live  a  respected  and  honored  old  age.  His  past  career 
disturbed  him  little.  He  was  sufficiently  acquainted  with  the 
world  to  know  that  the  sound  of  his  carriage  wheels  would 
silence  the  jeers  of  those  who  knew  his  former  life.  These 
thoughts  fermented  in  Louis's  brain  as  he  journeyed  from  Pau 
to  Paris.  He  troubled  his  mind  not  in  the  least  about  Raoul, 
determining  to  use  him  as  a  tool  so  long  as  he  needed  his 
services,  and  then  pay  him  a  large  sum  if  he  would  consent 
to  leave  him.  All  these  plans  and  thoughts  were  afterward 
found  noted  down  in  the  diary  which  he  had  in  his  pocket  at 
the  time  of  the  journey. 

The  first  interview  between  the  accomplices  took  place  at 
the  Hotel  du  Louvre.  Raoul,  having  a  practical  turn  of  mind, 
said  he  thought  that  they  ought  both  to  be  contented  with  the 
result  already  obtained,  and  that  it  would  be  folly  to  try  and 
secure  anything  more.  "What  more  do  we  want?"  he  asked 
his  uncle.  "We  now  possess  over  a  million ;  let  us  divide  it 
and  keep  quiet.  We  had  better  be  satisfied  with  our  good  luck, 
and  not  tempt  Providence." 

But  this  moderation  did  not  suit  Louis.  "I  am  rich,"  he 
replied,  "but  I  desire  more  than  wealth.  I  am  determined 
to  marry  Madeleine ;  I  swear  she  shall  be  my  wife !  In  the 
first  place,  I  madly  love  her ;  and  then,  as  the  nephew  of  the 


1172  FILE   NUMBER   113 

most  eminent  banker  in  Paris,  I  at  once  gain  high  position 
and  public  consideration." — "I  tell  you,  uncle,  your  courtship 
will  involve  you  in  great  risks." — "I  don't  care  if  it  does.  I 
choose  to  run  them.  My  intention  is  to  share  my  fortune  with 
you;  but  I  will  not  do  so  till  the  day  after  my  wedding. 
Madeleine's  dowry  will  be  your  share." 

Raoul  was  silent.  De  Clameran  held  the  money,  and  was, 
therefore,  master  of  the  situation.  "You  don't  seem  to  antici- 
pate any  difficulty  in  carrying  out  your  wishes,"  he  resumed, 
discontentedly;  "how  are  you  to  account  for  your  suddenly 
acquired  fortune?  M.  Fauvel  knows  that  a  De  Clameran  lived 
at  Oloron,  and  had  money  in  his  bank.  You  told  him  that  you 
never  heard  of  this  person  bearing  your  name,  and  then,  at 
the  end  of  a  month,  you  come  and  say  you  have  inherited  his 
fortune."  • 

"You  are  an  innocent  youth,  nephew;  your  ingenuousness  is 
amusing." — "Explain  yourself." — "Certainly.  The  banker,  his 
wife,  and  Madeleine  must  be  informed  that  the  De  Clameran  of 
Oloron  was  a  natural  son  of  my  father,  consequently  my  brother, 
born  at  Hamburg,  and  recognized  during  the  emigration.  Of 
course,  he  wished  to  leave  his  fortune  to  his  own  family.  This 
is  the  story  which  you  must  tell  Madame  Fauvel  to-morrow." 

"That  is  a  bold  step  to  take." — "How  so?" — "Inquiries  might 
be  made." — "Who  would  make  them?  The  banker  would  not 
trouble  himself  to  do  so.  What  difference  is  it  to  him  whether 
I  had  a  brother  or  not?  My  title  as  heir  is  legally  authenti- 
cated; and  all  he  has  to  do  is  to  pay  the  money  he  holds,  and 
there  his  business  ends." 

"I  am  not  afraid  of  his  giving  trouble." — "Do  you  think  that 
Madame  Fauvel  and  her  niece  will  ask  any  questions?  Why 
should  they?  They  have  no  grounds  for  suspicion.  Besides, 
they  can  not  take  a  step  without  compromising  themselves.  If 
they  knew  all  our  secrets,  I  would  not  have  the  least  fear  of 
their  making  revelations.  They  have  sense  enough  to  know 
that  they  had  best  keep  quiet." 

Not  finding  any  other  objections  to  make,  Raoul  said :  "Very 
well,  then,  I  will  obey  you ;  but  I  am  not  to  call  upon  Madame 
Fauvel  for  any  more  money,  am  I?" — "And  why  not,  pray?" — 
"Because,  my  uncle,  you  are  rich  now." — "Suppose  I  am  rich," 
replied  Louis  triumphantly ;  "what  does  that  matter  ?  Have  we 
not  pretended  to  have  quarreled,  and  have  you  not  abused  mc 
sufficiently  to  justify  you  in  refusing  my  assistance?     Ah!     I 


FILE   NUMBER    113  1173 

foresaw  everything,  and  when  I  explain  my  present  plan  you 
will  say  with  me,  'Success  is  certain.'  "  Louis  de  Clameran's 
scheme  was  very  simple,  and  therefore,  unfortunately,  pre- 
sented the  strongest  chances  of  success.  "We  will  go  back 
and  look  at  our  balance-sheet.  As  heretofore,  my  brilliant 
nephew,  you  seem  to  have  misunderstood  my  management  of 
this  affair;  I  will  now  explain  it  to  you." — "I  am  listening." 

"In  the  first  place,  I  presented  myself  to  Madame  Fauvel, 
and  said,  not  'Your  money  or  your  life,'  but  'Your  money  or 
your  reputation !'  It  was  a  rude  blow  to  strike,  but  effective. 
As  I  expected,  she  was  frightened,  and  regarded  me  with  the 
greatest  aversion." — "Aversion  is  a  mild  term,  uncle." — "I  know 
that.  Then  I  brought  you  upon  the  scene,  and,  without  flatter- 
ing you  in  the  least,  I  must  say  that  your  opening  act  was  a 
perfect  success.  I  was  concealed  behind  the  curtain,  and  saw 
your  first  interview ;  it  was  sublime !  She  saw  you,  and  loved 
you;  you  spoke  a  few  words,  and  won  her  heart." 

"And  but  for  you — " — "Let  me  finish.  This  was  the  first  act 
of  our  comedy.  Let  us  pass  to  the  second.  Your  extravagant 
follies — your  grandfather  would  have  said  your  dissoluteness — 
soon  changed  our  respective  situations.  Madame  Fauvel,  with- 
out ceasing  to  worship  you — you  resemble  Gaston  so  closely — 
was  frightened  of  you.  She  was  so  frightened  that  she  was 
forced  to  come  to  me  for  assistance." — "Poor  woman !" 

"I  acted  my  part  very  well,  as  you  must  confess.  I  was 
grave,  cold,  indignant,  and  represented  the  distressed  uncle  to 
perfection.  I  spoke  of  the  old  probity  of  the  De  Clamerans, 
and  bemoaned  that  the  family  honor  should  be  dragged  in  the 
dust  by  a  degenerate  descendant.  For  a  short  time  I  triumphed 
at  your  expense.  Madame  Fauvel  forgot  her  former  prejudice 
against  me,  and  soon  showed  that  she  esteemed  and  liked  me." 

"That  was  a  long  time  ago." 

Louis  paid  no  attention  to  this  ironical  interruption.  "Now 
we  come  to  the  third  act,"  he  went  on  to  say,  "the  time  when 
Madame  Fauvel,  having  Madeleine  for  an  adviser,  nearly  judged 
us  at  our  true  value.  Oh  !  you  need  not  flatter  yourself  that 
she  did  not  fear  and  despise  us  both.  If  she  did  not  hate  you, 
Raoul,  it  was  because  a  mother's  heart  always  forgives  a  sin- 
ful child.  A  mother  can  despise  and  worship  her  son  at  the 
same  time." 

"She  has  proved  it  to  me  in  so  many  touching  ways  that  I — 
yes,  even  I,  hardened  as  I  am — was  moved,  and  felt  remorse." — 


1174  FILE   NUMBER   113 

"No  doubt.  I  have  felt  some  pangs  myself.  Where  did  I  leave 
off?  Oh,  yes!  Madame  Fauvel  was  frightened,  and  Made- 
leine, bent  on  sacrificing  herself,  had  discarded  Prosper,  and 
consented  to  marry  me,  when  Gaston's  existence  was  suddenly 
revealed  to  us.  And  what  has  happened  since?  You  have  suc- 
ceeded in  convincing  Madame  Fauvel  that  you  are  purer  than 
an  angel,  and  that  I  am  blacker  than  hell.  She  is  blinded  by 
your  noble  qualities,  and  she  and  Madeleine  regard  me  as  your 
evil  genius,  whose  pernicious  influence  led  you  astray." 

"You  are  right,  my  venerated  uncle;  that  is  precisely  the 
position  you  occupy." — "Very  good.  Now  we  come  to  the  fifth 
act,  and  our  comedy  needs  entire  change  of  scenery.  We  must 
veer  around."— "Change  our  tactics  ?"—" You  think  it  difficult, 
I  suppose?  Nothing  easier.  Listen  attentively,  for  the  future 
depends  upon  your  skilfulness."  Raoul  leaned  back  in  his  chair 
with  folded  arms,  as  if  prepared  for  anything,  and  said:  "I  am 
ready." 

"The  first  thing  for  you  to  do,"  said  Louis,  "is  to  go  to  Ma- 
dame Fauvel  to-morrow,  and  tell  her  the  story  about  my  natural 
brother.  She  will  not  believe  you,  but  that  makes  no  differ- 
ence. The  important  thing  is  for  you  to  appear  convinced  of 
the  truth  of  what  you  tell  her." — "Consider  me  convinced." 

"Five  days  hence  I  will  call  on  M.  Fauvel,  and  confirm  the 
notification  sent  him  by  my  notary  at  Oloron,  that  the  money 
deposited  in  the  bank  now  belongs  to  me.  I  will  repeat,  for 
his  benefit,  the  story  of  the  natural  brother,  and  ask  him  to 
keep  the  money  for  me,  as  I  have  no  occasion  for  it  at  pres- 
ent. You,  who  are  so  distrustful,  my  good  nephew,  may  regard 
this  deposit  as  a  guarantee  of  my  sincerity." — "We  will  talk 
of  that  another  time.    Go  on." 

"Then  I  will  go  to  Madame  Fauvel,  and  say:  'Being  very 
poor,  my  dear  madame,  necessity  compelled  me  to  claim  your 
assistance  in  the  support  of  my  brother's  son,  who  is  also 
yours.  This  youth  is  worthless  and  extravagant.'  " — "Thanks, 
my  good  uncle." — "He  has  poisoned  your  life  when  he  should 
have  added  to  your  happiness;  he  is  a  constant  anxiety  and 
sorrow  to  your  maternal  heart.  I  have  come  to  offer  my  regrets 
for  your  past  trouble,  and  to  assure  you  that  you  will  have  no 
annoyance  in  the  future.  I  am  now  rich,  and  henceforth  take 
the  whole  responsibility  of  Raoul  upon  myself." — "Is  that  what 
you  call  a  scheme?" 

"Wait,  you  will  soon  see  whether  it  is.     After  listening  to 


FILE   NUMBER   113  1175 

this  speech,  Madame  Fauvel  will  feel  inclined  to  throw  herself 
in  my  arms,  by  way  of  expressing  her  gratitude  and  joy.  She 
will  refrain,  however,  on  account  of  her  niece.  She  will  ask 
me  to  relinquish  my  claim  on  Madeleine's  hand  now  that  I  am 
rich.  I  will  roundly  tell  her,  'No.'  I  will  make  this  an  oppor- 
tunity for  an  edifying  display  of  magnanimity  and  disinterest- 
edness. I  will  say,  'Madame,  you  have  accused  me  of  cupidity. 
I  am  now  able  to  prove  your  injustice.  I  have  been  infatuated, 
as  every  man  must  be,  by  the  beauty,  grace,  and  intelligence 
of  Mademoiselle  Madeleine;  and — I  love  her.  If  she  were  pen- 
niless, my  devotion  would  only  be  the  more  ardent.  She  has 
been  promised  to  me,  and  I  must  insist  upon  this  one  article  of 
our  agreement.  This  must  be  the  price  of  my  silence.  And 
to  prove  that  I  am  not  influenced  by  her  fortune,  I  give  you 
my  sacred  promise  that  the  day  after  the  wedding  I  will  send 
Raoul  sufficient  to  secure  him  an  income  of  twenty-five  thou- 
sand francs  per  annum." 

Louis  expressed  himself  with  such  convincing  candor,  that 
Raoul,  an  artist  in  knavery,  was  charmed  and  astonished. 
"Beautifully  done,"  he  cried,  clapping  his  hands  with  glee. 
"That  last  sentence  may  create  a  chasm  between  Madame 
Fauvel  and  her  niece.  The  promise  of  a  fortune  for  me  will 
most  likely  bring  my  mother  over  to  our  side." 

"I  hope  so,"  said  Louis  with  pretended  modesty.  "And  I 
have  strong  reasons  for  hoping  so,  as  I  shall  be  able  to  furnish 
the  good  lady  with  excellent  arguments  for  excusing  herself 
in  her  own  eyes.  You  know  when  some  one  proposes  some 
little — what  shall  we  call  it? — transaction  to  an  honest  per- 
son, it  must  be  accompanied  by  justifications  sufficient  to  quiet 
all  qualms  of  conscience.  I  shall  prove  to  Madame  Fauvel  and 
her  niece  that  Prosper  has  shamefully  deceived  them.  I  shall 
prove  to  them  that  he  is  cramped  by  debts,  dissipated,  and 
a  reckless  gambler,  openly  associating  with  a  woman  of  no 
character." 

"And  very  pretty  besides,  by  Jove !  You  must  not  neglect 
to  expatiate  upon  the  beauty  and  fascinations  of  the  adorable 
Gipsy;  that  will  be  your  strongest  point." — "Don't  be  alarmed; 
I  shall  be  more  eloquent  than  a  popular  divine.  Then  I  will 
explain  to  Madame  Fauvel  that  if  she  really  loves  her  niece, 
she  will  persuade  her  to  marry,  not  an  insignificant  cashier, 
but  a  man  of  position,  a  great  manufacturer,  a  marquis,  and, 
more  than  this,  one  rich  enough  to  establish  you  in  the  world." 


1176  FILE   NUMBER   113 

Raoul  was  dazzled  by  this  brilliant  prospect.  "If  you  don't 
decide  her,  you  will  at  least  make  her  waver,"  he  said. — "Oh ! 
I  don't  expect  a  sudden  change.  I  only  intend  planting  the 
germ  in  her  mind;  thanks  to  you,  it  will  develop,  flourish,  and 
bear  fruit."— "Thanks  to  me?"— "Allow  me  to  finish.  After 
making  my  speeches  I  shall  disappear  from  the  scene,  and  your 
role  will  commence.  Of  course  your  mother  will  repeat  the 
conversation  to  you,  and  then  we  can  judge  of  the  effect  pro- 
duced. But  remember,  you  must  scorn  to  receive  any  assistance 
from  me.  You  must  swear  that  you  will  brave  all  privations, 
want,  famine  even,  rather  than  accept  anything  from  a  base 
man,  whom  you  hate  and  despise;  a  man  who —  But  you 
know  exactly  what  you  are  to  say.  I  can  rely  upon  you  for 
good  acting." 

"No  one  can  surpass  me  when  I  am  interested  in  my  part. 
In  pathetic  roles  I  am  always  a  success  when  I  have  had  time 
to  prepare  myself."— "I  know  you  are.  But  this  disinterested- 
ness need  not  prevent  you  from  resuming  your  dissipations. 
You  must  gamble,  bet,  and  lose  more  money  than  you  ever 
did  before.  You  must  increase  your  demands,  and  say  that  you 
must  have  money  at  all  costs.  You  need  not  account  to  me  for 
any  money  you  can  extort  from  her.  All  you  get  is  your  own, 
to  spend  as  you  please."— "You  don't  say  so!  If  you  mean 
that— "—"You  will  expedite  matters,  I'll  be  bound."— "I  can 
promise  you  no  time  shall  be  wasted." 

"Now  listen  to  what  you  are  to  do,  Raoul.  Before  the  end 
of  three  months  you  must  have  exhausted  the  resources  of  these 
two  women.  You  must  force  from  them  every  franc  they  can 
raise,  so  that  they  will  be  wholly  unable  to  procure  money  to 
supply  your  increasing  demands.  In  three  months  I  must  find 
them  penniless,  absolutely  ruined,  without  even  a  jewel  left." 

Raoul  was  startled  at  the  passionate,  vindictive  tone  of  Louis's 
voice  as  he  uttered  these  last  words.  "You  must  hate  these 
women  if  you  are  so  determined  to  make  them  miserable,"  he 
said.  "I  hate  them?"  cried  Louis.  "Can't  you  see  that  I  madly 
love  Madeleine,  love  her  as  only  a  man  of  my  age  can  love? 
Is  not  her  image  ever  in  my  mind  ?  Does  not  the  very  thought 
of  her  fire  my  heart,  and  her  name  burn  my  lips  when  I  pro- 
nounce it?" — "Your  great  devotion  does  not  prevent  you  plan- 
ning the  destruction  of  her  present  happiness." 

"Necessity  compels  me  to  do  so.  Nothing  but  the  most  cruel 
deceptions  and  the  bitterest  suffering  would  ever  induce  her  to 


FILE   NUMBER   113  1177 

become  my  wife.  The  day  on  which  you  have  led  Madame 
Fauvel  and  her  niece  to  the  extreme  edge  of  the  precipice, 
pointed  out  its  dark  depths,  and  convinced  them  that  they  are 
irretrievably  lost,  I  shall  appear,  and  rescue  them.  Why,  it  will 
be  the  crowning  scene  of  our  drama.  I  will  play  my  part  with 
such  grandeur,  such  lofty  magnanimity,  that  Madeleine  will  be 
touched.  When  she  finds  that  it  is  her  sweet  self,  and  not  her 
money,  that  I  want,  she  will  soften,  and  no  longer  despise  me. 
No  true  woman  can  be  indifferent  to  a  grand  passion.  I  don't 
pretend  to  say  that  she  will  love,  but  she  will  give  herself  to 
me  without  repugnance;  that  is  all  I  ask." 

Raoul  was  shocked  at  the  cold-blooded  perversity  of  his 
uncle ;  but  De  Clameran  showed  his  immense  superiority  in 
wickedness,  and  the  apprentice  admired  the  master.  "You 
would  certainly  succeed,  uncle,"  he  said,  "were  it  not  for  the 
cashier.  Prosper  will  always  stand  between  you  and  Made- 
leine; if  not  in  person,  certainly  in  memory." 

Louis  smiled  scornfully,  and,  throwing  away  his  cigar,  which 
had  gone  out,  said :  "I  don't  mind  Prosper,  or  attach  any  more 
importance  to  him  than  to  that  cigar." — "But  she  loves  him." — 
"So  much  the  worse  for  him.  Six  months  hence  she  will  despise 
him ;  he  is  already  morally  ruined,  and  at  the  proper  time  I  will 
make  an  end  of  him  socially.  Do  you  know  whither  the  road 
of  dissipation  leads,  my  good  nephew?  Prosper  supports  Gipsy, 
who  is  extravagant ;  he  gambles,  keeps  fast  horses,  and  gives  sup- 
pers. Sooner  or  later  he  will  have  a  night  of  bad  luck;  the 
losses  at  baccarat  must  be  paid  within  twenty-four  hours ;  he 
will  wish  to  pay,  and  he — has  charge  of  the  banker's  safe." 

Raoul  protested  against  this  insinuation. 

"It  is  useless  to  tell  me  that  he  is  honest.  I  dare  say  he  is. 
I  was  honest  myself  until  I  learned  to  gamble.  A  scamp  would 
have  married  Madeleine  long  ago,  and  sent  us  flying,  bag  and 
baggage.  You  say  she  loves  him  ?  No  one  but  a  coward  would 
be  defrauded  of  the  woman  he  loved  and  who  loved  him.  Ah, 
if  I  had  once  felt  Madeleine's  hand  tremble  in  mine,  if  her  rosy 
lips  had  once  pressed  a  kiss  upon  my  brow,  the  whole  world 
could  not  take  her  from  me.  Wo  to  him  who  dares  stand  in 
my  path !  As  it  is,  Prosper  annoys  me,  and  I  intend  to  sup- 
press him.  With  your  aid  I  will  so  cover  him  with  disgrace 
and  infamy  that  Madeleine  will  drive  every  thought  of  him 
from  her  mind." 

Louis's  tone  of  rage  and  vengeance  startled  Raoul,  and  made 

Gab. — Vol.  IV  L 


1178  FILE   NUMBER    113 

him  regard  the  affair  in  a  worse  light  than  ever.  "You  have 
given  me  a  shameful,  dastardly  role  to  play,"  he  said  after  a 
long  pause. — "My  honorable  nephew  has  scruples,  I  suppose," 
sneered  De  Clameran. — "Not  exactly  scruples;  yet  I  confess — " 

"That  you  want  to  retreat  ?  Rather  too  late  to  sing  that  tune, 
my  friend.  You  wish  to  enjoy  every  luxury,  have  your  pockets 
filled  with  gold,  cut  a  fine  figure  in  high  society,  and  remain 
virtuous.  You  should  have  been  born  with  a  golden  spoon  in 
your  mouth  then.  We  must  fish  in  muddy  waters,  and  cleanse 
ourselves  afterward." 

"I  have  never  been  rich  enough  to  be  honest,"  said  Raoul 
humbly ;  "but  I  must  say  it  goes  hard  with  me  to  torture  two 
defenseless,  frightened  woman,  and  ruin  the  character  of  a 
poor  devil  who  regards  me  as  his  best  friend.  It  is  a  low 
business !" 

This  resistance  exasperated  Louis  to  the  last  degree.  "You 
are  the  most  absurd,  ridiculous  fool  I  ever  met,"  he  cried.  "An 
opportunity  occurs  for  us  to  make  an  immense  fortune.  All  we 
have  to  do  is  to  stretch  out  our  hands  and  take  it;  when  you 
must  needs  prove  refractory,  like  a  whimpering  baby.  Nobody 
but  an  ass  would  refuse  to  drink  when  he  is  thirsty  because 
he  sees  a  little  mud  at  the  bottom  of  the  bucket.  I  suppose  you 
prefer  theft  on  a  small  scale.  And  where  will  your  system  lead 
you?  To  the  poor-house  or  the  police-station.  You  prefer  liv- 
ing from  hand  to  mouth,  supported  by  Madame  Fauvel,  having 
small  sums  doled  out  to  you  to  pay  your  little  gambling  debts." 

"I  am  neither  ambitious  nor  cruel." — "And  suppose  Madame 
Fauvel  dies  to-morrow ;  what  will  become  of  you  ?  Will  you 
go  cringing  up  to  the  widower,  and  implore  him  to  continue 
your  allowance?" — "Enough  said,"  cried  Raoul,  angrily  inter- 
rupting his  uncle.  "I  never  had  any  idea  of  retreating.  I  made 
these  objections  to  show  you  what  infamous  work  you  expect 
of  me,  and,  at  the  same  time,  prove  to  you  that  without  my 
assistance  you  can  do  nothing." 

"I  never  pretended  otherwise." — "Then,  my  noble  uncle,  we 
might  as  well  settle  what  my  share  is  to  be.  Oh !  it  is  not 
worth  while  for  you  to  indulge  in  idle  protestations.  What 
will  you  give  me  in  case  of  success?  and  what  if  we  fail?" 

"I  told  you  before.  I  will  give  you  twenty-five  thousand 
francs  a  year,  and  all  you  can  secure  between  now  and  my 
wedding-day." — "This  arrangement  suits  me  very  well;  but 
where  are   your   securities?"     This  question   was  discussed  a 


FILE   NUMBER    113  1179 

long  time  without  being  satisfactorily  settled  by  the  accom- 
plices, who  had  every  reason  to  distrust  each  other.  "What 
are  you  afraid  of  ?"  asked  De  Clameran. — "Everything,"  replied 
Raoul.  "Where  am  I  to  obtain  justice  if  you  deceive  me?  From 
this  pretty  little  poniard  ?  No,  thank  you.  I  would  be  made  to 
pay  as  dear  for  your  hide  as  for  that  of  honest  man." 

Finally,  after  a  long  debate  and  much  recrimination,  the 
matter  was  arranged,  and  they  shook  hands  before  separating. 
Alas !  Madame  Fauvel  and  her  niece  soon  felt  the  evil  effects 
of  the  understanding  between  the  villains.  Everything  hap- 
pened as  Louis  had  arranged.  Once  more,  when  Madame  Fau- 
vel had  begun  to  breathe  freely,  and  to  hope  that  her  troubles 
were  over,  Raoul's  conduct  suddenly  changed;  he  became  more 
extravagant  and  dissipated  than  ever.  Formerly,  Madame 
Fauvel  would  have  said:  "I  wonder  what  he  does  with  all  the 
money  I  give  him  ?"  Now,  she  saw  where  it  went.  Raoul  was 
reckless  in  his  wickedness ;  he  was  intimate  with  actresses, 
openly  lavishing  money  and  jewelry  upon  them;  he  drove 
about  with  four  horses,  and  bet  heavily  on  every  race.  Never 
had  he  been  so  exacting  and  exorbitant  in  his  demands  for 
money;  Madame  Fauvel  had  the  greatest  difficulty  in  supplying 
his  wants.  He  no  longer  made  excuses  and  apologies  for 
spending  so  much;  instead  of  coaxingly  entreating,  he  de- 
manded money  as  a  right,  threatening  to  betray  Madame  Fau- 
vel to  her  husband  if  she  refused  him.  At  this  rate,  all  that 
she  and  Madeleine  possessed  soon  disappeared.  In  one  month, 
all  their  money  had  been  squandered.  Then  they  were  com- 
pelled to  resort  to  the  most  shameful  expedients  in  the  house- 
hold expenses.  They  economized  in  every  possible  way,  mak- 
ing purchases  on  credit,  and  making  tradesmen  wait;  then  they 
changed  figures  in  the  bills,  and  even  invented  accounts  of 
things  never  bought.  These  imaginary  costly  whims  increased 
so  rapidly  that  M.  Fauvel  one  day  said,  with  a  smile :  "You 
are  becoming  very  coquettish,  my  dears."  Poor  women  !  For 
months  they  had  bought  nothing,  but  had  lived  upon  the  re- 
mains of  their  former  splendor,  having  all  their  old  dresses 
altered  to  keep  up  appearances  in  society.  More  clear-sighted 
than  her  aunt,  Madeleine  saw  plainly  that  the  day  would  soon 
come  when  everything  would  be  discovered.  Although  she 
knew  that  the  sacrifices  of  the  present  would  avail  nothing  in 
the  future,  she  was  silent.  A  high-minded  delicacy  made  her 
conceal  her  apprehensions  beneath  an  assumed  calmness.    The 


1180  FILE    NUMBER    113 

fact  of  her  sacrificing  herself  made  her  refrain  from  uttering 
anything  like  a  complaint  or  censure.  "As  soon  as  Raoul  sees 
we  have  nothing  more  to  give,"  she  would  say  to  her  aunt,  "he 
will  come  to  his  senses,  and  stop  all  this  extravagance."  The 
day  came,  however,  when  Madame  Fauvel  and  Madeleine  found 
it  impossible  to  give  another  franc.  The  previous  evening  there 
had  been  a  dinner-party,  and  they,  with  difficulty,  scraped  to- 
gether enough  money  to  defray  the  expenses.  Raoul  appeared, 
and  said  that  he  was  in  the  greatest  need  of  money,  being 
forced  to  pay  a  debt  of  two  thousand  francs  at  once.  In  vain 
they  implored  him  to  wait  a  few  days,  until  they  could,  with 
propriety,  ask  M.  Fauvel  for  money. 

"But  I  have  no  way  of  getting  it  for  you,"  said  Madame 
Fauvel,  desperately;  "you  have  taken  everything  from  me.  I 
have  nothing  left  but  my  diamonds:  do  you  want  them?  If 
they  can  be  of  use,  take  them." 

Hardened  as  the  young  villain  was,  he  blushed  at  these 
words.  He  felt  pity  for  this  unfortunate  woman,  who  had  al- 
ways been  so  kind  and  indulgent  to  him — who  had  so  often 
lavished  upon  him  her  maternal  caresses.  He  felt  for  the  noble 
girl,  who  was  the  innocent  victim  of  a  vile  plot.  But  he  was 
bound  by  his  promise;  he  knew  that  a  powerful  hand  would 
save  these  women  at  the  brink  of  the  precipice.  More  than 
this,  he  saw  an  immense  fortune  at  the  end  of  his  road  of 
crime,  and  quieted  his  conscience  by  saying  that  he  would  re- 
deem his  present  cruelty  by  honest  kindness  in  the  future. 
Stifling  his  better  impulses,  he  said  harshly  to  Madame  Fauvel: 
"Give  me  the  jewels;  I  will  take  them  to  the  pawnbroker's." 
She  handed  him  a  box  containing  a  set  of  diamonds.  It  was 
a  present  from  her  husband  the  day  he  became  worth  a  million. 
And  so  pressing  was  the  want  of  these  women  who  were  sur- 
rounded by  princely  luxury,  with  their  ten  servants,  beautiful 
horses,  and  jewels  which  were  the  admiration  of  Paris,  that 
they  implored  him  to  bring  them  some  of  the  money  which  he 
would  procure  on  the  diamonds.  He  promised,  and  kept  his 
word.  But  they  had  revealed  a  new  source — a  mine  to  be 
worked ;  he  took  advantage  of  it.  One  by  one  all  Madame 
Fauvel's  jewels  followed  the  way  of  the  diamonds;  and,  when 
hers  was  all  gone,  those  belonging  to  Madeleine  were  given 
up.  Madame  Fauvel  had  no  defense  against  the  scoundrels 
who  were  torturing  her,  save  prayers  and  tears;  these  availed 
her  little.    Sometimes,  though,  she  betrayed  such  heart-broken 


FILE   NUMBER    113  1181 

suffering  when  Raoul  begged  her  for  money  which  she  had  no 
means  of  obtaining  that  he  would  hurry  away  disgusted  at  his 
own  brutal  conduct,  and  say  to  De  Clameran :  "You  must  end 
this  dirty  business ;  I  can  not  stand  it  any  longer.  Let  us  steal 
with  both  hands  as  much  as  you  like ;  but  as  to  killing  by  agony 
and  fright  these  two  poor  miserable  women,  whom  I  am  really 
fond  of,  I  am  not  going  to  do  it." 

De  Clameran  showed  no  surprise  at  these  remonstrances.  "It 
is  not  pleasant,  I  know,"  he  replied;  "but  necessity  knows  no 
law.  Have  a  little  more  perseverance  and  patience ;  we  have 
almost  got  to  the  end." 

The  end  was  nearer  than  De  Clameran  supposed.  Toward 
the  latter  part  of  November,  Madame  Fauvel  saw  that  it 
was  impossible  to  postpone  the  catastrophe  any  longer,  and  as 
a  last  effort  determined  to  apply  to  the  marquis  for  assistance. 
She  had  not  seen  him  since  his  return  from  Oloron,  except 
once,  when  he  came  to  announce  his  accession  to  wealth.  At 
that  time,  persuaded  that  he  was  Raoul's  evil  genius,  she  had 
received  him  very  coldly,  and  did  not  invite  him  to  repeat  his 
visit.  She  hesitated  before  speaking  to  her  niece  of  the  step 
she  intended  taking,  because  she  feared  violent  opposition. 
To  her  great  surprise  Madeleine  warmly  approved  of  it. 
Trouble  had  made  her  keen-sighted  and  suspicious.  Reflect- 
ing on  the  past  events,  comparing  and  weighing  every  act  and 
speech  of  Raoul,  she  was  now  convinced  that  he  was  De  Cla- 
meran's  tool.  She  thought  that  Raoul  was  too  shrewd  to  be 
acting  in  this  shameful  way,  ruinously  to  his  own  interests,  if 
there  were  not  some  secret  motive  at  the  bottom  of  it  all.  She 
saw  that  this  persecution  was  more  feigned  than  real.  So 
thoroughly  was  she  convinced  of  this  that,  had  it  only  con- 
cerned herself  alone,  she  would  have  firmly  resisted  the  oppres- 
sion, confident  that  the  threatened  exposure  would  never  take 
place.  Recalling,  with  a  shudder,  certain  looks  of  De  Cla- 
meran, she  guessed  the  truth,  that  the  object  of  all  this  under- 
hand work  was  to  force  her  to  become  his  wife.  Determined 
on  making  the  sacrifice,  in  spite  of  her  repugnance  toward  the 
man,  she  wished  to  have  the  deed  done  at  once;  anything  was 
preferable  to  the  intolerable  existence  which  Raoul  made  her 
lead.  She  felt  that  her  courage  might  fail  if  she  waited  and 
suffered  much  longer. 

"The  sooner  you  see  M.  de  Clameran  the  better  for  us, 
aunt,"  she  said,  after  talking  the  project  over. 


1182  FILE   NUMBER    113 

The  next  day  Madame  Fauvel  called  on  the  marquis  at  the 
Hotel  du  Louvre,  having  sent  him  a  note  announcing  her  in- 
tended visit.  He  received  her  with  cold,  studied  politeness,  like 
a  man  who  had  been  misunderstood  and  had  been  unjustly 
wounded.  After  listening  to  her  report  of  Raoul's  scandalous 
behavior,  he  became  very  indignant,  and  swore  that  he  would 
soon  make  him  repent  of  his  heartlessness.  But,  when  Madame 
Fauvel  told  him  that  Raoul  applied  to  her  because  he  would 
take  nothing  from  his  uncle,  De  Clameran  seemed  confounded. 

"The  worthless  rascal !"  he  exclaimed,  "the  idea  of  his  au- 
dacity. Why,  during  the  last  four  months,  I  have  given  him 
more  than  twenty  thousand  francs,  which  I  would  not  have 
done  except  to  prevent  him  from  applying  to  you,  as  he  con- 
stantly threatened  to  do."  Seeing  an  expression  of  doubt  upon 
Madame  Fauvel's  face,  Louis  arose  and  took  from  a  desk  some 
receipts  signed  by  Raoul,  which  he  showed  her.  The  total 
amount  was  twenty-three  thousand  five  hundred  francs.  Ma- 
dame Fauvel  was  shocked  and  amazed. 

"He  has  obtained  about  forty  thousand  francs  from  me,"  she 
faintly  said,  "so  that  altogether  he  has  spent  at  least  sixty 
thousand  francs  in  four  months." — "I  can't  imagine  what  he 
does  with  it,"  said  De  Clameran.  "unless  he  spends  it  on 
actresses." — "Good  heavens !  what  can  those  creatures  do  with 
all  the  money  lavished  on  them?" — "That  is  a  thing  one  never 
knows." 

He  appeared  to  pity  Madame  Fauvel  sincerely ;  he  promised 
that  he  would  at  once  see  Raoul,  and  make  him  alter  his  be- 
havior. Finally,  after  many  protestations  of  friendship,  he 
wound  up  by  placing  his  fortune  at  her  disposal.  Although 
Madame  Fauvel  refused  his  offer,  she  appreciated  the  kindness 
of  it,  and  on  returning  home  said  to  Madeleine:  "Perhaps  we 
have  mistaken  his  character;  he  may  be  a  good  man  after  all." 
Madeleine  sadly  shook  her  head.  She  had  anticipated  just 
what  happened.  De  Clameran's  magnanimity  and  generosity 
confirmed  her  presentiments. 

Raoul  called  on  his  uncle,  and  found  him  radiant.  "Every- 
thing is  going  on  swimmingly,  my  smart  nephew,"  said  the 
marquis;  "your  receipts  act  like  a  charm.  Ah,  you  are  a 
partner  worth  having.  I  congratulate  you  upon  your  success. 
Forty  thousand  francs  in  four  months !" 

"Yes,"  said  Raoul  carelessly.  "I  got  about  that  much  from 
her  and  the  pawnbrokers." — "Hang  it!     Then  you  must  have 


FILE   NUMBER   113  1183 

a  nice  little  sum  laid  by;  for  the  young  lady,  I  presume,  is  a 
myth." — "That  is  my  business,  uncle.  Remember  our  agree- 
ment. I  can  tell  you  this  much :  Madame  Fauvel  and  Made- 
leine have  turned  everything  they  can  into  money;  they  have 
nothing  left,  and  I  have  had  enough  of  my  role." 

"Your  role  is  ended.  I  forbid  you  to  hereafter  ask  for  a 
single  centime." — "What  are  you  about  to  do?  What  has 
happened?" — "The  mine  is  loaded,  nephew,  and  I  am  only 
awaiting  an  opportunity  to  set  fire  to  it." 

Louis  de  Clameran  relied  upon  making  his  rival,  Prosper 
Bertomy,  furnish  him  with  this  ardently  desired  opportunity. 
He  loved  Madeleine  too  passionately  to  feel  aught  save  the  bit- 
terest hate  toward  the  man  whom  she  had  freely  chosen,  and 
who  still  possessed  her  heart.  De  Clameran  knew  that  he  could 
marry  her  at  once  if  he  chose ;  but  in  what  way  ?  By  holding 
a  sword  of  terror  over  her  head,  and  forcing  her  to  be  his.  He 
became  frenzied  at  the  idea  of  possessing  her  person,  while 
her  heart  and  soul  would  always  be  with  Prosper.  Thus  he 
swore  that,  before  marrying,  he  would  so  cover  Prosper  with 
shame  and  ignominy  that  no  honest  person  would  speak  to  him. 
He  had  at  first  thought  of  killing  him,  but  he  preferred  to  dis- 
grace him.  He  imagined  that  there  would  be  no  difficulty  in 
ruining  the  unfortunate  young  man.  He  soon  found  himself 
mistaken.  Though  Prosper  led  a  life  of  reckless  dissipation, 
he  preserved  order  in  his  disorder.  If  in  a  state  of  miserable 
entanglement,  and  obliged  to  resort  to  all  sorts  of  makeshifts 
to  escape  his  creditors,  his  caution  prevented  the  world  from 
knowing  it.  Vainly  did  Raoul,  with  his  pockets  full  of  gold, 
tempt  him  to  play  high ;  every  effort  to  hasten  his  ruin  failed. 
When  he  played  he  did  not  seem  to  care  whether  he  lost  or 
won ;  nothing  aroused  him  from  his  cold  indifference.  His  mis- 
tress, Nina  Gipsy,  was  extravagant,  but  her  devotion  to  Prosper 
restrained  her  from  going  beyond  certain  limits.  Raoul's  great 
intimacy  with  Prosper  enabled  him  to  fully  understand  the  state 
of  his  mind ;  that  he  was  trying  to  drown  his  disappointment  in 
excitement,  but  had  not  given  up  all  hope. 

"You  need  not  hope  to  beguile  Prosper  into  committing  any 
serious  piece  of  folly,"  said  Raoul  to  his  uncle;  "his  head  is 
as  cool  as  an  usurer's.  What  object  he  has  in  view  I  know  not. 
Perhaps  when  he  has  spent  his  last  coin  he  will  blow  his  brains 
out ;  he  certainly  never  will  descend  to  any  dishonorable  act ; 
he  will  never  have  recourse  to  the  money  in  the  banker's  safe." 


1184  FILE    NUMBER    113 

"We  must  urge  him  on,"  replied  De  Clameran;  "lead  him 
into  more  extravagances ;  make  Gipsy  call  on  him  for  costly 
finery,  lend  him  plenty  of  money."  Raoul  shook  his  head,  as 
if  convinced  that  his  efforts  would  be  in  vain.  "You  don't 
know  Prosper,  uncle ;  we  can't  galvanize  a  dead  man.  Made- 
leine killed  him  the  day  she  discarded  him.  He  takes  no  inter- 
est in  anything  on  the  face  of  the  earth." — "We  can  wait." 

They  did  wait ;  and,  to  the  great  surprise  of  Madame  Fauvel, 
Raoul  once  more  became  an  affectionate  and  dutiful  son,  as  he 
had  been  during  De  Clameran's  absence.  From  reckless  ex- 
travagance he  changed  to  great  economy.  Under  pretext  of 
saving  money,  he  remained  at  Vesinet,  although  it  was  very 
uncomfortable  and  disagreeable  there  in  the  winter.  He  wished, 
he  said,  to  expiate  his  sins  in  solitude.  The  truth  was  that,  by 
remaining  in  the  country,  he  insured  his  liberty,  and  escaped 
his  mother's  visits.  It  was  about  this  time  that  Madame  Fauvel, 
charmed  with  the  improvement  in  Raoul,  asked  her  husband 
to  give  him  some  employment  in  the  bank.  M.  Fauvel  was  de- 
lighted to  please  his  wife,  and  at  once  offered  Raoul  the  place 
of  corresponding  clerk,  with  a  salary  of  five  hundred  francs  a 
month.  The  appointment  pleased  Raoul ;  but,  in  obedience  to 
De  Clameran's  command,  he  refused  it,  saying  he  had  no  taste 
for  banking.  This  refusal  so  provoked  the  banker  that  he 
rather  bitterly  reproached  Raoul,  and  told  him  not  to  expect 
him  to  do  anything  to  assist  him  in  future.  Raoul  seized  this 
pretext  for  ostensibly  ceasing  his  visits.  When  he  wanted  to 
see  his  mother,  he  would  come  in  the  afternoon  or  evening, 
when  he  knew  that  M.  Fauvel  would  be  from  home;  and  he 
only  came  often  enough  to  keep  himself  informed  of  what  was 
going  on  in  the  household.  This  sudden  lull  after  so  many 
storms  appeared  ominous  to  Madeleine.  She  was  more  cer- 
tain than  ever  that  the  plot  was  now  ripe,  and  would  suddenly 
burst  upon  them,  without  warning.  She  did  not  impart  her  pre- 
sentiment to  her  aunt,  but  prepared  herself  for  the  worst. 

"What  can  they  be  doing?"  Madame  Fauvel  would  say; 
"can  they  have  decided  not  to  persecute  us  any  more?" — "Yes, 
what  can  they  be  doing?"  Madeleine  would  murmur. 

Louis  and  Raoul  gave  no  signs  of  life,  because,  like  expert 
hunters,  they  were  silently  hiding,  and  watching  for  a  favor- 
able opportunity  of  pouncing  upon  their  victims.  Never  losing 
sight  of  Prosper  for  a  day,  Raoul  had  exhausted  every  effort  of 
his  fertile  mind  to  compromise  his  honor — to  ensnare  him  into 


FILE    NUMBER   113  1185 

some  inextricable  entanglement.  But,  as  he  had  foreseen,  the 
cashier's  indifference  offered  little  hope  of  success.  De  Cla- 
meran  began  to  grow  impatient  at  this  delay,  and  had  fully 
determined  to  bring  matters  to  a  crisis  himself,  when  one  night, 
about  three  o'clock,  he  was  aroused  by  Raoul.  He  knew  that 
some  event  of  great  importance  must  have  happened  to  make 
his  nephew  come  to  him  at  that  hour  of  the  night. 

"What  is  the  matter?"  he  anxiously  inquired. — "Perhaps 
nothing;  perhaps  everything.  I  have  just  left  Prosper." — 
"Well?" — "I  had  him,  Madame  Gipsy,  and  three  other  friends 
to  dine  with  me.  After  dinner,  I  made  up  a  game  of  bacca- 
rat, but  Prosper  took  no  interest  in  it,  although  he  was  quite 
tipsy." 

"You  must  be  drunk  yourself,  to  come  here  waking  me  up 
in  the  middle  of  the  night  to  hear  this  idle  gabble,"  said  Louis, 
angrily. — "Now,  wait  until  you  hear  the  rest." — "Zounds !  speak 
then !" — "After  the  game  was  over,  we  went  to  supper ;  Pros- 
per became  quite  intoxicated,  and  betrayed  the  word  with  which 
he  closes  the  money  safe." 

At  these  words,  De  Clameran  uttered  a  cry  of  triumph. 
"What  was  the  word  ?" — "His  mistress's  name." — "Gipsy  !  Yes, 
that  would  be  five  letters."  Louis  was  so  excited  that  he 
jumped  out  of  bed,  slipped  on  his  dressing-gown,  and  began 
to  stride  up  and  down  the  room.  "Now  we  have  got  him !"  he 
said,  with  vindictive  satisfaction.  "There's  no  chance  of  es- 
cape for  him  now !  Ah !  the  virtuous  cashier  won't  touch  the 
money  confided  to  him;  so  we  must  touch  it  for  him.  His  dis- 
grace will  be  just  as  great  no  matter  who  opens  the  safe.  We 
have  the  word ;  you  know  where  the  key  is  kept." — "Yes ;  when 
M.  Fauvel  goes  out  he  always  leaves  the  key  in  a  drawer  of 
his  secretary  in  his  bedroom." 

"Very  good.  You  will  go  and  get  this  key  from  Madame 
Fauvel.  If  she  does  not  give  it  up  willingly,  use  force;  then, 
having  got  the  key,  you  will  open  the  safe,  and  take  out  every 
franc  it  contains.  Ah !  Master  Bertomy,  you  shall  pay  dear 
for  being  loved  by  the  woman  I  love !" 

For  five  minutes  De  Clameran  indulged  in  such  a  tirade  of 
abuse  against  Prosper,  mingled  with  rhapsodies  of  love  for 
Madeleine,  that  Raoul  thought  him  almost  out  of  his  mind,  and 
tried  to  calm  him.  "Before  crying  victory,"  he  said,  "you  had 
better  consider  the  drawbacks  and  difficulties.  Prosper  might 
change  the  word  to-morrow." — "Yes,  he  might ;  but  it  is  not 


1186  FILE   NUMBER   113 

probable  he  will.     He  will  forget  what  he  said  while  drunk; 
besides,  we  will  be  quiet." 

"That  is  not  all.  M.  Fauvel  has  given  orders  that  no  large 
sum  shall  be  kept  in  the  safe  overnight;  before  closing  time, 
everything  is  sent  to  the  Bank  of  France." — "A  large  sum  will 
be  kept  there  the  night  I  choose." — "You  think  so?" 

"I  think  this :  I  have  a  hundred  thousand  crowns  deposited 
with  M.  Fauvel;  and  if  I  desire  the  money  to  be  paid  over  to 
me  early  some  morning,  directly  the  bank  is  opened,  of  course 
the  money  will  be  kept  in  the  safe  the  previous  night." — "A 
splendid  idea !"  cried  Raoul,  admiringly. 

It  was  a  good  idea;  and  the  plotters  spent  several  hours  in 
studying  its  strong  and  weak  points.  Raoul  feared  that  he 
would  never  be  able  to  overcome  Madame  Fauvel's  resistance ; 
and,  even  if  she  yielded  the  key,  would  she  not  go  directly  and 
confess  everything  to  her  husband,  rather  than  sacrifice  an  in- 
nocent man?  But  Louis  felt  no  uneasiness  on  this  score.  "One 
sacrifice  necessitates  another,"  he  said ;  "she  has  made  too 
many  to  draw  back  at  the  last  one.  She  sacrificed  her  adopted 
daughter ;  therefore  she  will  sacrifice  a  young  man,  who  is, 
after  all,  a  comparative  stranger  to  her." 

"But  Madeleine  will  never  believe  any  harm  of  Prosper; 
therefore — " 

"You  talk  like  an  idiot,  my  verdant  nephew !" 
Before  the  conversation  had  ended,  the  plan  seemed  feasible. 
The  scoundrels  made  all  their  arrangements,  and  fixed  the  day  for 
committing  the  crime.  They  selected  the  evening  of  the  27th  of 
February,  because  Raoul  knew  that  M.  Fauvel  would  be  dining 
out,  and  Madeleine  was  invited  to  a  party  on  that  evening. 
Unless  something  unforeseen  should  occur,  Raoul  knew  that 
he  would  find  Madame  Fauvel  alone  at  half-past  eight  o'clock. 
"I  will  ask  M.  Fauvel  this  very  day,"  said  De  Clameran, 
"to  have  my  money  ready  for  Tuesday." — "That  is  a  very  short 
notice,  uncle,"  objected  Raoul.  "You  know  there  are  certain 
forms  to  be  gone  through,  and  he  can  claim  a  longer  time 
wherein  to  pay  it  over." 

"That  is  true,  but  our  banker  is  proud  of  always  being  pre- 
pared to  pay  any  amount  of  money,  no  matter  how  large ;  and 
if  I  say  I  am  pressed,  and  would  like  to  be  accommodated 
on  Tuesday,  he  will  make  a  point  of  having  it  ready  for  me. 
Then  you  must  ask  Prosper,  as  a  personal  favor  to  you,  to 
have  the  money  on  hand  at  the  opening  of  the  bank." 


FILE   NUMBER   113  1187 

Raoul  once  more  examined  the  situation,  to  discover  if  there 
was  not  the  grain  of  sand  which  so  often  becomes  a  mountain 
at  the  last  moment.  "Prosper  and  Gipsy  are  to  be  with  me  at 
Vesinet  this  evening,"  he  said;  "but  I  can  not  ask  him  any- 
thing until  I  know  the  banker's  answer.  As  soon  as  you  have 
arranged  matters  with  him,  send  me  word  by  Manuel." 

"I  can't  send  Manuel,  for  an  excellent  reason — he  has  left 
me ;  but  I  can  send  another  messenger."  What  Louis  said  was 
true ;  Manuel  was  gone.  He  had  insisted  on  keeping  Gaston's 
old  servant  in  his  service,  because  he  thought  it  imprudent  to 
leave  him  at  Oloron,  where  his  gossiping  might  cause  trouble. 
He  soon  became  annoyed  by  Manuel's  loyalty,  and  determined 
to  rid  himself  of  him;  so  he  just  gave  him  the  idea  of  ending 
his  days  in  peace  in  his  own  country.  The  evening  before 
Manuel  had  started  for  Arenys-de-Mar,  a  little  port  of  Cata- 
lonia, his  native  place;  and  Louis  was  seeking  another  servant. 
After  breakfasting  together,  Louis  and  Raoul  separated.  De 
Clameran  was  so  elated  by  the  prospect  of  success  that  he  lost 
sight  of  the  great  crime  intervening.  Raoul  was  calm,  but 
resolute.  The  shameful  deed  he  was  about  to  commit  would 
give  him  riches,  and  release  him  from  a  shameful  servitude. 
His  one  thought  was  liberty,  as  Louis's  was  Madeleine.  Every- 
thing seemed  to  progress  finely.  The  banker  did  not  ask  for 
the  delay  he  was  entitled  to.  but  promised  to  pay  the  money 
on  the  day  named.  Prosper  said  he  would  have  it  ready  early 
in  the  morning.  The  certainty  of  success  made  Louis  almost 
wild  with  joy.     He  counted  the  hours  and  the  minutes. 

"When  this  affair  is  ended,"  he  said  to  Raoul,  "I  will  reform, 
and  be  a  model  of  virtue.  No  one  will  dare  hint  that  I  have 
ever  indulged  in  any  sins — great  or  small." 

But  Raoul  became  more  and  more  sad  as  the  time  approached. 
Reflection  gradually  showed  him  the  blackness  of  the  contem- 
plated crime.  Raoul  was  bold  and  determined  in  the  pursuit 
of  his  own  gratifications  and  wickedness;  he  could  smile  in  the 
face  of  his  best  friend,  while  cheating  him  of  his  last  napoleon 
at  cards ;  and  he  could  sleep  well  after  stabbing  his  enemy  to 
the  heart;  but  he  was  young.  He  was  young  in  sin.  Vice 
had  not  yet  penetrated  to  his  marrow-bones — corruption  had  not 
yet  crowded  into  his  soul  enough  to  uproot  and  destroy  every 
generous  sentiment.  It  had  not  been  so  very  long  since  he  had 
cherished  a  few  holy  beliefs.  The  good  intentions  of  his  boy- 
hood were  not  quite  obliterated  from  his  sometime  reproachful 


1188  FILE   NUMBER   113 

memory.  Possessing  the  daring  courage  natural  to  youth,  he 
despised  the  cowardly  part  forced  upon  him;  this  dark  plot — 
this  slow  agony  of  two  helpless  women,  filled  him  with  horror 
and  disgust.  Disgusted  by  Louis's  cool  villainy,  he  longed  for 
some  great  peril  to  be  braved,  so  as  to  excuse  himself  in  his 
own  eyes.  But  no;  he  well  knew  that  he  ran  no  risk,  not  even 
that  of  being  arrested  and  sent  to  prison.  For  he  was  certain 
that,  if  M.  Fauvel  discovered  everything,  he  would  do  his  ut- 
most to  hush  up  every  fact  connected  with  the  disgraceful 
story.  Although  he  was  careful  not  to  breathe  it  to  De  Cla- 
meran,  he  felt  a  sincere  affection  for  Madame  Fauvel,  and  was 
touched  by  the  indulgent  fondness  which  she  so  unchangingly 
lavished  upon  him.  He  had  been  happy  at  Vesinet,  while  his 
accomplice,  or  rather  his  master,  was  at  Oloron.  He  wquld 
have  been  glad  to  lead  an  honest  life,  and  could  not  see  the 
sense  of  committing  a  crime  when  there  was  no  necessity  for 
it.  He  hated  De  Clameran,  who  abused  his  power  for  the  sake 
of  gratifying  a  selfish  passion ;  and  he  longed  for  an  opportunity 
of  thwarting  his  plots,  if  it  could  be  done  without  also  ruining 
himself.  His  resolution,  which  had  been  so  firm  in  the  begin- 
ning, was  growing  weaker  and  weaker  as  the  hours  rolled  on; 
as  the  crisis  approached,  his  horror  of  the  deed  increased.  And 
yet  Louis  never  left  him,  but  continually  painted  for  him  a 
dazzling  future,  position,  wealth,  and  freedom.  He  prepared, 
and  forced  his  accomplice  to  rehearse,  the  scene  which  was  to 
be  enacted  at  Madame  Fauvel's,  with  as  much  coolness  and 
precision  as  if  it  were  to  be  performed  at  a  public  theatre. 
Louis  said  that  no  piece  could  be  well  acted  unless  the  actor 
was  interested,  and  imbued  with  the  spirit  of  his  role.  But  the 
more  urgently  Louis  pressed  upon  him  the  advantages  to  be 
derived  from  success — the  oftener  he  sounded  in  his  ears  the 
magic  words  "five  hundred  thousand  francs,"  the  more  loudly 
did  Raoul's  conscience  cry  out  against  the  sinful  deed.  On 
Monday  evening,  about  six  o'clock,  Raoul  felt  so  depressed  and 
miserable  that  he  asked  himself  whether,  even  if  he  wished  it, 
he  would  be  able  to  obey. 

"Are  you  afraid?"  asked  De  Clameran,  who  had  anxiously 
watched  these  inward  struggles.— "Yes,"  replied  Raoul;  "yes; 
I  have  not  your  ferocious  will,  and  I  am  afraid !" 

"What,  you,  my  pupil,  my  friend !  It  is  not  possible.  Come, 
a  little  energy,  one  more  stroke  of  our  oars  and  we  are  in  port. 
You  are  only  nervous;  come  to  dinner,  and  a  bottle  of  Bur- 


FILE   NUMBER   113  1189 

gundy  will  soon  set  you  right."  They  were  walking  along 
the  boulevards.  De  Clameran  insisted  upon  their  entering  a 
restaurant  and  having  dinner  in  a  private  room.  Vainly  did  he 
strive,  however,  to  chase  the  gloom  from  his  companion's  pale 
face.  Raoul  sat  listening,  with  a  sullen  frown,  to  his  friend's 
jest  about  "swallowing  the  bitter  pill  gracefully."  Urged  by 
Louis,  he  drank  two  bottles  of  wine,  in  hopes  that  intoxication 
would  inspire  him  with  courage  to  do  the  deed.  But  the  drunk- 
enness he  sought  came  not;  the  wine  proved  false;  at  the  bot- 
tom of  the  last  bottle  he  found  nothing  but  anger  and  disgust. 
The  clock  struck  eight. 

"The  time  has  come,"  said  Louis  firmly.  Raoul  turned  livid; 
his  teeth  chattered,  and  his  limbs  trembled  so  that  he  was  un- 
able to  stand  on  his  feet.  "Oh,  I  can  not  do  it !"  he  cried  in 
an  agony  of  terror  and  rage.  De  Clameran's  eyes  flashed  angrily 
at  the  prospect  of  all  his  plans  being  ruined  at  the  last  mo- 
ment. But  he  dared  not  give  way  to  his  anger,  for  fear  of 
exasperating  Raoul,  whom  he  knew  to  be  anxious  for  an  ex- 
cuse to  quarrel ;  so  he  violently  pulled  the  bell-rope.  A  waiter 
appeared.     "A  bottle  of  port,"  he  said,  "and  a  bottle  of  rum." 

When  the  waiter  returned  with  the  bottles,  Louis  filled  a 
large  glass  with  the  two  liquors  mixed,  and  handed  it  to  Raoul. 
"Drink  this !"  he  said.  Raoul  emptied  the  glass  at  a  draft,  and 
a  faint  color  returned  to  his  pale  cheek.  He  arose,  and  strik- 
ing the  table  with  his  fist,  cried  fiercely:  "Come  along!"  But 
before  he  had  walked  thirty  yards,  the  fictitious  energy  inspired 
by  drink  deserted  him.  He  clung  to  De  Clameran's  arm,  and 
was  almost  dragged  along,  trembling  like  a  criminal  on  his  way 
to  the  scaffold. 

"If  I  can  once  get  him  in  the  house,"  thought  Louis,  who 
had  studied  Raoul  and  understood  him;  "once  inside,  his  role 
will  sustain  him  and  carry  him  through,  and  all  will  be  well. 
The  cowardly  baby  !  I  would  like  to  wring  his  neck !"  As  they 
walked  along  he  said :  "Now  don't  forget  our  arrangements, 
and  be  careful  how  you  enter  the  house ;  everything  depends 
upon  that.  Have  you  the  pistol  in  your  pocket  ?" — "Yes,  yes ! 
Let  me  alone!"  It  was  well  that  De  Clameran  accompanied 
Raoul;  for,  when  he  got  in  sight  of  the  door  his  courage  gave 
way,  and  he  longed  to  retreat.  "A  poor,  helpless  woman!"  he 
groaned,  "and  an  honest  man  who  pressed  my  hand  in  friend- 
ship yesterday,  to  be  cowardly  ruined,  betrayed  by  me!  Ah,  it 
is  too  base,  too  cowardly !" — "Come,"  said  De  Clameran  in  a 


1190 


FILE    NUMBER    113 


tone  of  contempt,  "I  thought  you  had  more  nerve.  When  a 
fellow  has  no  more  pluck  than  that  he  should  remain  honest !" 
Raoul  overcame  his  weakness,  and,  silencing  the  clamors  of  his 
conscience,  hurried  to  the  house  and  pulled  the  bell.  "Is  Ma- 
dame Fauvel  at  home  ?"  he  inquired  of  the  servant  who  opened 
the  door. 

"Madame  is  alone  in  the  little  drawing-room,"  was  the  reply. 
And  Raoul  went  upstairs. 


DE  CLAMERAN'S  injunction  to  Raoul  was:  "Be  very  cau- 
tious how  you  enter  the  room;  your  appearance  must  tell 
everything,  and  thus  avoid  impossible  explanations." 

The  recommendation  was  useless.  The  instant  that  Raoul 
entered  the  room,  the  sight  of  his  pale,  haggard  face  and  wild 
eyes  made  Madame  Fauvel  exclaim :  "Raoul !  What  misfor- 
tune has  happened  to  you?" 

The  sound  of  her  tender,  affectionate  voice  acted  like  an 
electric  shock  upon  the  young  bandit.  He  shook  like  a  leaf. 
But  at  the  same  time  his  mind  seemed  to  change.  Louis  was 
not  mistaken  in  his  estimate  of  his  companion's  character. 
Raoul  was  on  the  stage,  his  part  was  to  be  played;  his  assur- 
ance returned  to  him ;  his  cheating,  lying  nature  assumed  the 
ascendant.  "This  misfortune  is  the  last  I  shall  ever  suffer, 
mother!"  Madame  Fauvel  rushed  toward  him,  and,  seizing  his 
hand,  gazed  searchingly  into  his  eyes,  as  if  to  read  his  very 
soul.  "What  is  the  matter?  Raoul,  my  dear  son,  do  tell  me 
what  troubles  you." 

He  gently  pushed  her  from  him.  "The  matter  is,  my  mother," 
he  said,  in  a  voice  of  heart-broken  despair,  "that  I  am  un- 
worthy of  you,  unworthy  of  my  noble  father !"  She  shook  her 
head  as  though  to  protest.  "Alas !"  he  said,  "I  know  and  judge 
myself.  No  one  can  reproach  me  for  my  infamous  conduct 
more  bitterly  than  does  my  own  conscience.  I  am  not  natu- 
rally wicked,  but  only  a  miserable  fool.  At  times  I  am 
like  an  insane  man,  and  am   not   responsible  for  my  actions. 


FILE   NUMBER   113  1191 

Ah,  my  dear  mother,  I  would  not  be  what  I  am  if  you  had 
watched  over  my  childhood.  But  brought  up  among  strangers, 
with  no  guide  but  my  own  evil  passions,  nothing  to  restrain 
me,  no  one  to  advise  me,  no  one  to  love  me,  owning  nothing, 
not  even  my  stolen  name,  I  am  cursed  with  vanity  and  un- 
bounded ambition.  Poor,  with  no  one  to  assist  me  but  you,  I 
have  the  tastes  and  vices  of  a  millionaire's  son.  Alas !  when  I 
found  you,  the  evil  was  done.  Your  affection,  your  maternal 
love,  the  only  true  happiness  of  my  life,  could  not  save  me. 
I,  who  had  suffered  so  much,  endured  so  many  privations,  even 
the  pangs  of  hunger,  became  spoiled  by  this  new  life  of  luxury 
and  pleasure  which  you  opened  before  me.  I  rushed  headlong 
into  extravagance,  as  a  drunkard  long  deprived  of  drink  seizes 
and  drains  to  the  dregs  the  first  bottle  in  his  reach." 

Madame  Fauvel  listened,  silent  and  terrified,  to  these  words 
of  despair  and  remorse,  which  Raoul  uttered  with  remarkable 
vehemence.  She  dared  not  interrupt  him,  but  felt  certain  some 
dreadful  piece  of  news  was  coming.  Raoul  continued  in  a  sad. 
hopeless  tone :  "Yes ;  I  have  been  a  weak  fool.  Happiness  was 
within  my  reach,  and  I  had  not  the  sense  to  stretch  forth  my 
hand  and  grasp  it.  I  rejected  a  delicious  reality  to  eagerly 
pursue  a  vain  fantom.  I,  who  ought  to  have  spent  my  life  at 
your  feet,  and  daily  striven  to  express  my  gratitude  for  your 
lavish  kindness,  have  made  you  unhappy,  destroyed  your  peace 
of  mind,  and,  instead  of  being  a  blessing,  I  have  been  a  curse 
ever  since  the  first  fatal  day  you  welcomed  me  to  your  kind 
heart.  Ah,  unfeeling  brute  that  I  was,  to  squander  upon  crea- 
tures whom  I  despised  a  fortune,  of  which  each  gold  piece 
must  have  cost  you  a  tear !  Too  late,  too  late !  I  find  that 
with  you  was  happiness." 

He  stopped,  as  if  overcome  by  the  consciousness  of  his  evil 
deeds,  and  seemed  about  to  burst  into  tears.  "It  is  never  too 
late  to  repent,  my  son,"  murmured  Madame  Fauvel  in  com- 
forting tones. — "Ah,  if  I  only  could !"  cried  Raoul ;  "but  no,  it 
is  too  late !  Besides,  can  I  tell  how  long  my  good  resolutions 
will  last  ?  This  is  not  the  first  time  that  I  have  condemned  my- 
self pitilessly.  Stinging  remorse  for  each  new  fault  made  me 
swear  to  lead  a  better  life,  to  sin  no  more.  What  was  the 
result  of  these  periodical  repentances?  At  the  first  temptation 
I  forgot  my  remorse  and  good  resolutions.  I  am  weak  and 
mean-spirited,  and  you  are  not  firm  enough  to  govern  my  vacil- 
lating nature.     While  my  intentions  are  good,  my  actions  are 


1192  FILE   NUMBER   113 

villainous.  The  disproportion  between  my  extravagant  desires, 
and  the  means  of  gratifying  them,  is  too  great  for  me  to  endure 
any  longer.  Who  knows  to  what  fearful  lengths  my  unfortunate 
disposition  may  lead  me?  However,  I  shall  know  how  to  do 
myself  justice!"  he  finally  said  with  a  reckless  laugh. 

Madame  Fauvel  was  too  cruelly  agitated  to  follow  Raoul's 
skilful  transitions.  "Speak!"  she  cried,  "explain  yourself;  am 
I  not  your  mother?  Tell  me  the  truth;  I  am  ready  to  hear 
the  worst."  He  appeared  to  hesitate,  as  if  afraid  to  crush  his 
mother's  heart  by  the  terrible  blow  he  was  about  to  inflict. 
Then,  in  a  voice  of  gloomy  despair,  he  replied:  "I  am  ruined!" 

"Ruined !" 

"Yes,  ruined;  and  I  have  nothing  more  to  expect  or  hope 
for.  I  am  dishonored,  and  all  through  my  own  fault;  no  one 
is  to  blame  but  myself."— "Raoul !" 

"It  is  the  sad  truth,  my  poor  mother;  but  fear  nothing,  I 
shall  not  trail  in  the  dust  the  name  which  you  bestowed  upon 
me.  I  will  at  least  have  the  courage  not  to  survive  my  dis- 
honor. Come,  mother,  don't  pity  me,  or  distress  yourself;  I 
am  one  of  those  miserable  beings  fated  to  find  no  peace  save 
in  the  arms  of  death.  I  came  into  the  world  with  misfortune 
stamped  upon  my  brow.  Was  not  my  birth  a  shame  and  dis- 
grace to  you  ?  Did  not  the  memory  of  my  existence  haunt  you 
day  and  night,  filling  your  soul  with  remorse  ?  And  now,  when 
I  am  restored  to  you  after  many  years'  separation,  do  I  not 
prove  to  be  a  bitter  curse  instead  of  a  blessing?" 

"Ungrateful  boy  !  Have  I  ever  reproached  you  ?" — "Never  ! 
Your  poor  Raoul  will  die  blessing  you,  and  with  your  beloved 
name  upon  his  lips." 

"Die?    You  die,  my  son?" 

"It  must  be,  my  dear  mother;  honor  compels  it.  I  am  con- 
demned by  judges  from  whose  decision  no  appeal  can  be  taken — 
my  conscience  and  my  will."  An  hour  ago  Madame  Fauvel 
would  have  sworn  that  Raoul  had  made  her  suffer  all  the  tor- 
ments that  a  woman  could  endure;  but  now  she  felt  that  all 
her  former  troubles  were  nothing  compared  with  her  present 
agony.    "What,  then,  have  you  been  doing,  Raoul  ?"  she  gasped. 

"Money  was  entrusted  to  me ;  I  gambled,  and  lost  it." 

"Was  it  a  very  large  sum?" 

"No;  but  more  than  you  can  replace.  My  poor  mother,  have 
I  not  taken  everything  from  you?  Have  you  not  given  me 
your  last  jewel?" 


FILE    NUMBER   113  1193 

"But  M.  de  Clameran  is  rich.  He  placed  his  fortune  at  my 
disposal.     I  will  order  the  carriage,  and  go  to  him." 

"But  M.  de  Clameran  is  away,  and  the  money  must  be  paid 
this  evening,  or  I  am  lost.  Alas !  I  have  thought  it  all  over 
and,  although  it  is  hard  to  die  so  young,  still  fate  wills  it  so." 
He  pulled  the  pistol  from  his  pocket,  and,  with  a  forced  smile, 
added:  "This  will  settle  everything."  Madame  Fauvel  was  too 
upset  and  frightened  to  reflect  upon  the  horror  of  Raoul's  be- 
havior ;  and  that  these  wild  threats  were  a  last  expedient.  For- 
getful of  the  past,  careless  of  the  future,  her  every  thought 
concentrated  upon  the  present,  she  comprehended  but  one  fact: 
that  her  son  was  about  to  commit  suicide,  and  that  she  was 
powerless  to  prevent  the  fearful  deed.  "Oh,  wait  a  little  while, 
my  son !"  she  cried.  "Andre  will  soon  return  home,  and  I  will 
ask  him  to  give  me —    How  much  did  you  lose  ?" 

"Thirty  thousand  francs." 

"You  shall  have  them  to-morrow." 

"But  I  must  have  the  money  to-night." 

Madame  Fauvel  wrung  her  hands  in  despair.  "Oh  !  why  did 
you  not  come  to  me  sooner,  my  son?  Why  did  you  not  have 
confidence  enough  in  me  to  come  at  once  for  help?  This  even- 
ing there  is  no  one  in  the  cashier's  office  to  open  the  safe, 
otherwise — " 

"The  safe!"  cried  Raoul,  "but  you  know  where  the  key  is 
kept?" 

"Yes,  it  is  in  the  next  room." 

"Well !"  he  exclaimed  with  a  bold  look  that  caused  Madame 
Fauvel  to  lower  her  eyes  and  keep  silent.  "Give  me  the  key, 
mother,"  he  said  in  a  tone  of  entreaty. 

"Oh,  Raoul,  Raoul !" 

"It  is  my  life  I  am  asking  of  you."  These  words  decided 
her ;  she  snatched  up  a  candle,  rushed  into  her  bedroom,  opened 
the  secretary,  and  took  out  M.  Fauvel's  key.  But  when  about 
to  hand  it  to  Raoul,  her  reason  returned  to  her.  "No,"  she 
stammered ;  "no,  it  is  impossible."  He  did  not  insist,  and  seemed 
about  to  leave  the  room.  "True,"  said  he;  "then,  mother,  a 
last  kiss." — "What  could  you  do  with  the  key,  Raoul?"  asked 
Madame  Fauvel,  stopping  him.  "You  do  not  know  the  secret 
word." 

"No;  but  I  can  try  to  open  it." 

"You  know  that  money  is  never  kept  in  the  safe  over  night." 

"Nevertheless,  I  can  make  the  attempt.     If  I  open  the  safe 


1194  FILE   NUMBER   112 

and  find  money  in  it,  it  will  be  a  miracle,  showing  that  Heaven 
has  pitied  my  misfortunes." 

"And  if  you  are  not  successful,  will  you  promise  me  to  wait 
until  to-morrow?" 

"I  swear  it  by  my  father's  memory." — "Then  take  the  key, 
and  follow  me." 

Pale  and  trembling,  Raoul  and  Madame  Fauvel  passed  through 
the  banker's  study  and  down  the  narrow  staircase  leading  to 
the  offices  and  cashier's  room  below.  Raoul  walked  in  front, 
holding  the  light  and  the  key  of  the  safe.  Madame  Fauvel  was 
convinced  that  it  would  be  utterly  impossible  to  open  the  safe, 
as  the  key  was  useless  without  the  secret  word,  and  of  course 
Raoul  could  not  know  what  that  was.  The  only  anxiety  she 
felt  was,  how  Raoul  would  bear  the  disappointment,  how  she 
could  calm  his  despair.  She  thought  that  she  would  gain  time 
by  letting  Raoul  make  the  attempt;  and  then,  when  he  found 
he  could  not  open  the  safe,  he  would  keep  his  promise  and  wait 
until  the  next  day.  "When  he  sees  there  is  no  chance  of  suc- 
cess," she  thought,  "he  will  wait  as  he  promised;  and  then  to- 
morrow— to-morrow — " 

•  What  she  would  do  on  the  morrow  she  knew  not,  she  did 
not  even  ask  herself.  Raoul  was  about  to  kill  himself;  his 
mother  prayed  to  God  to  grant  her  one  night ;  as  if  in  this  short 
space  of  time  some  unexpected  relief  would  come  to  end  her 
misery.  They  reached  Prosper's  office,  and  Raoul  placed  the 
lamp  on  a  high  stool  so  that  it  lighted  the  whole  room.  He 
had  then  recovered  all  his  coolness,  or  rather  that  mechanical 
precision  of  movement,  almost  independent  of  will,  which  men 
accustomed  to  peril  always  find  ready  in  time  of  need.  Rapidly, 
with  the  dexterity  of  experience,  he  slipped  the  buttons  on  the 
five  letters  composing  the  name  of  G-i-p-s-y.  His  features  during 
this  short  operation,  expressed  the  most  intense  anxiety.  He 
was  fearful  that  the  awful  energy  he  had  shown  might  after  all 
be  of  no  use ;  perhaps  the  safe  would  remain  closed,  perhaps  the 
money  would  not  be  there.  Prosper  might  have  changed  the 
word,  or  neglected  to  have  the  money  in  the  safe.  Madame 
Fauvel  saw  these  visible  apprehensions  with  alarm.  She  read 
in  his  eyes  that  wild  hope  of  a  man  who,  passionately  desiring 
an  object,  ends  by  persuading  himself  that  his  own  will  suffices 
to  overcome  all  obstacles.  Having  often  been  present  when 
Prosper  was  preparing  to  leave  his  office,  Raoul  had  fifty  times 
seen  him  move  the  buttons,  and  lock  the  safe,  just  before  the 


FILE    NUMBER    113  1195 

bank  closed.  Indeed,  having  a  practical  turn  of  mind,  and  an 
eye  to  the  future,  he  had  even  turned  the  key  in  the  lock  on 
more  than  one  occasion.  He  inserted  the  key  softly,  and  turned 
it  round  once,  pushed  it  farther  in,  and  turned  it  a  second  time: 
then  thrust  it  right  in  with  a  jerk,  and  turned  it  again.  His 
heart  beat  so  loudly  that  Madame  Fauvel  could  hear  its  throbs. 
The  word  had  not  been  changed;  the  safe  opened.  Raoul  and 
his  mother  simultaneously  uttered  a  cry — she  of  terror,  he  of 
triumph. 

"Shut  it  again !"  exclaimed  Madame  Fauvel,  frightened  at  the 
incomprehensible  result  of  Raoul's  attempt;  "leave  it  alone, 
come  away."  And,  half  frenzied,  she  clung  to  his  arm,  and 
pulled  him  away  so  abruptly,  that  the  key  was  dragged  from  the 
lock,  and,  slipping  along  the  glossy  varnish  of  the  safe-door, 
made  a  deep,  long  scratch.  But  at  a  glance  the  young  man  had 
perceived  four  rolls  of  bank-notes  on  an  upper  shelf.  He 
snatched  them  up  with  his  left  hand,  and  slipped  them  inside  his 
vest.  Exhausted  by  the  effort  she  had  made,  Madame  Fauvel 
dropped  his  arm,  and,  almost  fainting  with  emotion,  leaned 
against  the  back  of  a  chair.  "Have  mercy,  Raoul !"  she  moaned. 
"I  implore  you  to  put  back  that  money,  and  I  solemnly  swear 
I  will  give  you  twice  as  much  to-morrow.  Oh,  my  son,  have 
pity  upon  your  unhappy  mother !"  He  paid  no  attention  to 
these  words  of  entreaty,  but  carefully  examined  the  scratch 
on  the  safe.  This  trace  of  the  robbery  was  very  visible,  and 
alarmed  him.  "At  least,  you  will  not  take  all,"  said  Madame 
Fauvel;  "just  keep  enough  to  save  yourself,  and  put  back  the 
rest." 

"What  good  would  that  do?  What  I  take  will  be  missed  just 
the  same." 

"Oh,  no !  not  at  all.  I  can  account  to  Andre ;  I  will  tell  him 
I  had  a  pressing  need  for  some  money,  and  opened  the  safe 
to  get  it."  In  the  mean  time.  Raoul  had  carefully  closed  the 
safe.  "Come,  mother,  let  us  go  back  to  the  sitting-room.  A  ser- 
vant might  go  there  to  look  for  you,  and  be  astonished  at  our 
absence."  Raoul's  cruel  indifference  and  cold  calculations  at 
such  a  moment  filled  Madame  Fauvel  with  indignation.  She 
thought  that  she  had  still  some  influence  over  her  son — that  her 
prayers  and  tears  would  have  some  effect  upon  his  hard  heart. 
"Let  them  be  astonished,"  she  cried ;  "let  them  come  here  and 
find  us.  Then  there  will  be  an  end  to  all  this.  Andre  will 
drive  me  from  his  house  like  i  worthless  creature,  but  I  will 


1196  FILE   NUMBER   113 

not  sacrifice  the  innocent.  Prosper  will  be  accused  of  this  to- 
morrow. De  Clameran  has  taken  from  him  the  woman  he 
loved,  and  now  you  would  deprive  him  of  his  honor !  I  will 
not  allow  it." 

She  spoke  so  loudly  and  angrily  that  Raoul  was  alarmed.  He 
knew  that  one  of  the  office  men  passed  the  night  in  a  room 
close  by,  and  although  it  was  still  early  in  the  evening,  he 
might  already  be  in  bed  and  listening  to  them.  "Come  upstairs," 
he  said,  seizing  Madame  Fauvel's  arm.  But  she  clung  to  a 
table,  and  refused  to  move  a  step.  "I  have  been  cowardly 
enough  to  sacrifice  Madeleine,"  she  said,  "but  I  will  not  ruin 
Prosper."  Raoul  had  an  argument  in  reserve,  which  he  knew 
would  make  Madame  Fauvel  submit  to  his  will.  "Now,  really," 
he  said  with  a  cynical  laugh,  "do  you  pretend  that  you  do  not 
know  Prosper  and  I  arranged  this  little  affair  together,  and 
that  he  is  waiting  to  share  the  booty?" 
"It  is  impossible !" 

"What !     Do  you  suppose,  then,  that  chance  alone  told  me 
the  word  and  placed  the  money  in  the  safe?" 
"Prosper  is  honest." 

"Of  course  he  is,  and  so  am  I  too.     The  only  thing  is,  that 
we  both  need  money." 
"You  lie." 

"No,  dear  mother.  Madeleine  dismissed  Prosper,  and  the 
poor  fellow  has  to  console  himself  for  her  cruelty;  and  this 
sort  of  consolation  is  expensive."  He  took  up  the  lamp,  and 
gently  but  firmly  led  Madame  Fauvel  toward  the  staircase.  She 
mechanically  suffered  him  to  do  so,  more  bewildered  by  what 
she  had  just  heard  than  she  was  at  the  opening  of  the  safe 
door.  "What!"  she  gasped,  "can  Prosper  be  a  thief?"  She 
began  to  think  herself  the  victim  of  a  terrible  nightmare,  and 
that,  when  she  awoke,  her  mind  would  be  relieved  of  this  in- 
tolerable torture.  She  helplessly  clung  to  Raoul's  arm  as  he 
assisted  her  up  the  little  narrow  staircase. 

"You  must  put  the  key  back  in  the  secretary,"  said  Raoul 
as  soon  as  they  were  in  the  bedroom  again.  But  she  did  not 
seem  to  hear  him ;  so  he  went  and  put  it  in  the  place  from  which 
he  had  seen  her  take  it.  He  then  led,  or  rather  carried,  Madame 
Fauvel  into  the  little  sitting-room,  and  placed  her  in  an  easy- 
chair.  The  set,  expressionless  look  of  the  wretched  woman's 
eyes,  and  her  dazed  manner,  frightened  Raoul,  who  thought 
that  she  was  going  out  of  her  mind.     "Come,  cheer  up,  my 


FILE    NUMBER   113  1197 

dear  mother,"  he  said  in  coaxing  tones,  as  he  rubbed  her  icy 
cold  hands;  "you  have  just  saved  my  life,  and  have  at  the 
same  time  rendered  an  immense  service  to  Prosper.  Don't  be 
alarmed;  everything  will  come  out  right  in  the  end.  Prosper 
will  be  accused — perhaps  arrested;  he  expects  that,  and  is  pre- 
pared for  it;  he  will  deny  his  culpability;  and,  as  there  is  no 
proof  against  him,  he  will  soon  be  set  at  liberty." 

But  these  falsehoods  were  wasted  on  Madame  Fauvel,  who 
was  incapable  of  understanding  anything  said  to  her.  "Raoul," 
she  moaned,  "Raoul,  my  son,  you  have  killed  me."  Her  gentle 
voice,  kind  even  in  its  despairing  accents,  touched  the  very 
bottom  of  Raoul's  perverted  heart,  and  once  more  his  soul  was 
so  wrung  by  remorse  that  he  felt  inclined  to  put  back  the  stolen 
money.  The  thought  of  De  Clameran  restrained  him.  Finding 
that  Madame  Fauvel  still  sat  motionless  and  deathlike  in  her 
chair,  and  fearing  that  M.  Fauvel  or  Madeleine  might  enter  at 
any  moment,  and  demand  an  explanation,  he  hastily  pressed  a 
kiss  upon  his  mother's  brow,  and  hurried  from  the  house.  At 
the  restaurant,  in  the  room  where  they  had  dined,  De  Clameran, 
tortured  by  anxiety,  awaited  his  accomplice.  He  wondered  if, 
at  the  last  moment,  when  he  was  not  near  to  sustain  him,  Raoul 
would  prove  a  coward  and  retreat.  The  merest  accident,  too, 
is  sufficient  to  upset  the  most  skilful  combinations.  When  Raoul 
returned,  he  jumped  to  his  feet,  ghastly  pale,  and  with  difficulty 
gasped  out:  "Well?" 

"It  is  done,  uncle,  thanks  to  you ;  and  I  am  now  the  greatest 
villain  on  the  face  of  the  earth."  He  unbuttoned  his  vest,  and 
pulling  out  the  four  bundles  of  bank-notes,  angrily  dashed  them 
upon  the  table,  adding,  in  a  tone  of  hate  and  contempt:  "Now 
I  hope  you  are  satisfied.  This  is  the  price  of  the  happiness, 
honor,  and  perhaps  the  life,  of  three  persons."  De  Clameran 
paid  no  attention  to  these  angry  words.  With  feverish  eager- 
ness he  seized  the  notes,  and  held  them  in  his  hand,  as  if  to 
convince  himself  of  the  reality  of  success.  "Now  Madeleine  is 
mine,"  he  cried  excitedly.  Raoul  said  nothing.  This  exhibition 
of  joy,  after  the  scene  in  which  he  had  just  been  an  actor,  dis- 
gusted and  humiliated  him.  Louis  misinterpreted  his  silence, 
and  asked,  gaily:  "Did  you  have  much  difficulty?" — "I  forbid 
you  ever  to  allude  to  this  evening's  work,"  cried  Raoul  fiercely. 
"Do  you  hear  me  ?  I  wish  to  forget  it."  De  Clameran  shrugged 
his  shoulders  at  this  outburst  of  anger,  and  said,  in  a  bantering 
tone:  "Just  as  you  please,  my  handsome  nephew;  forget  it  if 


1198 


FILE   NUMBER    113 


you  like.  I  rather  think,  though,  you  will  not  refuse  to  accept 
these  three  hundred  and  fifty  thousand  francs  as  a  slight  me- 
mento.   Take  them — they  are  yours." 

This  generosity  seemed  neither  to  surprise  nor  satisfy  Raoul. 
"According  to  our  agreement,"  he  said  sullenly,  "I  was  to  have 
much  more  than  this." 

"Of  course ;  this  is  only  on  account." 
"And  when  am  I  to  have  the  rest,  if  you  please?" 
"The  day  I  marry  Madeleine,  and  not  before,  my  boy.  You 
are  too  valuable  an  assistant  to  lose  at  present ;  and  you  know 
that,  though  I  don't  mistrust  you,  I  am  not  altogether  sure  of 
your  sincere  affection  for  me."  Raoul  reflected  that  to  com- 
mit a  crime,  and  not  profit  by  it,  would  be  the  height  of  ab- 
surdity. He  had  returned  with  the  intention  of  breaking  off"  all 
connection  with  De  Clameran;  but  he  now  determined  that  he 
would  not  abandon  his  accomplice  until  there  was  nothing  more 
to  get  out  of  him.  "Very  well,"  he  said,  "I  accept  this  on 
account;  but  remember,  I  will  never  do  another  piece  of  work 
like  this  of  to-night." 

De  Clameran  burst  into  a  loud  laugh,  and  replied:  "That  is 
sensible ;  now  that  you  are  rich,  you  can  afford  to  be  honest. 
Set  your  conscience  at  rest,  for  I  promise  you  I  will  require 
nothing  more  of  you  save  a  few  trifling  services.  You  can 
retire  behind  the  scenes  now,  while  I  appear  upon  the  stage." 


TfOR  more  than  an  hour  after  Raoul's  departure,  Madame 
*  Fauvel  remained  in  a  state  of  torpor  bordering  upon  un- 
consciousness. Gradually,  however,  she  recovered  her  senses 
sufficiently  to  comprehend  the  horrors  of  her  present  situation ; 
and,  with  the  faculty  of  thought,  that  of  suffering  returned. 
The  dreadful  scene  in  which  she  had  taken  part  was  still  before 
her  affrighted  vision;  all  the  attending  circumstances,  unno- 
ticed at  the  time,  now  struck  her  forcibly.  She  saw  that  she 
had  been  the  dupe  of  a  shameful  conspiracy ;  that  Raoul  had 
tortured  her  with  cold-blooded  cruelty,  had  taken  advantage  of 


FILE    NUMBER    113  1199 

her  tenderness,  and  played  with  her  sufferings.     But  had  Pros- 
per anything  to  do  with  the  robbery?     This  Madame  Fauvel 
had  no  way  of  finding  out.     Ah,   Raoul  knew  how  the  blow 
would  strike  when  he  accused  his  friend.     He  knew  that  she 
would  end  by  believing  in  the  cashier's  complicity.     Knowing 
that  Madeleine's  lover  was  leading  a  life  of  extravagance  and 
dissipation,  she  thought  it  very  likely  he  had,  from  sheer  des- 
peration, resorted  to  this  bold  step  to  pay  his  debts ;  her  blind 
affection,  moreover,  made  her  anxious  to  attribute  the  first  idea 
of  crime  to  any  one,  rather  than  to  her  son.    She  had  heard  that 
Prosper  was  supporting  one  of  those  worthless  creatures  whose 
extravagance  impoverishes  men,  and  whose  evil  influence  per- 
verts their  natures.    When  a  young  man  is  thus  degraded,  will 
he  stop  at  any   sin  or  crime  ?     Alas !   Madame   Fauvel  knew, 
from  her  own  sad  experience,  to  what  depths  even  one  fault 
can  lead.     Although  she  believed  Prosper  guilty,  she  did  not 
blame  him,  but  considered  herself  responsible  for  his  sins.    Was 
she  not  the  cause  that  he  no  longer  frequented  the  home  he 
had  begun  to  look  upon  as  his  own?     Had  she  not  destroyed 
his  hopes  of  happiness,  and  driven  him  to  a  life  of  dissipation, 
wherein  perhaps  he  sought  f orgetf ulness  ?     She  was  undecided 
whether  to  confide  in  Madeleine,  or  bury  the  secret  in  her  own 
breast.     Fatally  inspired,  she  decided  to  keep  silent. 

When  the  young  girl  returned  home  at  eleven  o'clock,  Ma- 
dame Fauvel  not  only  was  silent  as  to  what  had  occurred,  but 
even  succeeded  in  so  concealing  all  traces  of  her  agitation,  that 
she  escaped  any  questions  from  her  niece.  Her  calmness  never 
left  her  when  M.  Fauvel  and  Lucien  returned,  although  she 
was  in  terror  lest  her  husband  should  go  down  to  the  cashier's 
room  to  examine  the  books.  It  was  not  his  habit  to  open  the 
safe  at  night,  but  he  sometimes  did  so.  As  fate  would  have  it, 
the  banker,  as  soon  as  he  entered  the  room,  began  to  speak 
of  Prosper,  saying  how  distressing  it  was  that  so  interesting 
a  young  man  should  be  thus  throwing  himself  away,  and  won- 
dering what  could  have  happened  to  make  him  suddenly  cease 
his  visits  at  the  house,  and  resort  to  bad  company.  If  M.  Fauvel 
had  looked  at  the  faces  of  his  wife  and  niece  while  he  harshly 
blamed  the  cashier,  he  would  have  been  puzzled  at  their  strange 
expression.  All  night  long  Madame  Fauvel  suffered  the  most 
intolerable  agony.  "In  six  hours,"  she  would  say  to  herself,  "in 
three  hours,  in  one  hour,  all  will  be  discovered;  and  then  what 
will  happen?" 


1200  FILE   NUMBER   113 

When  daybreak  came  she  heard  the  servants  moving  about 
the  house.  Then  the  offices  were  opened,  and  the  noise  made 
by  the  arriving  clerks  reached  her.  She  attempted  to  get  up, 
but  felt  so  ill  and  weak  that  she  sank  back  upon  her  pillow; 
and  lying  there,  trembling  like  a  leaf,  bathed  in  cold  perspira- 
tion, she  awaited  the  discovery  of  the  robbery.  She  was  lean- 
ing over  the  side  of  the  bed,  straining  her  ear  to  catch  the 
least  sound,  when  Madeleine,  who  had  shortly  left  her,  rushed 
back  into  the  room.  The  poor  girl's  white  face  and  wild  eyes 
told  Madame  Fauvel  that  the  crime  was  discovered. 

"Do  you  know  what  has  happened,  aunt?"  cried  Madeleine 
in  a  shrill,  horrified  tone.  "Prosper  is  accused  of  robbery,  and 
the  commissary  of  police  has  come  to  take  him  to  prison !"  A 
groan  was  Madame  Fauvel's  only  answer.  "Raoul  or  the  mar- 
quis is  at  the  bottom  of  this,"  continued  Madeleine  excitedly. 
"How  can  they  be  concerned  in  it?" 

"I  can't  tell  yet;  but  I  only  know  that  Prosper  is  innocent. 
I  have  just  seen  him,  spoken  to  him.  He  would  never  have 
looked  me  in  the  face  had  he  been  guilty."  Madame  Fauvel 
opened  her  lips  to  confess  all :  fear  kept  her  silent.  "What  can 
these  wretches  want  ?"  asked  Madeleine ;  "what  new  sacrifice  do 
they  demand  ?  Dishonor  Prosper !  They  had  far  better  have 
killed  him — I  would  have  said  nothing." 

M.  Fauvel's  entrance  into  the  room  interrupted  Madeleine. 
The  banker  was  so  enraged  that  he  could  scarcely  speak.  "The 
worthless  scoundrel !"  he  cried;  "to  think  of  his  daring  to  accuse 
me !  to  insinuate  that  I  robbed  my  own  safe !  And  that  Mar- 
quis de  Clameran,  who  seems  to  doubt  my  integrity."  Then, 
without  noticing  the  effect  of  his  words  upon  the  two  women, 
he  proceeded  to  relate  all  that  had  occurred.  "I  was  afraid  of 
something  of  this  sort  last  night,"  he  said  in  conclusion ;  "this 
is  the  result  of  leading  such  a  life  as  his  has  been  lately." 

Throughout  the  day  Madeleine's  devotion  to  her  aunt  was 
severely  tried.  The  generous  girl  saw  disgrace  heaped  upon 
the  man  she  loved.  She  had  perfect  faith  in  his  innocence ;  she 
felt  sure  she  knew  who  had  laid  the  trap  to  ruin  him,  and  yet 
she  did  not  say  a  word  in  his  defense.  Fearing  that  Madeleine 
would  suspect  her  of  complicity  in  the  theft  if  she  remained 
in  bed  and  betrayed  so  much  agitation,  Madame  Fauvel  rose  and 
dressed  for  breakfast.  It  was  a  dreary  meal.  No  one  tasted  a 
morsel.  The  servants  moved  about  on  tiptoe,  as  silently  as  if  a 
death  had  occurred  in  the  family.    About  two  o'clock  a  servant 


FILE   NUMBER   113  1201 

came  to  M.  Fauvel's  study,  and  said  that  the  Marquis  de  Cla- 
meran  desired  to  see  him.  "What !"  cried  the  banker,  "does  he 
dare — "  Then,  after  a  moment's  reflection,  he  added :  "Ask  him 
to  walk  up." 

The  very  name  of  De  Clameran  sufficed  to  arouse  all  M. 
Fauvel's  slumbering  wrath.  The  victim  of  a  robbery,  finding 
his  safe  empty  at  the  moment  that  he  was  called  upon  to  make 
a  heavy  payment,  he  had  been  constrained  to  curb  his  anger 
and  resentment;  but  now  he  determined  to  have  his  revenge 
upon  his  insolent  visitor.  But  the  marquis  declined  to  come 
upstairs.  The  messenger  returned  with  the  answer  that  the 
gentleman  had  a  particular  reason  for  seeing  M.  Fauvel  in  the 
office  below,  where  the  clerks  were.  "What  does  this  fresh 
impertinence  mean?"  cried  the  banker,  as  he  angrily  jumped 
up  and  hastened  downstairs. 

M.  de  Clameran  was  standing  in  the  middle  of  the  office 
adjoining  the  cashier's  room;  M.  Fauvel  walked  up  to  him, 
and  roughly  said:  "What  do  you  want  now,  sir?  You  have 
been  paid  your  money,  and  I  have  your  receipt."  To  the  sur- 
prise of  all  the  clerks,  and  the  banker  himself,  the  marquis 
seemed  not  in  the  least  offended  at  this  rude  greeting,  but 
answered  in  a  deferential  though  not  at  all  humble  manner: 
"You  are  hard  upon  me,  sir,  but  I  deserve  it,  and  that  is  why 
I  am  here.  A  gentleman  always  acknowledges  when  he  is 
in  the  wrong;  in  this  instance  I  am  the  offender;  and  I  flatter 
myself  that  my  past  will  permit  me  to  say  so  without  being 
accused  of  cowardice  or  lack  of  self-respect.  If  I  desire  to  see 
you  here  instead  of  in  your  study,  it  was  because,  having  been 
rude  to  you  in  the  presence  of  your  clerks,  I  wished  them  to 
be  witnesses  of  my  apology  for  the  same." 

De  Clameran's  speech  was  so  different  from  his  usual  over- 
bearing, haughty  conduct,  that  the  surprised  banker  could 
only  stammer:  "I  must  say  that  I  was  hurt  by  your  doubts, 
your  insinuations — " 

"This  morning,"  continued  the  marquis,  "I  was  irritated,  and 
thoughtlessly  gave  way  to  my  temper.  Although  I  am  gray- 
headed,  my  disposition  is  as  excitable  as  that  of  a  fiery  young 
man  of  twenty.  My  words,  believe  me,  did  not  represent  my 
real  thoughts,  and  I  regret  them  deeply."  M.  Fauvel  being 
himself  a  kind-hearted  though  quick-tempered  man,  could  un- 
derstand De  Clameran's  feelings;  and,  knowing  that  his  own 
high  reputation  for  scrupulous  honesty  could  not  be  affected 

Gab. — Vol.  IV  M 


1202  FILE   NUMBER   113 

by  any  hasty  language,  he  at  once  calmed  down  before  so 
frank  an  apology.  Holding  out  his  hand  to  De  Clameran,  he 
said:  "Let  us  forget  what  happened,  sir."  They  conversed 
in  a  friendly  manner  for  some  minutes ;  and  De  Clameran,  after 
explaining  why  he  had  such  pressing  need  of  the  money  at 
that  particular  hour  of  the  morning,  turned  to  leave,  saying 
that  he  would  do  himself  the  honor  of  calling  upon  Madame 
Fauvel.  "That  is,  if  a  visit  just  now  would  not  be  considered 
intrusive,"  he  said  with  a  shade  of  hesitation.  "Perhaps  after 
the  trouble  of  this  morning,  she  does  not  wish  to  be  disturbed." 
"Oh,  no!"  said  the  banker;  "I  think  a  visit  would  cheer  her 
up.  I  am  obliged  to  go  out  on  account  of  this  unfortunate 
affair." 

Madame  Fauvel  was  in  the  same  room  where  Raoul  had 
threatened  to  kill  himself  the  night  before ;  she  looked  very  ill 
as  she  lay  on  a  sofa,  with  Madeleine  seated  beside  her.  When 
M.  de  Clameran  was  announced,  they  both  started  up  as  if  a 
fantom  had  appeared  before  them.  Although  Louis  had  been 
gay  and  smiling  when  he  parted  from  M.  Fauvel  downstairs, 
he  now  wore  a  melancholy  aspect,  as  he  gravely  bowed,  and 
refused  to  seat  himself  in  the  chair  which  Madame  Fauvel 
motioned  him  to  take.  "You  will  excuse  me,  ladies,"  he  began, 
"for  intruding  upon  your  affliction ;  but  I  have  a  duty  to  fulfill." 

The  two  women  were  silent;  they  seemed  to  be  waiting  for 
him  to  explain.  He  therefore  added  in  an  undertone:  "I 
know  all." 

By  an  imploring  gesture,  Madame  Fauvel  tried  to  stop  him. 
She  saw  that  he  was  about  to  reveal  her  secret  to  Madeleine. 
But  Louis  would  not  see  this  gesture;  he  turned  his  whole 
attention  to  Madeleine,  who  haughtily  said:  "Explain  yourself, 
sir." 

"Only  an  hour  ago,"  he  replied,  "I  discovered  that  Raoul 
last  night  forced  from  his  mother  the  key  of  the  safe,  and  stole 
three  hundred   and  fifty  thousand  francs." 

Madeleine  crimsoned  with  shame  and  indignation ;  she  leaned 
over  the  sofa,  and  seizing  her  aunt  by  the  wrists  shook  her 
violently.  "Is  it  true?"  she  asked  in  a  hollow  voice;  "is  it 
true?"  " 

"Alas!  alas!"  groaned  Madame  Fauvel,  utterly  crushed. 

"You  have  allowed  Prosper  to  be  accused,"  cried  the  young 
girl;  "you  have  suffered  him  to  be  arrested  and  disgraced  for 
life." — "Forgive  me,"  murmured  her  aunt.     "Raoul  was  about 


FILE   NUMBER    113  1203 

to  kill  himself;  I  was  so  frightened !  Then  you  know — Prosper 
was  to  share  the  money  with  him." — "Oh !"  exclaimed 
Madeleine  indignantly;  "you  were  told  that,  and  you  believed 
it!"  De  Clameran  interrupted  them.  "Unfortunately,"  he 
said  in  a  sad  tone,  "what  your  aunt  says  of  M.  Bertomy  is 
the  truth." 

"Your  proofs,  sir,  where  are  your  proofs?" 

"Raoul's  confession." 

"Raoul  is  a  scoundrel !" 

"That  is  only  too  true;  but  how  did  he  find  out  the  word, 
if  M.  Bertomy  did  not  reveal  it?  And  who  left  the  money 
in  the  safe  but  M.  Bertomy?"  These  arguments  had  no  effect 
upon  Madeleine.  "And  now  tell  me,"  she  said  scornfully, 
"what  became  of  the  money?"  There  was  no  mistaking  the 
significance  of  these  words;  they  meant:  "You  are  the  in- 
stigator of  the  robbery,  and  of  course  the  receiver  as  well." 
This  harsh  accusation  from  a  girl  whom  he  so  passionately 
loved,  when,  grasping  bandit  as  he  was,  he  risked  for  her  sake 
all  the  money  gained  by  his  crimes,  so  cruelly  hurt  De  Cla- 
meran that  he  turned  livid.  But  he  had  prepared  and  studied 
his  part  too  well  to  be  at  all  discouraged.  "A  day  will  come, 
mademoiselle,"  he  said,  "when  you  will  deeply  regret  having 
treated  me  so  cruelly.  I  understand  your  insinuation;  oh! 
you  need  not  attempt  to  deny  it — " 

"I  have  no  idea  of  denying  anything,  sir." 

"Madeleine !"  remonstrated  Madame  Fauvel,  who  trembled 
at  the  rising  anger  of  the  man  who  held  her  fate  in  his  hands, 
"Madeleine,  have  mercy!" 

"Mademoiselle  is  pitiless,"  said  De  Clameran  sadly;  "she 
cruelly  punishes  an  honorable  man  whose  only  fault  is  having 
obeyed  his  brother's  dying  injunctions.  And  I  am  here  now 
because  I  believe  in  the  joint  responsibility  of  all  the  members 
of  a  family."  Here  he  slowly  drew  from  his  pocket  several 
bundles  of  bank-notes,  and  laid  them  on  the  mantelpiece. 
"Raoul  stole  three  hundred  and  fifty  thousand  francs,"  he 
said:  "I  return  the  same  amount.  It  is  more  than  half  my 
fortune.  Willingly  would  I  give  the  rest  to  insure  this  being 
his  last  crime." 

Too  inexperienced  to  penetrate  De  Clameran's  bold,  and  yet 
simple  plan,  Madeleine  was  dumb  with  astonishment;  all  her 
calculations  were  upset.  Madame  Fauvel,  on  the  contrary, 
accepted  this  restitution  as  salvation  sent  from  heaven.     "Oh, 


1204  FILE   NUMBER   113 

thanks,  sir,  thanks!"  she  cried,  gratefully  clasping  De  Cla- 
meran's  hand  in  hers ;  "you  are  goodness  itself !" 

Louis's  eyes  lit  up  with  pleasure.  But  he  rejoiced  too  soon. 
A  minute's  reflection  brought  back  all  of  Madeleine's  distrust. 
She  thought  this  generosity  unnatural  in  a  man  whom  she  con- 
sidered incapable  of  a  noble  sentiment,  and  at  once  concluded 
that  it  must  conceal  some  snare  beneath.  "What  are  we  to 
do  with  this  money  ?"  she  demanded. — "Restore  it  to  M.  Fauvel, 
mademoiselle." 

"We  restore  it,  sir,  and  how?  Restoring  the  money  is  de- 
nouncing Raoul,  and  ruining  my  aunt.  Take  back  your  money, 
sir."  De  Clameran  was  too  shrewd  to  insist;  he  took  up  the 
money  and  seemed  about  to  leave.  *I  comprehend  your 
refusal,  mademoiselle,  and  must  find  another  way  of  ac- 
complishing my  wish.  But,  before  retiring,  let  me  say  that 
your  injustice  pains  me  deeply.  After  the  promise  you  made 
to  me,  I  had  reason  to  hope  for  a  kinder  welcome." 

"I  will  keep  my  promise,  sir,  but  not  until  you  have  furnished 
security." 

"Security!     What   security?     Pray  explain  yourself." 

"Something  to  protect  my  aunt  against  Raoul  after  my — 
marriage.  What  is  my  dowry  to  a  man  who  squanders  a 
hundred  thousand  francs  in  four  months?  We  are  making  a 
bargain;  I  give  you  my  hand  in  exchange  for  my  aunt's  life 
and  honor,  and  of  course  you  must  give  me  some  security  for 
the  performance  of  your  promise." 

"Oh !  I  will  give  you  ample  securities,"  exclaimed  De  Cla- 
meran, "such  as  will  quiet  all  your  suspicious  doubts  of  my 
good  faith.  Alas!  you  will  not  believe  in  my  devotion;  what 
shall  I  do  to  convince  you  of  its  sincerity  ?  Shall  I  try  to  save 
M.  Bertomy?" — "Thanks  for  the  offer,  sir,"  replied  Madeleine 
disdainfully;  "if  Prosper  is  guilty,  let  him  be  punished  by  the 
law;  if  he  is  innocent,  God  will  protect  him." 

Madeleine  and  her  aunt  rose  from  their  seats  to  signify  that 
the  interview  was  over.  De  Clameran  bowed,  and  left  the 
room.  "What  pride!  What  determination!  The  idea  of  her 
demanding  security  of  me!"  he  said  to  himself  as  he  slowly 
walked  away.  "But  the  proud  girl  shall  be  humbled  yet. 
She  is  so  beautiful !  and,  if  I  did  not  so  madly  love  her — well ! 
so  much  the  worse  for  Raoul !" 

Never  had  De  Clameran  been  so  incensed.  Madeleine's  quiet 
determination  and  forethought,  which  he  had  not  anticipated, 


FILE   NUMBER   113  1205 

had  upset  his  well-laid  plan.  He  was  disconcerted  and  at  a 
loss  how  to  proceed.  He  knew  that  it  would  be  useless 
to  attempt  deceiving  a  girl  of  Madeleine's  character  a  second 
time;  he  saw  that  though  she  had  not  penetrated  his  motives, 
she  was  on  the  defensive,  and  prepared  for  any  new  surprise. 
Moreover,  she  would  prevent  Madame  Fauvel  from  being 
frightened  and  forced  into  submission  any  longer.  At  the  very 
moment  when  Louis  thought  he  had  won  easily,  he  met  with 
an  adversary.  The  whole  thing  would  have  to  be  gone  over 
again.  Although  Madeleine  had  resigned  herself  to  sacrifice, 
it  was  evident  that  she  had  no  idea  of  doing  so  blindly,  and 
would  not  hazard  her  aunt's  and  her  own  happiness  upon  the 
uncertainty  of  eventual  promises.  How  could  he  furnish  the 
securities  she  demanded?  What  measures  could  he  take  to 
prevent  Raoul  from  importuning  his  mother  in  the  future. 
Once  De  Clameran  married,  and  Raoul  become  rich,  there 
would  be  no  further  reason  for  disquieting  Madame  Fauvel. 
But  how  prove  this  to  Madeleine?  The  knowledge  of  all  the 
circumstances  of  this  shameful  and  criminal  intrigue  would 
have  reassured  her  upon  this  point;  but  then  it  would  never 
do  to  inform  her  of  these  details,  especially  before  the  marriage. 
What  securities  then  could  he  give?  But  De  Clameran  was 
not  one  of  those  hesitating  men  who  take  weeks  to  con- 
sider a  difficulty.  When  he  could  not  untie  a  knot,  he  would 
cut  it.  Raoul  was  a  stumbling-block  to  his  wishes,  and  he  swore 
to  rid  himself  of  his  troublesome  accomplice  somehow  or  other. 
It  was  not,  however,  an  easy  matter  to  dispose  of  so  cunning  a 
knave  as  Raoul.  But  this  consideration  could  not  stop  De 
Clameran.  The  more  certain  he  was  of  Madeleine's  contempt 
and  dislike,  the  more  determined  he  was  to  marry  her.  But 
he  had  sense  enough  to  see  that  he  might  ruin  his  prospects  by 
undue  haste,  and  that  the  safest  course  would  be  to  await  the 
result  of  the  accusation  against  Prosper  before  moving  further 
in  the  matter. 

He  waited  in  anxious  expectation  of  a  summons  from  Ma- 
dame Fauvel.  But  he  was  again  mistaken.  On  calmly  thinking 
over  the  two  accomplices'  last  acts,  Madeleine  came  to  the  con- 
clusion that  they  would  remain  quiet  for  a  while;  she  knew 
resistance  could  have  no  worse  results  than  would  cowardly 
submission,  and  therefore  assumed  the  entire  responsibility  of 
managing  the  affair  so  as  to  keep  at  bay  both  Raoul  and  De 
Clameran.     She  knew  that  Madame  Fauvel  would  be  anxious 


1206  FILE   NUMBER   113 

to  accept  any  terms  of  peace,  but  determined  to  use  all  her  in- 
fluence to  prevent  her  doing  this,  and  to  force  upon  her  the 
necessity  of  maintaining  a  firmer  and  more  dignified  attitude. 
This  accounted  for  the  silence  of  the  two  women,  who  were 
quietly  waiting  for  their  adversaries  to  renew  hostilities.  They 
even  succeeded  in  concealing  their  anxiety  beneath  assumed 
indifference;  never  asking  any  questions  about  the  robbery,  or 
those  who  were  in  any  way  connected  with  it.  M.  Fauvel 
brought  them  an  account  of  Prosper's  examination,  the  many 
charges  brought  against  him,  his  obstinate  denial  of  having 
stolen  the  money;  and  finally,  how,  after  great  perplexity 
and  close  study  of  the  case  by  the  investigating  magistrate,  the 
cashier  had  been  discharged  for  want  of  sufficient  proof  against 
him.  Since  De  Clameran's  offer  to  replace  the  money,  Madame 
Fauvel  had  not  doubted  Prosper's  guilt.  She  said  nothing,  but 
inwardly  accused  him  of  having  seduced  her  son  from  the  path 
of  virtue,  and  enticed  him  into  crime.  Madeleine,  on  the  con- 
trary, had  perfect  faith  in  Prosper's  innocence.  She  was  so 
sure  of  it  that,  learning  that  he  was  about  to  be  set  at  liberty, 
she  ventured  to  ask  her  uncle,  under  pretext  of  some  charitable 
object,  to  give  her  ten  thousand  francs,  which  she  sent  to  the 
unfortunate  victim  of  circumstantial  evidence  who,  from  all 
that  she  had  heard,  was  probably  in  great  need  of  assistance. 
In  the  letter — cut  from  her  prayer-book  to  avoid  detection  by 
writing — accompanying  the  money,  she  advised  Prosper  to  leave 
France,  because  she  knew  that  it  would  be  impossible  for  a  man 
of  his  proud  nature  to  remain  on  the  scene  of  his  disgrace.  Be- 
sides, Madeleine,  at  that  time,  feeling  that  she  would  be 
obliged  sooner  or  later  to  marry  De  Clameran,  was  anxious 
to  have  the  man  she  loved  far,  far  away  from  her.  And  yet, 
on  the  day  that  this  anonymous  present  was  sent,  in  opposition 
to  the  wishes  of  Madame  Fauvel,  the  two  poor  women  were 
fearfully  entangled  in  pecuniary  difficulties.  The  tradesmen, 
whose  money  had  been  squandered  by  Raoul,  refused  to  give 
credit  any  longer,  and  insisted  upon  their  bills  being  paid  at 
once ;  saying  they  could  not  understand  how  a  man  of  M. 
Fauvel's  wealth  and  position  could  keep  them  waiting  for  such 
insignificant  amounts.  One  was  owed  two  thousand,  another 
one  thousand,  and  a  third  only  five  hundred  francs.  The 
butcher,  the  grocer,  and  the  wine-merchant  would  call  to- 
gether, and  Madame  Fauvel  had  the  greatest  difficulty  in  pre- 
vailing upon  them  to  accept  something  on  account.     Some  of 


FILE    NUMBER    113  1207 

them  threatened  to  apply  to  the  banker.  Madame  Fauvel's  indebt- 
edness amounted  to  almost  fifteen  thousand  francs.  Madeleine 
and  her  aunt  had  declined  all  invitations  during  the  winter,  to 
avoid  spending  money  on  dress.  But  at  last  they  were  obliged 
to  appear  in  public.  M.  Fauvel's  most  intimate  friends,  the 
Messrs.  Jandidier,  were  about  to  give  a  splendid  ball,  and,  as 
fate  would  have  it,  a  fancy  ball,  which  would  require  the  pur- 
chasing of  costumes.  Where  was  the  money  to  come  from? 
They  had  been  owing  a  large  bill  to  their  dressmaker  for  over 
a  year.  Would  she  consent  to  furnish  them  with  any  more 
dresses  on  credit?  Madeleine's  new  maid,  Palmyre  Chocareille, 
extricated  them  from  this  difficulty.  This  girl,  who  seemed 
to  have  suffered  all  the  minor  ills  of  life — which,  after  all,  were 
the  hardest  to  bear — seemed  to  have  divined  her  mistress's  anx- 
iety. At  any  rate,  she  voluntarily  informed  Madeleine  that  a 
friend  of  hers,  a  first-class  dressmaker,  had  just  set  up  for 
herself,  and  would  be  glad  to  furnish  materials  and  make  the 
dresses  on  credit,  for  the  sake  of  obtaining  the  patronage  of 
Madame  Fauvel  and  her  niece,  which  would  at  once  bring  her 
plenty  of  fashionable  customers.  But  this  was  not  all.  Neither 
of  them  could  go  to  the  ball  without  jewelry;  and  every  jewel 
they  owned  had  been  taken  by  Raoul  and  pawned,  and  he  had 
the  tickets.  After  thinking  the  matter  over,  Madeleine  de- 
cided to  ask  Raoul  to  devote  some  of  the  stolen  money  to 
redeeming  the  jewels  he  had  forced  from  his  mother.  She  in- 
formed her  aunt  of  her  plan,  saying:  "Make  an  appointment 
with  Raoul :  he  will  not  dare  to  refuse  you ;  and  I  will  go  in 
your  stead."  And,  two  days  after,  the  courageous  girl  took 
a  cab,  and,  regardless  of  the  inclement  weather,  went  to  Vesinet. 
She  had  no  idea,  then,  that  M.  Verduret  and  Prosper  were  fol- 
lowing close  behind  her,  and  that  they  witnessed  her  interview 
from  the  top  of  a  ladder.  Her  bold  step,  however,  was  fruit- 
less. Raoul  swore  than  he  had  shared  with  Prosper;  that  his 
own  half  was  spent,  and  that  he  was  quite  without  money.  He 
even  refused  to  give  up  the  pawn-tickets;  and  Madeleine  had 
to  insist  most  energetically  before  she  could  induce  him  to  give 
up  four  or  five  trifling  articles  that  were  absolutely  indispen- 
sable. De  Clameran  had  ordered  him  to  refuse,  because  he 
hoped  that  in  their  distress  they  would  apply  to  him  for  help. 
Raoul  had  obeyed,  but  only  after  a  violent  altercation  witnessed 
by  De  Clameran's  new  valet,  Joseph  Dubois.  The  accomplices 
were  at  that  time  on  very  bad  terms  together.     The  marquis 


1208 


FILE   NUMBER   113 


was  seeking  a  safe  means  of  getting  rid  of  Raoul;  and  the 
young  scamp  had  a  sort  of  presentiment  of  his  uncle's  friendly 
intentions.  Nothing  but  the  certainty  of  impending  danger 
could  reconcile  them;  and  this  was  revealed  to  them  at  the 
Jandidier  ball.  Who  was  the  mysterious  mountebank  that  had 
indulged  in  such  transparent  all»«»<M*»  to  Madame  Fauvel's  pri- 
vate troubles,  and  then  said  with  threatening  significance  to 
Louis:  "I  was  your  brother  Gaston's  friend!" 

Who  he  was,  where  he  came  from,  they  could  not  imagine; 
but  they  clearly  saw  that  he  was  a  dangerous  enemy,  and  forth- 
with attempted  to  assassinate  him  upon  his  leaving  the  ball. 
Having  followed  him  and  then  having  lost  him,  they  became 
alarmed.  "We  can  not  be  too  guarded  in  our  conduct,"  whis- 
pered De  Clameran ;  "we  shall  know  only  too  soon  who  he  is." 
Once  more  Raoul  tried  to  induce  him  to  give  up  his  project  of 
marrying  Madeleine.  "Never !"  he  exclaimed :  "I  will  marry 
her  or  perish !" 

They  thought  that,  now  they  were  warned,  the  danger  of 
their  being  caught  was  lessened.  But  they  did  not  know  the 
sort  of  man  who  was  on  their  track. 


OUCH  are  the  facts  that,  with  an  almost  incredible  talent  for 
^  investigation,  had  been  collected  and  prepared  by  M.  Ver- 
duret,  the  stout  man  with  the  jovial  face  who  had  taken  Prosper 
under  his  protection.  Reaching  Paris  at  nine  o'clock  at  night, 
not  by  the  Lyons  train  as  he  had  announced,  but  by  the  Orleans 
one,  M.  Verduret  had  hastened  to  the  Hotel  of  the  Grand  Arch- 
angel, where  he  had  found  the  cashier  impatiently  expecting 
him. 

"You  are  about  to  hear  something  extraordinary,"  he  had 
said  to  Prosper,  "and  you  will  see  how  far  back  one  has  to 
seek  into  the  past  for  the  primary  causes  of  a  crime.  All 
things  are  linked  together  and  dependent  upon  each  other  in 
this  world  of  ours.  If  Gaston  de  Clameran  had  not  entered 
a  little  cafe  at  Tarascon  to  play  a  game  of  billiards  twenty 


FILE   NUMBER   113  1209 

years  ago,  your  safe  would  not  have  been  robbed  three  weeks 
back.  Valentine  de  la  Verberie  is  punished  in  1866  for  the 
murders  committed  for  her  sake  in  1840.  Nothing  is  ever  lost 
or  forgotten.    Listen." 

And  he  forthwith  related  all  that  he  had  discovered,  referring 
as  he  went  along  to  his  notes  and  the  voluminous  manuscript 
which  he  had  prepared.  During  the  entire  week,  M.  Verduret 
had  not  perhaps  taken  in  all  twenty-four  hours'  rest,  but  he 
bore  no  great  traces  of  fatigue.  His  iron  muscles  braved  any 
amount  of  labor,  and  his  elastic  nature  was  too  well  tem- 
pered to  give  way  beneath  such  pressure.  While  any  other 
man  would  have  sunk  exhausted  in  a  chair,  he  stood  up  and 
described,  with  the  enthusiasm  and  captivating  animation  pecul- 
iar to  him,  the  minutest  details  and  intricacies  of  the  plot  that 
he  had  devoted  his  whole  energy  to  unraveling;  personating, 
so  to  say,  every  character  he  brought  upon  the  scene,  so  that  his 
listener  was  bewildered  and  dazzled  by  his  brilliant  acting.  As 
Prosper  listened  to  this  narrative  of  events  happening  twenty 
years  back,  the  secret  conversations  as  minutely  related  as  if 
overheard  the  moment  they  took  place,  it  sounded  to  him  more 
like  a  romance  than  a  plain  statement  of  facts.  All  these  in- 
genious explanations  might  be  logical,  but  what  foundation 
did  they  possess?  Might  they  not  be  the  dream  of  an  excited 
imagination? 

M.  Verduret  did  not  finish  his  report  until  four  o'clock  in 
the  morning;  then  he  exclaimed  triumphantly:  "And  now  they 
are  on  their  guard ;  they  are  wary  rascals  too ;  but  I  can  laugh 
at  their  efforts,  for  I  have  them  safe.  Before  a  week  is  over. 
Prosper,  your  innocence  will  be  recognized  by  every  one.  I 
promised  your  father  this." — "Is  it  possible?"  murmured  Pros- 
per in  a  dazed  way;  "is  it  possible?" 

"What?" 

"All  this  you  have  just  told  me."  M.  Verduret  bounded  like 
a  man  little  accustomed  to  have  the  accuracy  of  his  informa- 
tion doubted.  "Is  it  possible,  indeed?"  he  cried;  "but  it  is 
truth  itself,  truth  founded  on  fact  and  exposed  in  all  its 
impressiveness !" 

"But  how  can  such  rascalities  take  place  in  Paris,  in  the 
very  midst  of  us,  without — " 

"Ah !"  interrupted  the  stout  man,  "you  are  young,  my  friend ! 
Crimes  worse  than  this  happen,  and  you  know  nothing  of  thena. 
You  think  the  horrors  of  the  assize  court  are  the  only  ones. 


1210  FILE   NUMBER   113 

Pooh !  You  only  read  in  the  'Gazette  des  Tribunaux'  of  the 
bloody  melodramas  of  life,  where  the  actors,  low-born  villains, 
are  as  cowardly  as  the  knife,  or  as  stupid  as  the  poison  they 
use.  It  is  at  the  family  fireside,  often  under  shelter  of  the  law 
itself,  that  the  real  tragedies  of  life  are  acted;  in  these  days 
traitors  wear  gloves,  scoundrels  cloak  themselves  in  public 
esteem,  and  their  victims  die  broken-hearted,  but  smiling  to  the 
last.  What  I  have  just  related  to  you  is  almost  an  every -day 
occurrence;  and  yet  you  profess  astonishment." 

"I  can't  help  wondering  how  you  discovered  all  this  tissue 
of  crime." 

"Ah,  that  is  the  point!"  said  M.  Verduret,  with  a  self- 
satisfied  smile.  "When  I  undertake  a  task,  I  devote  my  whole 
attention  to  it.  Now  make  a  note  of  this:  When  a  man  of 
ordinary  intelligence  concentrates  his  thoughts  and  energies 
upon  the  attainment  of  an  object,  he  is  almost  always  certain 
to  ultimately  obtain  success.  Besides  that,  I  have  my  own 
means  of  working  up  a  case." 

"Still  I  don't  see  what  grounds  you  had  to  go  upon." 

"To  be  sure,  one  needs  some  light  to  guide  one  in  a  dark 
affair  like  this.  But  the  fire  in  De  Clameran's  eye  at  the 
mention  of  Gaston's  name  ignited  my  lantern.  From  that  mo- 
ment I  walked  straight  to  the  solution  of  the  mystery,  as  to  a 
beacon."  Prosper's  eager,  questioning  looks  snowed  that  he 
would  like  to  know  the  secret  of  his  protector's  wonderful 
penetration,  and  at  the  same  time  be  more  thoroughly  con- 
vinced that  what  he  had  heard  was  all  true — that  his  innocence 
would  be  clearly  proved. 

"Now  confess,"  cried  M.  Verduret,  "you  would  give  some- 
thing to  know  how  I  discovered  the  truth." 

"I  certainly  would,  for  to  me  it  seems  marvelous !" 

M.  Verduret  enjoyed  Prosper's  bewilderment.  To  be  sure, 
he  was  neither  a  good  judge  nor  a  distinguished  amateur;  but 
sincere  admiration  is  always  flattering,  no  matter  whence  it 
comes. 

"Well,"  he  replied,  "I  will  explain  my  system.  There  is 
nothing  marvelous  about  it,  as  you  will  soon  see.  We  worked 
together  to  find  the  solution  of  the  problem,  so  you  know  my 
reason  for  suspecting  De  Clameran  as  the  prime  mover  in  the 
robbery.  As  soon  as  I  had  arrived  at  this  conclusion  my  task 
was  easy.  You  want  to  know  what  I  did?  I  placed  trust- 
worthy people  to  watch  the  parties  in  whom  I  was  most  inter- 


FILE    NUMBER   113  1211 

ested.  Joseph  Dubois  took  charge  of  De  Clameran,  and  Nina 
Gipsy  never  lost  sight  of  Madame  Fauvel  and  her  niece." 

"I  know,  and  I  can  not  comprehend  how  Nina  ever  con- 
sented to  this  service." — "That  is  my  secret,"  replied  M.  Ver- 
duret.  "Having  the  assistance  of  good  eyes  and  quick  ears  on 
the  spot,  I  went  to  Beaucaire  to  inquire  into  the  past,  so  as  to 
link  it  with  what  I  was  sure  to  learn  of  the  present.  The  next 
day  I  was  at  Clameran;  and  the  first  step  I  took  was  to  find 
the  son  of  Jean,  the  old  valet.  An  honest  fellow  he  is,  too; 
open  and  simple  as  nature  herself;  and  he  at  once  guessed 
that  I  wanted  to  purchase  some  madder." — "Madder?"  said 
Prosper  with  a  puzzled  look. — "Of  course  I  wanted  to  buy  his 
madder.  He  had  madder  for  sale,  that  was  evident;  so  we 
began  to  bargain  about  the  price.  The  debate  lasted  almost  all 
day,  during  which  time  we  drank  a  dozen  bottles  of  wine. 
About  supper-time,  Jean,  the  younger,  was  as  drunk  as  a  bar- 
rel, and  I  had  purchased  nine  hundred  francs'  worth  of  madder 
which  your  father  will  sell  for  me."  Prosper  looked  so  aston- 
ished that  M.  Verduret  laughed  heartily.  "I  risked  nine  hun- 
dred francs,"  he  continued,  "but  thread  by  thread  I  gathered  the 
whole  history  of  the  De  Clamerans,  Gaston's  love  affair,  his 
flight,  and  the  stumbling  of  the  horse  ridden  by  Louis.  I  found 
also  that  about  a  year  ago  Louis  returned  and  sold  the  chateau 
to  a  man  named  Fougeroux,  whose  wife,  Mihonne,  had  a 
secret  interview  with  Louis  the  day  of  the  purchase.  I  went 
to  see  Mihonne.  Poor  woman !  her  rascally  husband  has 
pounded  nearly  all  the  sense  out  of  her;  she  is  almost  idiotic. 
I  convinced  her  that  I  came  from  some  De  Clameran  or  other, 
and  she  at  once  related  to  me  everything  she  knew."  The 
apparent  simplicity  of  this  mode  of  investigation  confounded 
Prosper.  "From  that  time,"  continued  M.  Verduret,  "the  skein 
began  to  disentangle;  I  held  the  principal  thread.  I  now  set 
about  finding  out  what  had  become  of  Gaston.  Lafourcade, 
who  is  a  friend  of  your  father,  informed  me  that  he  had 
bought  an  iron  foundry  at  Oloron,  had  settled  there,  and  died 
soon  after." 

"You  are  certainly  indefatigable !"  said  Prosper. 

"No,  but  I  always  strike  when  the  iron  is  hot.  At  Oloron 
I  met  Manuel,  who  had  gone  there  to  make  a  little  visit  before 
returning  to  Spain.  From  him  I  obtained  a  complete  history 
of  Gaston's  life,  and  all  the  particulars  of  his  death.  Manuel 
also  told  me  of  Louis's  visit;  and  an  innkeeper  described  a 


1212  FILE   NUMBER   113 

young  workman  who  was  there  at  the  same  time,  whom  I  at 
once  recognized  as  Raoul." — "But  how  did  you  know  of  all 
the  conversations  between  the  villains?"  asked  Prosper. 

"You  evidently  think  I  have  been  drawing  upon  my  imagi- 
nation. You  will  soon  think  the  contrary.  While  I  was  at 
work  at  Oloron,  my  assistants  here  did  not  sit  with  their  hands 
in  their  pockets.  Mutually  distrustful,  De  Clameran  and  Raoul 
preserved  all  the  letters  they  received  from  each  other.  Joseph 
Dubois  copied  most  of  them,  and  had  the  more  important  ones 
photographed,  and  forwarded  the  copies  to  me.  Nina  spent 
her  time  listening  at  all  the  doors,  and  sent  me  a  faithful  report 
of  everything  she  heard.  Finally,  I  have  at  the  Fauvels'  an- 
other means  of  investigation,  which  I  will  reveal  to  you  later." 
— "I  understand  it  now,"  murmured  Prosper. 

"And  what  have  you  been  doing  during  my  absence,  my 
young  friend?"  asked  M.  Verduret.  At  this  question  Prosper 
turned  crimson.  But  he  knew  that  it  would  never  do  to  keep 
silent  about  his  imprudent  step.  "Alas!"  he  stammered,  "I 
read  in  a  newspaper  that  De  Clameran  was  about  to  marry 
Madeleine;  and  I  acted  like  a  fool." — "What  did  you  do?"  in- 
quired M.  Verduret  anxiously. — "I  sent  M.  Fauvel  an  anony- 
mous letter,  in  which  I  insinuated  that  his  wife  was  in  love 
with  Raoul — " 

M.  Verduret  here  brought  his  clenched  fist  down  upon  the 
little  table  near  which  he  sat,  and  broke  it.  "Wretched  man !" 
he  cried,  "you  have  probably  ruined  everything."  A  great 
change  came  over  him.  His  usually  jovial  face  assumed  a 
menacing  expression.  He  rose  from  his  seat,  and  strode  up 
and  down  the  room,  oblivious  of  the  lodgers  on  the  floor  below. 
"But  you  must  be  a  baby,"  added  he  to  the  dismayed  Prosper, 
"an  idiot,  or,  worse  than  that,  a  fool." 

"Sir !" 

"Here  you  are  drowning;  a  brave  man  springs  into  the 
water  after  you,  and  just  as  he  is  on  the  point  of  saving  you, 
you  cling  to  his  feet  to  prevent  him  swimming!  What  did  I 
tell  you  to  do?" 

"To  keep  quiet,  and  not  go  out." 

"Well !" 

The  consciousness  of  having  done  a  foolish  thing  made  Pros- 
per as  frightened  as  a  schoolboy,  accused  by  his  teacher  of 
playing  truant.  "It  was  night,  sir,"  he  said,  "and,  having  a 
yiolent  headache,  I  took  a  walk  along  the  quays.     I  thought 


FILE   NUMBER    113  1213 

there  would  be  no  harm  in  my  entering  a  cafe;  I  took  up  a 
paper  and  read  the  dreadful  announcement." 

"Was  it  not  settled  that  you  should  have  perfect  confidence 
in  me?" 

"You  were  not  here,  sir;  this  announcement  had  quite  upset 
me;  you  were  far  away,  and  might  have  been  surprised  by  an 
unexpected — " 

"Nothing  is  unexpected  except  to  a  fool !"  declared  M.  Ver- 
duret  peremptorily.  "To  write  an  anonymous  letter !  Do  you 
know  to  what  you  expose  me?  You  are  the  cause  of  my  per- 
haps breaking  a  sacred  promise  made  to  one  of  the  few  persons 
whom  I  highly  esteem  among  my  fellow  beings.  I  shall  be 
looked  upon  as  a  cheat,  a  dastard,  I,  who — "  He  stopped 
abruptly,  as  if  afraid  of  saying  too  much,  and  it  was  only 
after  some  minutes  that,  having  become  calm  again,  he  re- 
sumed: "It  is  no  use  crying  over  what  is  done.  We  must  try 
and  get  out  of  the  mess  somehow.  When  and  where  did  you 
post  this  letter  ?" 

"Last  night,  in  the  Rue  du  Cardinal  Lemoine.  It  hardly 
reached  the  bottom  of  the  box  before  I  regretted  having  writ- 
ten it." 

"Your  regrets  should  have  come  sooner.    What  time  was  it  ?" 

"About  ten  o'clock." 

"Then  your  sweet  little  letter  must  have  reached  M.  Fauvel 
this  morning  with  his  other  correspondence;  probably  he  was 
alone  in  his  study  when  he  opened  and  read  it." 

"It  is  not  probable,  it  is  certain." 

"Can  you  recall  the  exact  words  of  your  letter?  Stop  and 
think,  for  it  is  very  important  that  I  should  know." — "Oh,  it 
is  unnecessary  for  me  to  reflect.  I  remember  the  letter  as  if 
I  had  just  written  it."  And  he  repeated  almost  verbatim  what 
he  had  written. 

M.  Verduret  listened  most  attentively  with  a  perplexed  frown 
upon  his  face.  "That  is  a  formidable  anonymous  letter,"  he 
murmured,  "to  come  from  a  person  who  does  not  deal  in  such 
things.  It  insinuates  everything  without  specifying  a  single 
thing;  it  is  vague,  jeering,  and  treacherous.  Repeat  it  to  me." 
Prosper  obeyed,  and  his  second  version  did  not  vary  from  the 
first  in  a  single  word.  "Nothing  could  be  more  alarming  than 
that  allusion  to  the  cashier,"  said  the  stout  man,  repeating  the 
words  after  Prosper.  "The  question,  Ts  it  also  he  who  stole 
Madame  Fauvel's  diamonds?'  is  simply  horrible!     What  could 


1214  FILE   NUMBER   113 

be  more  exasperating  than  the  sarcastic  advice,  'In  your  place, 
I  would  not  have  any  public  scandal,  but  would  watch  my  wife'  ? 
The  effect  of  your  letter  must  have  been  terrible,"  he  added 
thoughtfully,  as  he  stood  with  folded  arms  in  front  of  Prosper. 
"M.  Fauvel  is  quick-tempered,  is  he  not?" 
"He  has  a  very  violent  temper." 
"Then  the  mischief  is  perhaps  not  irreparable." 
"What!  do  you  suppose— ?"— "I  think  that  an  impulsive  man 
is  afraid  of  himself,  and  seldom  carries  out  his  first  intentions. 
That  is  our  only  chance.     If,  upon  the  receipt  of  your  bomb- 
shell,  M.   Fauvel,  unable  to  restrain  himself,   rushed  into  his 
wife's  room,  exclaiming:  'Where  are  your  diamonds?'  our  plans 
are  done  for.    I  know  Madame  Fauvel,  she  will  confess  all." 
"Why  would  this  be  so  disastrous?" 

"Because  the  moment  Madame  Fauvel  opens  her  lips  to  her 
husband  our  birds  will  take  flight."    Prosper  had  never  thought 
of  this  eventuality.    "Then,  again,"  continued  M.  Verduret.  "it 
would  deeply  distress  another  person." 
"Any  one  whom  I  know?" 

"Yes,  my  friend,  and  very  well  too.     I  should  certainly  be 
vexed  to  the  last  degree  if  these  two  rascals  escape  without  my 
being  thoroughly  informed  about  them." 
"It  seems  to  me  that  you  know  sufficient." 
M.  Verduret  shrugged  his  shoulders,  and  asked:  "Did  you 
not  perceive  any  gaps  in  my  narrative?" 
"Not  one." 

"That  is  because  you  don't  know  how  to  listen.     In  the  first 
place,  did  Louis  de  Clameran  poison  his  brother  or  not?" 
"Yes ;  I  am  sure  of  it,  from  what  you  tell  me." 
"There  you  are!     You  are  much  more  certain,  young  man, 
than   I  am.     Your  opinion  is  mine;  but  what  decisive  proof 

have  we?     None.     I  skilfully  questioned  Dr.  C .     He  has 

not  the  shadow  of  a  suspicion ;  and  Dr.  C is  no  quack ;  he  is 

a  learned  and  observing  man  of  high  standing.  What  poisons 
produce  the  effects  described  ?  I  know  of  none ;  and  yet  I  have 
studied  all  sorts  of  poisons,  from  the  digitalis  used  by  La  Pom- 
meraye  to  Madame  Sauvresy's  aconite." 
"The  death  took  place  so  opportunely — " 
"That  anybody  would  suspect  foul  play.  That  is  true;  but 
chance  is  sometimes  a  wonderful  accomplice  in  crime.  In  the 
second  place,  I  know  nothing  of  Raoul's  antecedents." — "Is  in- 
formation on  that  point  necessary  ?" 


FILE   NUMBER    113  1215 

"Indispensable,  my  friend;  but  we  will  soon  know  something. 
I  have  sent  one  of  my  men — excuse  me,  I  mean  one  of  my 
friends — who  is  very  expert,  M.  Palot;  and  he  writes  that  he 
is  on  the  track.  I  am  interested  in  the  history  of  this  senti- 
mental, skeptical  young  rascal.  I  have  an  idea  that,  had  he  not 
known  De  Clameran,  he  might  have  been  a  brave,  honest  sort 
of  youth.  Prosper  was  no  longer  listening.  M.  Verduret's 
words  had  inspired  him  with  confidence.  Already  he  saw  the 
guilty  men  arraigned  before  the  bar  of  justice;  and  enjoyed, 
in  anticipation,  this  assize-court  drama,  where  he  would  be 
publicly  righted,  after  having  been  so  openly  dishonored.  More 
than  that,  he  now  understood  Madeleine,  her  strange  conduct 
at  the  dressmaker's  was  explained,  and  he  knew  that  she  had 
never  ceased  to  love  him.  This  certainty  of  future  happiness 
restored  all  the  self-possession  that  had  deserted  him  the  day 
he  found  the  safe  robbed.  For  the  first  time  he  was  aston- 
ished at  the  peculiarity  of  his  situation.  Prosper  had  at  first 
only  been  surprised  at  the  protection  of  M.  Verduret  and  the 
extent  of  his  investigations;  now  he  asked  himself,  what  could 
have  been  his  friend's  motives  for  acting  thus?  In  a  word, 
what  price  did  he  expect  for  this  sacrifice  of  time  and  labor? 
His  anxiety  was  so  great  on  this  point  that  he  suddenly  ex- 
claimed: "You  have  no  longer  the  right,  sir,  to  preserve  your 
incognito  with  me.  When  you  have  saved  the  honor  and  life 
of  a  man,  you  should  at  least  let  him  know  whom  he  has  to 
thank." 

"Oh !"  said  M.  Verduret  smilingly ;  "you.  are  not  out  of  the 
mess  yet.  You  are  not  married  either;  so  you  must,  for  a  few 
days  longer,  have  patience  and  faith."  The  clock  struck  six. 
"Good  heavens!"  he  added.  "Can  it  be  six  o'clock?  I  did 
hope  to  have  a  good  night's  rest,  but  this  is  no  time  for  sleep- 
ing." He  went  to  the  landing,  and  leaning  over  the  balusters, 
called:  "Madame  Alexandre!     I  say,  Madame  Alexandre!" 

The  hostess  of  the  Grand  Archangel,  the  portly  wife  of  Fan- 
ferlot,  "the  squirrel,"  had  evidently  not  been  to  bed.  This  fact 
struck  Prosper.  She  appeared,  obsequious,  smiling,  and  eager 
to  please.  "What  do  you  require,  gentlemen?"  she  inquired. — 
"You  can  send  me  your — Joseph  Dubois,  and  also  Palmyre,  as 
soon  as  possible.  Have  them  sent  for  at  once,  and  let  me 
know  when  they  arrive.  I  will  take  a  little  rest  in  the  mean 
time." 

As  soon  as  Madame  Alexandre  left  the  room,  the  stout  man 


1216  FILE   NUMBER    113 

unceremoniously  threw  himself  on  the  bed.  "You  have  no  ob- 
jection, I  suppose,"  he  said  to  Prosper.  In  five  minutes  he  was 
fast  asleep ;  and  Prosper,  more  perplexed  than  ever,  seated  him- 
self in  an  easy-chair  and  wondered  who  this  strange  man  could 
be.  About  nine  o'clock  some  one  tapped  timidly  on  the 
door.  Slight  as  the  noise  was,  it  aroused  M.  Verduret,  who 
sprang  up  and  called  out:  "Who  is  there?"  But  Prosper  had 
already  opened  the  door.  Joseph  Dubois,  the  Marquis  de  Cla- 
meran's  valet,  entered.  M.  Verduret's  assistant  was  breathless 
from  running;  and  his  little  eyes  were  more  restless  than  ever. 

"Well,  master,  I  am  glad  to  see  you  once  more,"  he  cried. 
"Now  you  can  tell  me  what  to  do;  I  have  been  perfectly  lost 
during  your  absence,  and  have  felt  like  a  puppet  with  a  broken 
string." — "What !  you  allow  yourself  to  be  disconcerted  like 
that?" 

"Bless  me !  I  think  I  had  cause  for  alarm  when  I  could 
not  find  you  anywhere.  Yesterday  afternoon  I  sent  you  three 
telegrams,  to  the  addresses  you  gave  me,  at  Lyons,  Beaucaire, 
and  Oloron,  and  received  no  answer.  I  was  almost  going  crazy 
when  your  message  reached  me  just  now." 

"Things  are  getting  warm,  then." — "Warm !  They  are  burn- 
ing !    The  place  is  too  hot  to  hold  me  any  longer." 

While  speaking,  M.  Verduret  occupied  himself  in  repairing 
his  toilet,  which  had  become  disarranged  during  his  sleep. 
When  he  had  finished,  he  threw  himself  in  an  easy-chair,  and 
said  to  Joseph  Dubois,  who  remained  respectfully  standing,  cap 
in  hand,  like  a  soldier,  awaiting  orders:  "Explain  yourself,  my 
lad,  and  quickly,  if  you  please;  no  long  phrases." — "It  is  just 
this,  sir.  I  don't  know  what  your  plans  are,  or  what  means 
you  have  of  carrying  them  out ;  but  you  must  wind  up  this  affair 
and  strike  your  final  blow  very  quickly." 

"That  is  your  opinion,  Master  Joseph !" 

"Yes,  master,  because  if  you  wait  any  longer,  good-by  to  our 
covey;  you  will  only  find  an  empty  cage,  and  the  birds  flown. 
Yon  smile?  Yes,  I  know  you  are  clever,  and  can  accomplish 
anything;  but  they  are  cunning  blades,  and  as  slippery  as  eels. 
They  know,  too,  that  they  are  watched."— "The  devil  they  do !" 
cried  M.  Verduret.  "Some  one  must  have  blundered."— "Oh ! 
nobody  has  done  anything  wrong,"  replied  Joseph.  "You  know 
that  they  suspected  something  long  ago.  They  gave  you  a 
proof  of  it  the  night  of  the  fancy-dress  ball ;  I  mean  that  ugly 
cut  on  your  arm.    Ever  since  they  have  always  slept  with  one 


FILE   NUMBER   113  1217 

eye  open.  They  were  feeling  easier,  however,  when  all  of  a 
sudden,  yesterday,  they  began  to  smell  a  rat !" 
"Was  that  why  you  sent  me  those  telegrams?" 
"Of  course.  Now  listen :  yesterday  morning  when  my  mas- 
ter got  up,  about  ten  o'clock,  he  took  it  into  his  head  to  arrange 
the  papers  in  his  desk ;  which,  by  the  way,  has  a  disgusting  lock 
which  has  given  me  a  great  deal  of  trouble.  Meanwhile,  I  pre- 
tended to  be  making  up  the  fire,  so  as  to  remain  in  the  room 
to  watch  him.  That  man  has  a  Yankee's  eye !  At  the  6rst 
glance  he  saw,  or  rather  divined,  that  his  papers  had  been  med- 
dled with;  he  turned  as  white  as  a  sheet,  and  swore  an  oath, 
such  an  oath  !" — "Never  mind  the  oath ;  go  on." 

"Well,  how  he  discovered  his  letters  had  been  touched  I  can't 
imagine.  You  know  how  careful  I  am.  I  had  put  everything 
back  in  its  place  just  as  I  found  it.  To  make  sure  he  was  not 
mistaken,  the  marquis  picks  up  each  paper,  one  at  a  time,  turns 
it  over,  and  smells  it.  I  was  just  longing  to  offer  him  a  micro- 
scope, when  all  of  a  sudden  he  sprang  up,  and,  kicking  his 
chair  to  the  other  end  of  the  room,  flew  at  me  in  a  fury.  'Some- 
body has  been  at  my  papers,'  he  shrieked;  'this  letter  has  been 
photographed !'  B-r-r-r !  I  am  not  a  coward,  but  I  can  tell  you 
that  my  heart  stood  perfectly  still;  I  saw  myself  dead,  cut  into 
mince-meat;  and  I  even  said  to  myself,  'Fanfer — excuse  me — 
Dubois,  my  friend,  you  are  done  for.' " 

M.  Verduret  was  buried  in  thought,  and  paid  no  attention  to 
the  worthy  Joseph's  analysis  of  his  personal  sensations.  "What 
happened  next?"  he  asked  after  a  few  minutes. — "Why,  I  was 
needlessly  frightened  after  all.  The  rascal  did  not  dare  to 
touch  me.  To  be  sure,  I  had  taken  the  precaution  to  get  out 
of  his  reach;  we  talked  with  a  large  table  between  us.  While 
wondering  what  could  have  enabled  him  to  discover  the  secret, 
I  defended  myself  with  virtuous  indignation.  I  said:  'It  can 
not  be;  Monsieur  le  Marquis  is  mistaken.  Who  would  dare 
touch  his  papers  ?'  Bah !  Instead  of  listening  to  me,  he  flour- 
ished an  open  letter,  saying :  'This  letter  has  been  photographed ! 
here  is  proof  of  it !'  and  he  pointed  to  a  little  yellow  spot  on 
the  paper,  shrieking  out :  'Look !  Smell !  It  is — '  I  forget  the 
name  he  called  it,  but  some  acid  used  by  photographers." 
"I  know,  I  know,"  said  M.  Verduret;  "go  on;  what  next?" 
"Then  we  had  a  scene ;  such  a  scene !  He  ended  by  seizing 
me  by  the  coat  collar,  and  shaking  me  like  a  plum  tree,  to 
make  me  tell  him  who  I  am,  who  I  know,  and  where  I  came 


1218  FILE   NUMBER   113 

from.  As  if  I  know,  myself !  I  was  obliged  to  account  for 
every  minute  of  my  time  since  I  had  been  in  his  service.  He 
was  born  to  be  an  investigating  magistrate.  Then  he  sent  for 
the  hotel  waiter,  who  attends  to  his  rooms,  and  questioned  him 
closely,  but  in  English,  so  that  I  could  not  understand.  After 
a  while  he  cooled  down,  and,  when  the  waiter  was  gone,  pre- 
sented me  with  twenty  francs,  saying:  'I  am  sorry  I  was  so 
hasty  with  you;  you  are  too  stupid  to  have  been  guilty  of  the 
offense.' " 

"He  said  that,  did  he?" — "He  used  those  very  words  to  my 
face,  master." 

"And  you  think  he  meant  what  he  said?" — "Certainly  I  do." 

The  stout  man  smiled,  and  whistled  in  a  way  that  showed 
that  he  had  a  different  opinion.  "If  you  think  that,"  he  said, 
"De  Clameran  was  right.  You  are  not  up  to  much."  It  was 
easy  to  see  that  Joseph  Dubois  was  anxious  to  give  his  grounds 
for  his  opinion,  but  dared  not.  "I  suppose  I  am  stupid,  if  you 
think  so,"  he  replied  humbly.  "Well,  after  he  had  done  blus- 
tering about  the  letters,  the  marquis  dressed  and  went  out.  He 
would  not  take  his  carriage,  but  hired  a  cab  at  the  hotel  door. 
I  thought  he  would  perhaps  disappear  forever;  but  I  was  mis- 
taken. About  five  o'clock  he  returned  as  gay  as  a  lark.  During 
his  absence,  I  telegraphed  to  you." 

"What !  did  you  not  follow  him  ?" 

"No;  but  one  of  our  friends  did,  and  this  friend  gave  me 
a  report  of  the  dandy's  movements.  First  he  went  to  a  broker's, 
then  to  a  bank  and  a  discount  office.  It  is  evident  he  is  a  man 
of  capital.  I  expect  he  intends  to  go  on  a  little  trip  some- 
where."—"Is  that  all  he  did?"— "That  is  all;  yes.  But  I  must 
tell  you  that  the  rascals  tried  to  get  Mademoiselle  Palmyre 
shut  up,  'administratively,'  you  understand.  Fortunately,  you 
had  anticipated  something  of  the  kind,  and  given  orders  so  as 
to  prevent  it.  But  for  you  she  would  now  be  in  prison."  Joseph 
left  off  speaking,  and  looked  up  at  the  ceiling  by  way  of  trying 
to  remember  whether  he  had  not  something  more  to  say.  Find- 
ing nothing,  he  added:  "That  is  all.  I  rather  think  M.  Patri- 
gent  will  rub  his  hands  with  delight  when  I  take  him  my  report. 
He  has  no  idea  of  the  facts  collected  to  swell  the  size  of  his 
File  Number  113." 

There  was  a  long  silence.  Joseph  was  right  in  supposing 
that  the  crisis  had  come.  M.  Verduret  was  arranging  his  plan 
of  battle  while  waiting  for  the  report  of  Nina — now  Palmyre — 


FILE   NUMBER   113  1219 

upon  which  depended  his  point  of  attack.  Joseph  Dubois  was 
restless  and  uneasy.    "What  am  I  to  do  now,  master?"  he  asked. 

"Return  to  the  hotel;  probably  your  master  has  noticed  your 
absence ;  but  he  will  say  nothing  about  it,  so  continue — "  Here 
an  exclamation  from  Prosper,  who  was  standing  near  the  win- 
dow, interrupted  M.  Verduret.  "What  is  the  matter?"  he  in- 
quired.— "De  Clameran  is  there !"  replied  Prosper. 

M.  Verduret  and  Joseph  ran  to  the  window.  "Where  is  he  ?" 
they  asked. — "There,  at  the  corner  of  the  bridge,  behind  the 
orange-woman's  stall." 

Prosper  was  right.  It  was  the  noble  Marquis  de  Clameran, 
who,  hid  behind  the  stall,  was  watching  for  his  servant  to  come 
out  of  the  Grand  Archangel.  At  first  the  quick-sighted  Ver- 
duret had  some  doubts  whether  it  was  the  marquis,  who,  being 
skilled  in  these  hazardous  expeditions  managed  to  conceal  him- 
self almost  entirely.  But  a  moment  came  when,  elbowed  by  the 
pressing  crowd,  he  was  obliged  to  get  off  the  pavement  in  full 
view  of  the  window. 

"Now  you  see  I  was  right !"  cried  the  cashier. 

"Well,"  murmured  Joseph,  convinced,  "I  am  amazed!" 

M.  Verduret  seemed  not  in  the  least  surprised,  but  quietly 
said :  "The  hunter  is  now  being  hunted.  Well,  Joseph,  my  boy, 
do  you  still  think  that  your  noble  master  was  duped  by  your 
pretended  injured  innocence?" — "You  stated  the  contrary,  sir," 
replied  Joseph  in  a  humble  tone ;  "and  a  statement  from  you  is 
more  convincing  than  all  the  proofs  in  the  world." 

"This  pretended  outburst  of  rage  was  premeditated  on  the 
part  of  your  noble  master.  Knowing  that  he  is  being  tracked, 
he  naturally  wishes  to  discover  who  his  adversaries  are.  You 
can  imagine  how  uncomfortable  he  must  be  while  in  this  un- 
certainty. Perhaps  he  thinks  his  pursuers  are  some  of  his  old 
accomplices,  who,  being  hungry,  want  a  piece  of  his  cake.  He 
will  remain  there  until  you  go  out;  then  he  will  come  in  to 
inquire  who  you  are." 

"But  I  can  leave  without  his  seeing  me." — "Yes,  I  know. 
You  will  climb  the  little  wall  separating  the  hotel  from  the 
wine-merchant's  yard,  and  keep  along  the  stationer's  area,  until 
you  reach  the  Rue  de  la  Huchette."  Poor  Joseph  looked  as  if  he 
had  just  received  a  bucket  of  ice-water  upon  his  head.  "Ex~ 
actly  the  way  I  was  going,"  he  gasped  out.  "I  heard  that  you 
knew  all  the  houses  in  Paris,  and  it  certainly  must  be  so." 

The  stout  man  made  no  reply  to  Joseph's  admiring  remarks. 


1220  FILE   NUMBER   113 

He  was  wondering  what  advantage  he  could  reap  from  De  Cla- 
meran's  behavior.  As  to  the  cashier,  he  listened  wonderingly, 
watching  these  strangers,  who  without  any  apparent  reason, 
seemed  determined  to  win  the  difficult  game  in  which  his  honor, 
his  happiness,  and  his  life,  were  at  stake. 

"I  have  another  idea,"  said  Joseph  after  deep  thought. — "What 
is  it?" — "I  can  walk  quietly  out  of  the  front  door,  and,  with 
my  hands  in  my  pockets,  stroll  slowly  back  to  the  Hotel  du 
Louvre." 

"And  then?" — "Well!  then,  De  Clameran  will  come  in  and 
question  Madame  Alexandre,  whom  you  can  instruct  before- 
hand; and  she  is  smart  enough  to  put  any  joker  off  the  track." 

"Bad  plan !"  pronounced  M.  Verduret  decidedly ;  "a  scamp 
so  compromised  as  De  Clameran  is  not  easily  taken  in ;  it  will 
be  impossible  to  reassure  him."  His  mind  was  made  up;  for 
in  a  brief  tone  of  authority,  which  admitted  of  no  contradic- 
tion, he  added:  "I  have  a  better  plan.  Has  De  Clameran,  since 
he  found  out  that  his  papers  had  been  touched,  seen  De  Lagors  ?" 

"No,  sir." 

"Perhaps  he  has  written  to  him?" — "I'll  bet  you  my  head  he 
has  not.  Having  your  orders  to  watch  his  correspondence,  I 
invented  a  little  system  which  informs  me  every  time  he  touches 
a  pen ;  during  the  last  twenty-four  hours  the  pens  have  not  been 
touched." 

"De  Clameran  went  out  yesterday  afternoon." — "But  the  man 
who  followed  him  says  he  wrote  nothing  on  the  way." — "Then 
we  have  time  yet!"  cried  Verduret.  "Be  quick!  I  give  you 
fifteen  minutes  to  make  yourself  another  head;  you  know  the 
sort;  I  will  watch  the  rascal  until  you  are  ready." 

The  delighted  Joseph  disappeared  in  a  twinkling,  and  Prosper 
and  M.  Verduret  remained  at  the  window  observing  De  Cla- 
meran, who,  according  to  the  movements  of  the  crowd,  kept 
disappearing  and  reappearing,  but  was  evidently  determined  not 
to  quit  his  post  until  he  had  obtained  the  information  he  sought. 

"Why  do  you  devote  yourself  exclusively  to  the  marquis?" 
asked  Prosper. — "Because,  my  friend,"  replied  M.  Verduret, 
"because — that  is  my  business,  and  not  yours." 

Joseph  Dubois  had  been  granted  a  quarter  of  an  hour  in 
which  to  metamorphose  himself;  before  ten  minutes  had  elapsed 
he  reappeared.  The  dandified  coachman  with  whiskers,  red 
vest,  and  foppish  manners,  was  replaced  by  a  sinister-looking 
individual,  whose  very  appearance  was  enough  to  scare  any 


FILE   NUMBER    113  1221 

rogue.  His  black  cravat  twisted  round  a  paper  collar,  and 
ornamented  by  an  imitation  diamond  pin ;  his  black  frock  coat 
buttoned  up  to  the  chin ;  his  greasy  hat  and  shiny  boots  and 
heavy  cane — revealed  the  myrmidon  of  the  Rue  de  Jerusalem  as 
plainly  as  the  uniform  denotes  the  soldier.  Joseph  Dubois  had 
vanished,  and  from  his  livery,  phenix-like  and  triumphant,  rose 
the  radiant  Fanferlot,  surnamed  the  Squirrel.  When  he  en- 
tered the  room,  Prosper  uttered  a  cry  of  surprise,  almost  of 
terror.  He  recognized  the  man  who  had  assisted  the  commis- 
sary of  police  in  his  investigation  at  the  bank  on  the  day  of 
the  robbery. 

M.  Verduret  examined  his  follower  with  a  satisfied  look,  and 
said :  "Not  bad !  There  is  enough  of  the  police-court  air  about 
you  to  alarm  even  an  honest  man.  You  understand  me  per- 
fectly." Fanferlot  was  transported  with  delight  at  this  compli- 
ment. "What  must  I  do  now,  chief?"  he  inquired. — "Nothing 
difficult  for  a  smart  man :  but  remember,  upon  the  precision  of 
our  movements  depends  the  success  of  my  plan.  Before  occupy- 
ing myself  with  De  Lagors,  I  wish  to  dispose  of  De  Clameran. 
Now  that  the  rascals  are  separated,  we  must  prevent  their  com- 
ing together  again." — "I  understand,"  said  Fanferlot,  winking 
his  eye;  "I  am  to  create  a  diversion." 

"Exactly.  Go  out  by  the  Rue  de  la  Huchette,  and  hasten 
to  the  Pont  St.  Michel ;  loaf  along  the  river-bank,  and  finally 
place  yourself  on  some  of  the  steps  of  the  quay,  so  that  De 
Clameran  may  perceive  he  is  being  watched.  If  he  fails  to 
see  you,  do  something  to  attract  his  attention." — "I  know !  I 
will  throw  a  stone  in  the  water,"  said  Fanferlot,  rubbing  his 
hands  with  delight  at  his  own  brilliant  idea. 

"As  soon  as  De  Clameran  has  seen  you,"  continued  M.  Ver- 
duret, "he  will  be  alarmed,  and  instantly  decamp.  You  must 
follow  him,  and  he,  knowing  that  the  police  are  after  him,  will 
do  everything  to  escape  you.  You  must  keep  both  your  eyes 
open,  for  he  is  a  cunning  rascal." — "I  was  not  born  yester- 
day."— "So  much  the  better.  You  can  convince  him  of  that. 
Well,  knowing  you  are  at  his  heels,  he  will  not  dare  to  return 
to  the  Hotel  du  Louvre,  for  fear  of  finding  some  troublesome 
visitors  awaiting  him.  Now  it  is  very  important  that  he  should 
not  return  to  the  hotel." 

"But  suppose  he  does  ?"  said  Fanferlot. 

M.  Verduret  thought  for  a  minute,  and  then  replied:  "It  is 
not  at  all  likely ;  but  if  he  should,  you  must  wait  until  he  comes 


1222  FILE   NUMBER   113 

out  again,  and  continue  to  follow  him.  But  he  won't  enter  the 
hotel ;  very  likely  he  will  take  the  train ;  but  in  that  event  don't 
lose  sight  of  him,  no  matter  if  you  have  to  follow  him  to 
Siberia.  Have  you  money  with  you?" — "I  will  get  some  from 
Madame  Alexandre." 

"Very  good.  Ah !  one  word  more.  If  the  rascal  does  take 
the  train,  send  me  a  line  here.  If  he  beats  about  the  bush  until 
night-time,  be  on  your  guard,  especially  in  lonely  places;  he  is 
capable  of  anything." — "If  necessary,  may  I  fire  ?"— "Don't  be 
rash;  but  if  he  attacks  you,  of  course  defend  yourself.  Come, 
'tis  time  you  were  gone." 

Dubois-Fanferlot  went  out.  M.  Verduret  and  Prosper  re- 
sumed their  post  of  observation.  "Why  all  this  secrecy?" 
inquired  Prosper.  "De  Clameran  is  guilty  of  ten  times  worse 
crimes  than  I  was  ever  accused  of,  and  yet  my  disgrace  was 
made  as  public  as  possible." 

"Don't  you  understand,"  replied  the  stout  man,  "that  I  wish 
to  separate  Raoul's  cause  from  that  of  the  marquis  ?  But,  hush  ! 
Look !"  De  Clameran  had  left  his  place  near  the  orange- 
woman's  stand  and  approached  the  parapet  of  the  bridge,  where 
he  seemed  to  be  trying  to  make  out  some  unexpected  object. 
"Ah!"  murmured  M.  Verduret;  "he  has  just  discovered  our 
man."  De  Clameran's  uneasiness  was  quite  apparent ;  he  walked 
forward  a  few  steps,  as  if  intending  to  cross  the  bridge ;  then, 
suddenly  turning  round,  walked  rapidly  away  in  the  direction 
of  the  Rue  St.  Jacques.  "He  is  caught !"  cried  M.  Verduret 
with  delight. 

At  that  moment  the  door  opened,  and  Madame  Nina  Gipsy, 
alias  Palmyre  Chocareille,  entered.  Poor  Nina !  Each  day 
since  she  entered  Madeleine's  service  seemed  to  have  aged  her 
a  year.  Tears  had  dimmed  the  brilliancy  of  her  beautiful  black 
eyes;  her  rosy  cheeks  were  pale  and  hollow,  and  her  merry 
smile  was  quite  gone.  Poor  Gipsy,  once  so  gay  and  spirited, 
now  crushed  beneath  the  burden  of  her  sorrows,  was  the  picture 
of  misery.  Prosper  thought  that,  wild  with  joy  at  seeing  him, 
and  proud  of  having  so  nobly  devoted  herself  to  his  interests, 
Nina  would  throw  her  arms  around  his  neck  and  hold  him  in 
a  tight  embrace.  He  was  mistaken;  and  though  entirely  de- 
voted to  Madeleine  since  he  knew  the  reason  of  her  harshness 
to  him,  his  deception  affected  him  deeply.  Nina  scarcely 
seemed  to  know  him.  She  saluted  him  timidly,  almost  like  a 
stranger.     She  stood  looking  at  M.  Verduret  with  a  mixture 


FILE   NUMBER   113  1223 

of  fear  and  devotion,  like  a  poor  dog  that  has  been  cruelly 
treated  by  its  master. 

He,  however,  was  kind  and  gentle  in  his  manner  toward  her. 
"Well,  my  dear,"  he  asked  encouragingly,  "what  news  do  you 
bring  me?" 

"Something  is  going  on  at  the  house,  sir,  and  I  have  been 
trying  to  get  here  to  tell  you;  at  last  Mademoiselle  Madeleine 
made  an  excuse  for  sending  me  out." 

"You  must  thank  her  for  her  confidence  in  me.  I  suppose 
she  carried  out  the  plan  we  decided  upon?" — Yes,  sir." — "She 
receives  the  Marquis  de  Clameran's  visits?" — "Since  the 
marriage  has  been  decided  upon,  he  comes  every  day,  and 
mademoiselle  receives  him  with  kindness.  He  seems  to  be 
delighted." 

These  answers  filled  Prosper  with  anger  and  alarm.  The 
poor  fellow,  not  comprehending  M.  Verduret's  intricate  moves, 
felt  as  if  he  were  being  tossed  about  from  pillar  to  post,  and 
made  the  tool  and  laughing-stock  of  everybody.  "What!"  he 
cried;  "this  worthless  Marquis  de  Clameran,  an  assassin  and 
a  thief,  allowed  to  visit  at  M.  Fauvel's  and  pay  his  addresses  to 
Madeleine?  Where  are  the  promises  which  you  made  me,  sir? 
Have  you  merely  been  amusing  yourself  by  raising  my  hopes, 
to  dash  them — " 

"Enough  !"  interrupted  M.  Verduret  harshly ;  "you  are  really 
too  good  a  young  man  to  understand  anything,  my  friend.  If 
you  are  incapable  of  helping  yourself,  at  least  have  sense  enough 
to  refrain  from  stupidly  importuning  those  who  are  working 
for  you.  Do  you  not  think  you  have  already  done  sufficient 
mischief?"  Having  administered  this  rebuke,  he  turned  to 
Nina,  and  said  in  softer  tones:  "Go  on,  my  child;  what  have 
you  discovered?" 

"Nothing  positive,  sir;  but  enough  to  make  me  nervous,  and 
fearful  of  impending  danger.  I  am  not  certain,  but  suspect 
from  appearances  that  some  dreadful  catastrophe  is  about  to 
happen.  It  may  only  be  a  presentiment.  I  can  not  get  any 
information  from  Madame  Fauvel ;  she  moves  about  like  a 
ghost,  never  opening  her  lips.  She  seems  to  be  afraid  of  her 
niece,  and  to  be  trying  to  conceal  something  from  her." 

"What  about  M.  Fauvel  ?"— "I  was  just  about  to  tell  you, 
sir.  Some  fearful  misfortune  has  happened  to  him,  you  may 
depend  upon  it.  He  wanders  about  as  if  he  had  lost  his  mind. 
Something   certainly   occurred    yesterday;    his    voice    even    is 


1224  FILE   NUMBER    113 

changed.  He  is  so  harsh  and  irritable  that  mademoiselle  and 
M.  Lucien  were  wondering  what  could  be  the  matter  with 
him.  He  seems  to  be  on  the  eve  of  giving  way  to  a  burst 
of  anger;  and  there  is  a  wild,  strange  look  about  his  eyes, 
especially  when  he  looks  at  madame.  Yesterday  evening,  when 
M.  de  Clameran  was  announced,  he  jumped  up  and  hurried  out 
of  the  room,  saying  that  he  had  some  work  to  do  in  his 
study." 

A  triumphant  exclamation  from  M.  Verduret  interrupted  Nina. 
He  was  radiant.  "Ah !"  he  said  to  Prosper,  forgetting  his  bad 
humor  of  a  few  minutes  before ;  "ah !  what  did  I  tell  you  ?" — 
"He  has  evidently — " — "Been  afraid  to  give  way  to  his  first 
impulse;  of  course  he  has.  He  is  now  seeking  for  proofs  of 
your  assertions.  He  must  have  them  by  this  time.  Did  the 
ladies  go  out  yesterday?" — "Yes,  a  part  of  the  day." — "What 
became  of  M.  Fauvel?" — "The  ladies  took  me  with  them;  we 
left  M.  Fauvel  at  home." 

"There  is  no  longer  a  doubt  now !"  cried  the  stout  man ; 
"he  looked  for  proofs  and  found  them  too!  Your  letter  told 
him  exactly  where  to  go.  Ah,  Prosper,  that  unfortunate  letter 
gives  more  trouble  than  everything  else  together." 

These  words  seemed  to  throw  a  sudden  light  on  Nina's  mind. 
"I  understand  it  now!"  she  exclaimed.  "M.  Fauvel  knows 
everything." — "That  is,  he  thinks  he  knows  everything;  and 
what  he  has  been  led  to  believe  is  worse  than  the  true  state  of 
affairs." 

"That  accounts  for  the  order  which  M.  Cavaillon  overheard 
him  give  to  his  valet,  Evariste."— "What  order?"— "He  told 
Evariste  to  bring  every  letter  that  came  to  the  house,  no  matter 
to  whom  addressed,  into  his  study,  and  hand  it  to  him ;  saying 
that  if  this  order  was  disobeyed  he  should  be  instantly  dis- 
charged." 

"At  what  time  was  this  order  given  ?"  asked  M.  Verduret.— 
"Yesterday  afternoon." 

"That  is  what  I  was  afraid  of,"  cried  M.  Verduret.  "He 
has  clearly  made  up  his  mind  what  course  to  pursue,  and  is 
keeping  quiet  so  as  to  make  his  vengeance  more  sure.  The 
question  is,  Have  we  still  time  to  counteract  his  projects? 
Have  we  time  to  convince  him  that  the  anonymous  letter  was 
incorrect  in  some  of  its  assertions  ?"  He  tried  to  hit  upon  some 
plan  for  repairing  the  damage  done  by  Prosper's  foolish  letter. 
"Thank  you  for  your  information,  my  dear  child,"  he  said  after 


FILE   NUMBER   113  1225 

a  long  silence.  "I  will  decide  at  once  what  steps  to  take,  for  it 
will  never  do  to  sit  quietly  and  let  things  go  on  in  this  way. 
Return  home  without  delay,  and  be  careful  of  everything  you 
say  and  do;  for  M.  Fauvel  suspects  you  of  being  in  the  plot. 
Send  me  word  of  anything  that  happens,  no  matter  how  insig- 
nificant it  may  be." 

Nina,  thus  dismissed,  did  not  move,  but  asked  timidly :  "What 
about  Caldas,  sir?"  This  was  the  third  time  during  the  last 
fortnight  that  Prosper  had  heard  this  name,  Caldas.  The  first 
time,  it  had  been  whispered  in  his  ear  by  a  respectable-looking, 
middle-aged  man,  who  promised  him  his  protection  on  one  of 
the  days  he  was  at  the  Prefecture.  The  second  time,  the  in- 
vestigating magistrate  had  mentioned  it  in  connection  with 
Nina's  history. 

Prosper  thought  over  all  the  men  he  had  ever  been  connected 
with,  but  could  recall  none  named  Caldas. 

The  impassible  M.  Verduret  started  and  trembled  at  the 
sound  of  this  name,  but  quickly  recovering  himself,  said:  "I 
promised  to  find  him  for  you,  and  I  will  keep  my  promise. 
Now  you  must  go;  good-by." 

It  was  twelve  o'clock,  and  M.  Verduret  suddenly  remembered 
that  he  was  hungry.  He  called  Madame  Alexandre,  and  the 
all-powerful  hostess  of  the  Grand  Archangel  soon  placed  a 
tempting  breakfast  before  Prosper  and  his  protector.  But  the 
dainty  meal  failed  to  smooth  M.  Verduret's  perplexed  brow. 
To  the  eager  questions  and  complimentary  remarks  of  Madame 
Alexandre,  he  merely  answered :  "Hush,  hush !  let  me  alone ; 
keep  quiet." 

For  the  first  time  since  he  had  known  the  stout  man,  Prosper 
saw  him  betray  anxiety  and  hesitation.  He  remained  silent  as 
long  as  he  could,  and  then  uneasily  said :  "I  am  afraid  I  have 
embarrassed  you  very  much,  sir." 

"Yes,  you  have  dreadfully  embarrassed  me,"  replied  M.  Ver- 
duret. "What  on  earth  to  do  now  I  don't  know !  Shall  I  hasten 
matters,  or  keep  quiet  and  wait  for  the  next  move?  And  I  am 
bound  by  a  sacred  promise.  Come,  I  must  go  and  consult  the 
investigating  magistrate.  He  can  perhaps  assist  me.  You  had 
better  come  too." 


Gab. — Vol.  IV  N 


1226 


FILE   NUMBER   113 


AS  M.  Verduret  had  anticipated,  Prosper's  anonymous  letter 
*^*'  had  a  terrible  effect  upon  M.  Fauvel.  It  was  morning. 
M.  Fauvel  had  just  entered  his  study  to  attend  to  his  corre- 
spondence. After  opening  a  dozen  letters  on  business,  his  eyes 
fell  on  the  fatal  missive.  Something  about  the  handwriting 
struck  him  as  peculiar.  It  was  evidently  disguised,  and  al- 
though, owing  to  the  fact  of  his  being  a  millionaire,  he  was  in 
the  habit  of  receiving  anonymous  communications,  sometimes 
abusive,  but  generally  begging  for  money,  this  particular  letter 
filled  him  with  a  presentiment  of  evil.  With  absolute  certainty 
that  he  was  about  to  read  of  some  calamity,  he  broke  the  seal, 
and  unfolding  the  coarse  writing-paper  of  the  cafe,  commenced 
to  read.  What  he  read  was  a  terrible  blow  to  a  man  whose 
life  hitherto  had  been  an  unbroken  chain  of  prosperity,  who 
could  recall  the  past  without  one  bitter  regret,  without  remem- 
bering any  sorrow  deep  enough  to  bring  forth  a  tear.  What ! 
his  wife  deceive  him !  And  among  all  men,  to  choose  one  vile 
enough  to  rob  her  of  her  jewels,  and  force  her  to  be  his  accom- 
plice in  the  ruin  of  an  innocent  young  man !  For  did  not  the 
letter  before  him  assert  this  to  be  the  fact,  and  tell  him  how 
to  convince  himself  of  its  truth?  M.  Fauvel  was  as  bewildered 
as  if  he  had  been  knocked  on  the  head  with  a  club.  It  was  im- 
possible for  his  scattered  ideas  to  take  in  the  enormity  of  what 
these  dreadful  words  intimated.  He  seemed  to  be  mentally  and 
physically  paralyzed,  as  he  sat  there  staring  blankly  at  the  let- 
ter.   But  in  a  few  minutes  his  reason  returned. 

"What  infamous  cowardice !"  he  cried ;  "it  is  abominable !" 
And  he  angrily  crumpled  up  the  letter  and  threw  it  into  the 
empty  fireplace,  adding:  "I  will  forget  having  read  it.  I  will 
not  soil  my  mind  by  letting  it  dwell  upon  such  turpitude  [" 

He  said  this,  and  he  thought  it;  but,  for  all  that,  he  could 
not  open  the  rest  of  his  letters.  That  penetrating,  clinging,  all- 
corroding  worm,  suspicion,  had  taken  possession  of  his  soul ; 
and  he  leaned  over  his  desk,  with  his  face  buried  in  his  hands, 
vainly  endeavoring  to  recover  his  habituai  calmness  of  mind. 


FILE    NUMBER   113  1227 

"Supposing,  though,  that  the  letter  stated  the  truth !"  At  the 
thought,  his  dejection  of  the  first  few  minutes  gave  way  to  the 
most  violent  rage.  "Ah !"  he  exclaimed  in  his  wrath,  "if  I 
only  knew  the  scoundrel  who  dared  to  write  this ;  if  I  only  had 
him  here !"  Thinking  that  the  handwriting  might  throw  some 
light  on  the  mystery,  he  picked  the  fatal  letter  out  of  the  fire- 
place. Carefully  smoothing  it  out,  he  laid  it  on  his  desk,  and 
studied  the  upstrokes,  the  downstrokes,  and  the  capitals  of 
every  word.  "It  must  be  from  one  of  my  clerks,"  he  thought, 
"who  is  angry  with  me  for  having  refused  to  raise  his  salary ; 
or  for  some  other  reason."  Clinging  to  this  idea,  he  thought 
over  all  the  young  men  in  his  bank ;  but  not  one  could  he  be- 
lieve capable  of  resorting  to  so  base  a  vengeance.  Then  he 
wondered  where  the  letter  had  been  posted,  thinking  this  might 
throw  some  light  on  the  mystery.  He  looked  at  the  envelope, 
and  read  on  the  postmark,  "Rue  du  Cardinal  Lemoine."  This 
fact  told  him  nothing.  Once  more  he  read  the  letter  through, 
spelling  over  each  word,  and  analyzing  every  sentence  it  con- 
tained. It  is  the  custom  to  treat  anonymous  letters  with  silent 
contempt,  as  the  malicious  lies  of  cowards  who  dare  not  say  to 
a  man's  face  what  they  secretly  commit  to  paper.  Yet  what 
innumerable  catastrophes  can  be  traced  to  no  other  origin.  One 
throws  the  letters  in  the  fire,  but,  although  the  paper  is  de- 
stroyed by  the  flames,  doubts  remain,  and,  like  a  subtle  poison, 
penetrate  the  inmost  recesses  of  the  mind,  weaken  its  holiest 
beliefs,  and  destroy  its  faith.  The  wife  suspected,  no  matter 
how  unjustly,  is  no  longer  the  wife  in  whom  her  husband 
trusted  as  he  would  trust  himself.  Unable  to  struggle  any 
longer  against  these  conflicting  doubts,  M.  Fauvel  determined 
to  resolve  them  by  showing  the  letter  to  his  wife ;  but  a  shock- 
ing thought,  more  torturing  than  a  red-hot  iron  burning  his 
flesh,  made  him  sink  back  in  his  chair  in  despair.  "Suppose  it 
be  true!"  he  muttered  to  himself;  "suppose  I  have  been  miser- 
ably duped  !  By  confiding  in  my  wife,  I  shall  put  her  on  her 
guard,  and  lose  all  chance  of  discovering  the  truth." 

Thus  were  realized  all  M.  Verduret's  presumptions.  He  had 
said :  "M.  Fauvel  does  not  yield  to  his  first  impulse ;  if  he  stops 
to  reflect,  we  have  time  to  repair  the  harm  done."  And  after 
long  and  painful  meditation,  the  banker  had  finally  decided  to 
wait  and  watch  his  wife.  It  was  a  hard  struggle  for  a  man 
of  his  frank,  upright  nature  to  play  the  part  of  a  domestic  spy 
and  jealous  husband.    Accustomed  to  give  way  to  sudden  bursts 


1228  FILE   NUMBER   113 

of  anger,  but  quickly  mastering  them,  he  would  find  it  difficult 
to  preserve  his  self-restraint,  to  maintain  silence  until  his  proofs 
were  overwhelming.  There  was  one  simple  means  of  ascer- 
taining the  truth.  The  letter  stated  that  his  wife's  diamonds 
had  been  pawned.  If  it  lied  in  this  instance,  he  would  treat 
it  with  the  scorn  it  deserved.  At  this  moment  the  servant  an- 
nounced that  lunch  was  served,  and  M.  Fauvel  looked  in  the 
glass  before  leaving  his  study,  to  see  if  his  face  betrayed  the 
emotion  he  felt.  He  was  shocked  at  the  sight  of  his  haggard 
features.  "Shall  I  be  able  to  control  my  feelings?"  he  asked 
himself.  At  table  he  did  his  utmost  to  look  unconcerned, 
talked  incessantly,  related  several  stories,  hoping  thus  to  dis- 
tract the  attention  of  the  others.  But  all  the  time  he  was 
talking  he  was  casting  over  in  his  mind  various  expedients  for 
getting  his  wife  out  of  the  house  long  enough  for  him  to  search 
her  room.  At  last  he  asked  Madame  Fauvel  if  she  were  going 
out  at  all  that  day. 

"Yes,"  she  replied,  "the  weather  is  dreadful,  but  Madeleine 
and  I  have  some  pressing  matters  to  see  after." — "At  what  time 
do  you  think  of  starting?" — "Immediately  after  lunch." 

He  drew  a  long  breath  as  if  relieved  of  a  great  weight.  In 
a  short  time  he  would  be  able  to  learn  the  truth.  His  uncer- 
tainty was  so  torturing  that  anything  was  preferable  to  it,  even 
the  most  dreadful  reality.  Lunch  over,  he  lighted  a  cigar,  but 
did  not  remain  in  the  dining-room  to  smoke,  as  was  his  habit. 
He  went  into  his  study,  pretending  he  had  some  pressing  work 
to  attend  to.  He  took  the  precaution  to  send  Lucien  out  so  as 
to  be  quite  alone.  After  the  lapse  of  half  an  hour,  he  heard 
the  carriage  drive  away  with  his  wife  and  niece.  Hurrying 
into  Madame  Fauvel's  room,  he  opened  her  jewel  drawer.  Sev- 
eral of  the  cases  he  knew  she  possessed  were  missing,  those 
that  remained — there  were  ten  or  twelve  of  them — were  empty. 
The  anonymous  letter  had  told  the  truth.  "Oh,  it  can  not  be !" 
he  gasped  in  broken  tones.  "It  is  not  possible !"  He  wildly 
pulled  open  other  drawers  in  the  hope  of  finding  the  jewels. 
Perhaps  his  wife  kept  them  elsewhere.  She  might  have  sent 
some  of  them  to  be  reset,  and  others  to  be  mended.  But  he 
found  nothing!  He  then  recollected  the  Jandidier  ball,  and 
that  he,  full  of  pride,  had  said  to  his  wife:  "Why  don't  you 
wear  your  diamonds  ?"  She  had  smilingly  replied :  "Oh  !  what 
is  the  use  ?  Everybody  knows  them  so  well ;  I  shall  be  more 
noticed  if  I  don't  wear  them;  and  besides,  they  wouldn't  suit 


FILE   NUMBER   113  1229 

my  costume."  Yes,  she  had  made  this  answer  without  blushing, 
without  showing  the  slightest  sign  of  agitation.  What  base 
hypocrisy  concealed  beneath  an  innocent,  confiding  manner ! 
And  she  had  been  thus  deceiving  him  for  twenty  years !  But 
suddenly  a  gleam  of  hope  penetrated  his  confused  mind — slight, 
barely  possible;  still  a  straw  to  cling  to:  "Perhaps  Valentine 
has  put  her  diamonds  in  Madeleine's  room."  Without  stop- 
ping to  consider  the  indelicacy  of  what  he  was  about  to  do,  he 
hurried  into  the  young  girl's  room,  and  pulled  open  one  drawer 
after  another.  He  did  not  find  his  wife's — not  Madame  Fau- 
vel's  diamonds — but  he  discovered  seven  or  eight  jewel  casei 
belonging  to  Madeleine,  and  all  empty.  Great  heavens!  Was 
this  gentle  girl,  whom  he  had  treated  as  a  daughter,  an  accom- 
plice in  this  deed  of  shame?  This  last  blow  was  too  much  for 
the  miserable  man.  He  sank  almost  lifeless  into  a  chair,  and 
wringing  his  hands,  groaned  over  the  wreck  of  his  happiness. 
Was  this  the  happy  future  to  which  he  had  looked  forward? 
Was  the  fabric  of  his  honor,  well-being,  and  domestic  bliss  to  be 
dashed  to  the  earth  and  forever  lost  in  a  day  ?  Seemingly  noth- 
ing was  changed  in  his  existence;  he  was  not  materially  injured; 
the  objects  around  him  remained  the  same;  and  yet  what  a 
commotion  had  taken  place,  a  commotion  more  unheard  of, 
more  surprising  than  the  changing  of  night  into  day.  What ! 
Valentine,  the  pure  young  girl  whom  he  had  so  loved  and  mar- 
ried in  spite  of  her  poverty;  Valentine,  the  tender,  loving  wife, 
who  had  become  dearer  and  dearer  to  him  as  years  rolled  on; 
could  she  have  been  deceiving  him?  She,  the  mother  of  his 
sons!  His  sons?  Bitter  thought !  Were  they  his  sons  ?  If  she 
could  deceive  him  now  when  she  was  silver-haired,  had  she  not 
deceived  him  when  she  was  young?  Not  only  did  he  suffer  in 
the  present,  but  the  uncertainty  of  the  past  tortured  his  soul. 

M.  Fauvel  did  not  long  remain  in  this  dejected  state.  Anger 
and  a  thirst  for  vengeance  gave  him  fresh  strength,  and  he  de- 
termined to  sell  his  past  happiness  dearly.  He  well  knew  that 
the  fact  of  the  diamonds  being  missing  was  not  sufficient 
ground  upon  which  to  base  an  accusation.  But  he  had  plenty 
of  means  of  procuring  other  proofs.  He  began  by  calling  his 
valet,  and  ordering  him  to  bring  to  him  every  letter  that  should 
come  to  the  house.  He  then  telegraphed  to  a  notary  at  St. 
Remy  for  minute  and  authentic  information  about  the  De 
Lagors  family,  and  especially  about  Raoul.  Finally,  following 
the  advice  of  the  anonymous  letter,  he  went  to  the  Prefecture 


1280  FILE   NUMBER   113 

of  Police,  hoping  to  obtain  De  Clameran's  biography.  But  the 
police,  fortunately  for  many  people,  are  as  discreetly  silent  as 
the  grave.  They  guard  their  secrets  as  a  miser  his  treasure. 
Nothing  but  an  order  from  the  Public  Prosecutor  could  reveal 
the  secrets  of  those  terrible  green  boxes  which  are  kept  in  an 
apartment  by  themselves,  guarded  like  a  banker's  strong-room. 
M.  Fauvel  was  politely  asked  what  motives  urged  him  to  in- 
quire into  the  past  life  of  a  French  citizen;  and,  as  he  de- 
clined to  state  his  reasons,  he  was  told  he  had  better  apply  to 
the  above-mentioned  functionary.  This  advice  he  could  not 
follow.  He  had  sworn  that  the  secret  of  his  wrongs  should  be 
confined  to  the  three  persons  interested.  He  chose  to  avenge 
his  own  injuries,  to  be  alone  the  judge  and  executioner.  He 
returned  home  more  enraged  than  ever;  there  he  found  a  tele- 
gram answering  the  one  which  he  had  sent  to  St.  Remy.  It 
was  as  follows:  "The  De  Lagors  are  very  poor,  and  there  has 
never  been  any  member  of  the  family  named  Raoul.  Madame 
De  Lagors  has  no  son,  only  two  daughters."  This  information 
was  the  final  blow.  The  banker  thought,  when  he  discovered 
his  wife's  infamy,  that  she  had  sinned  as  deeply  as  woman 
could  sin;  but  he  now  saw  that  she  had  practised  a  deception 
more  shocking  than  the  crime  itself. 

"Wretched  creature !"  he  cried  with  anguish ;  "in  order  to 
see  her  lover  constantly,  she  dared  present  him  to  me  under 
the  name  of  a  nephew  who  never  existed.  She  had  the  shame- 
less courage  to  introduce  him  beneath  my  roof,  and  seat  him  at 
my  fireside,  between  myself  and  my  sons;  and  I,  confiding  fool 
that  I  was,  welcomed  the  villain,  and  lent  him  money." 

Nothing  could  equal  the  pain  of  wounded  pride  and  morti- 
fication which  he  suffered  at  the  thought  that  Raoul  and 
Madame  Fauvel  had  amused  themselves  with  his  good-natured 
credulity.  Nothing  but  death  could  wipe  out  an  injury  of  this 
nature.  But  the  very  bitterness  of  his  resentment  enabled 
him  to  restrain  himself  until  the  time  for  punishment  came. 
With  grim  satisfaction  he  promised  himself  that  his  acting 
would  be  as  successful  as  theirs.  That  day  he  succeeded  in 
concealing  his  agitation,  and  kept  up  a  flow  of  talk  during 
the  whole  time  the  dinner  lasted.  But  at  about  nine  o'clock, 
when  De  Clameran  called,  he  hastened  from  the  house,  for 
fear  that  he  would  be  unable  to  control  his  indignation,  and 
did  not  return  home  until  late  in  the  night.  The  next  day  he 
reaped  the  fruit  of  his  prudence.     Among  the  letters  which 


FILE    NUMBER    113 


1231 


his  valet  brought  him  at  noon,  was  one  bearing  the  postmark 
of  Vesinet.    He  carefully  opened  the  envelope,  and  read : 

"Dear  Aunt — It  is  imperatively  necessary  for  me  to  see  you 
to-day ;  so  I  expect  you.  I  will  explain  why  I  am  prevented 
from  calling  at  your  house.  Raoul." 

"I  have  them  now !"  cried  M.  Fauvel,  trembling  with  satis- 
faction at  the  near  prospect  of  vengeance.  Eager  to  lose  no 
time,  he  opened  a  drawer,  took  out  a  revolver,  and  examined  the 
hammer  to  see  if  it  worked  easily.  He  certainly  imagined  him- 
self alone,  but  a  vigilant  eye  was  watching  his  movements. 
Nina  immediately  upon  her  return  from  the  Grand  Archangel, 
stationed  herself  at  the  keyhole  of  the  study  door,  and  saw  all 
that  occurred.  M.  Fauvel  laid  the  weapon  on  the  mantelpiece 
and  nervously  resealed  the  letter,  which  he  then  took  to  the 
place  where  the  letters  were  usually  left,  not  wishing  his  wife 
to  know  that  Raoul's  letter  had  passed  through  his  hands.  He 
was  only  absent  a  few  minutes,  but  inspired  by  the  imminence 
of  the  danger,  Nina  darted  into  the  study,  and  rapidly  extracted 
the  cartridges  from  the  revolver.  "By  this  means,"  she  mur- 
mured, "the  immediate  peril  is  averted,  and  M.  Verduret  will 
now  perhaps  have  time  to  act.  I  must  send  Cavaillon  to  tell 
him  what  is  happening." 

She  hurried  downstairs,  and  sent  the  clerk  with  a  message, 
telling  him  to  leave  it  with  Madame  Alexandre,  if  M.  Verduret 
had  left  the  hotel.  An  hour  later,  Madame  Fauvel  ordered  her 
carriage,  and  went  out.  M.  Fauvel  jumped  into  a  hackney- 
coach,  and  followed  her.  "God  grant  that  M.  Verduret  may 
be  in  time !"  said  Nina  to  herself,  "otherwise  Madame  Fauvel 
and  Raoul  are  lost." 


r"pHE   day   that    the    Marquis    de    Clameran    perceived   that 

*     Raoul  de  Lagors  was  the  only  obstacle  between  him  and 

Madeleine,  he  swore  that  the  obstacle  should  be  removed.     He 

at  once  took  steps  for  the  accomplishment  of  his  purpose.    As 


1232  FILE   NUMBER   113 

Raoul  was  walking  home  at  Vesinet  about  midnight,  he  was 
assailed  at  a  lonely  spot  not  far  from  the  station  by  three  men, 
who,  determined,  so  they  said,  to  see  the  time  by  his  watch, 
fell  upon  him  suddenly,  and  but  for  Raoul's  wonderful  strength 
and  agility,  would  have  left  him  dead  on  the  spot.  As  it  was, 
he  soon,  by  his  skilfully  plied  blows,  for  he  was  proficient  in 
fencing,  and  had  learned  boxing  in  England,  made  his  enemies 
take  to  their  heels.  He  quietly  continued  his  walk  home,  fully 
determined  in  future  to  be  well  armed  when  he  went  out  at 
night.  He  never  for  an  instant  suspected  his  accomplice  of 
having  instigated  the  assault.  But  two  days  afterward  while 
sitting  in  a  cafe  he  frequented,  a  burly,  vulgar-looking  man,  a 
stranger  to  him,  tried  to  draw  him  into  a  quarrel  about  nothing 
and  finally  threw  a  card  in  his  face,  saying  he  was  ready  to 
grant  him  satisfaction  when  and  where  he  pleased.  Raoul 
rushed  toward  the  man  to  chastise  him  on  the  spot;  but  his 
friends  held  him  back. 

"Very  well,  then,"  said  he;  "be  at  home  to-morrow  morning, 
sir,  and  I  will  send  two  of  my  friends  to  you."  As  soon  as  the 
stranger  had  left,  Raoul  recovered  from  his  excitement  and 
began  to  wonder  what  could  have  been  the  motive  for  this 
evidently  premeditated  insult.  Picking  up  the  card  of  the 
bully,  he  read : 

W.  H.  B.  Jacobson. 

Formerly  Garibaldian  volunteer. 

Ex-staff-oflicer  of  the  armies  of  the  South. 

(Italy,  America). 

30,  Rue  Leonie. 

"Oh !  oh  !"  thought  Raoul,  "this  glorious  soldier  may  very 
possibly  have  won  his  laurels  in  a  fencing  school !" 

Still  the  insult  had  been  offered  in  the  presence  of  others; 
and,  no  matter  who  the  offender  was,  it  must  be  noticed.  Raoul 
requested  two  of  his  friends  to  call  upon  M.  Jacobson  early 
the  next  morning,  and  make  arrangements  for  the  duel.  It 
was  settled  that  they  should  render  him  an  account  of  their 
mission  at  the  Hotel  du  Louvre,  where  he  arranged  to  sleep. 
Everything  being  arranged,  Raoul  went  out  to  find  out  some- 
thing about  M.  Jacobson.  He  was  an  expert  at  the  business, 
but  he  had  considerable  trouble.  The  information  he  obtained 
was  not  very  promising.  M.  Jacobson,  who  lived  in  a  very 
suspicious-looking  little  hotel,  frequented  chiefly  by  women  of 


FILE   NUMBER   113  1233 

loose  character,  was  described  to  him  as  an  eccentric  gentleman 
whose  means  of  livelihood  was  a  problem  difficult  to  solve. 
He  reigned  despotically  at  a  cheap  restaurant  near  by,  went 
out  a  great  deal,  came  home  very  late,  and  seemed  to  have  no 
capital  to  live  upon  save  his  military  titles,  his  talent  for 
entertaining,  and  a  notable  quantity  of  various  expedients. 

"That  being  his  character,"  thought  Raoul,  "I  can  not  see 
what  object  he  can  have  in  picking  a  quarrel  with  me.  What 
good  will  it  do  him  to  run  a  sword  through  my  body?  Not 
the  slightest ;  and  moreover,  his  pugnacious  conduct  is  apt  to 
attract  the  attention  of  the  police,  who,  from  what  I  hear,  are 
the  last  people  this  warrior  would  like  to  have  after  him. 
Therefore,  for  acting  as  he  has  done,  he  must  have  some  reasons 
which  I  am  unable  to  discern." 

The  result  of  his  meditations  was,  that  Raoul,  upon  his 
return  to  the  Hotel  du  Louvre,  did  not  mention  a  word  of 
his  adventure  to  De  Clameran,  whom  he  still  found  up.  At 
half-past  eight  his  seconds  arrived.  M.  Jacobson  had  agreed 
to  fight,  and  had  chosen  the  sword;  but  it  must  be  that  very 
hour,  in  the  Bois  de  Vincennes.  Raoul  felt  very  uneasy,  never- 
theless he  boldly  said:  "I  accept  the  gentleman's  conditions." 
They  went  to  the  place  decided  upon,  and  after  an  interchange 
of  a  few  thrusts  Raoul  was  slightly  wounded  in  the  right 
shoulder.  The  "Ex-staff-officer  of  the  armies  of  the  South" 
wished  to  continue  the  combat,  but  Raoul's  seconds — brave 
young  men — declared  that  honor  was  satisfied,  and  that  they 
had  no  intention  of  subjecting  their  friend's  life  to  unnecessary 
hazards.  The  ex-officer  was  forced  to  submit,  and  unwillingly 
retired  from  the  field.  Raoul  went  home  delighted  at  having 
escaped  with  nothing  more  serious  than  a  little  loss  of  blood, 
and  resolved  to  keep  clear  of  all  so-called  Garibaldians  in  the 
future.  In  fact,  a  night's  reflection  had  convinced  him  that 
De  Clameran  was  the  instigator  of  the  two  attempts  on  his  life. 
Madame  Fauvel  having  told  him  what  conditions  Madeleine 
placed  on  her  consent  to  marry,  Raoul  instantly  saw  how  nec- 
essary his  removal  would  be,  now  that  he  was  an  impediment 
in  the  way  of  De  Clameran's  success.  He  recalled  a  thousand 
insignificant  events  of  the  last  few  days,  and,  on  skilfully 
questioning  the  marquis,  had  his  suspicions  changed  into 
certainty.  This  conviction  that  the  man  whom  he  had  so 
materially  assisted  in  his  criminal  plans,  had  hired  assassins 
to    make   away   with   him,    made   him   mad   with   rage.     This 


1234  FILE   NUMBER   113 

treason  seemed  to  him  monstrous.  He  was  as  yet  not  suf- 
ficiently experienced  in  ruffianism  to  know  that  one  villain 
always  sacrifices  another  to  advance  his  own  projects;  he  was 
credulous  enough  to  believe  in  the  old  adage  of  "honor  among 
thieves."  His  rage  was  naturally  mingled  with  fright,  well 
knowing  that  his  life  hung  by  a  thread,  when  it  was  threatened 
by  a  daring  scoundrel  like  De  Clameran.  Knowing  his  accom- 
plice's nature,  Raoul  saw  himself  surrounded  by  snares;  he 
saw  death  before  him  in  every  form;  he  was  equally  afraid  of 
going  out,  and  of  remaining  at  home.  He  only  ventured  with 
the  most  suspicious  caution  into  the  most  public  places;  he 
feared  poison  as  much  as  the  assassin's  knife,  and  imagined 
that  every  dish  placed  before  him  tasted  of  strychnine.  This 
life  of  torture  was  intolerable,  so  with  a  desire  for  revenge  as 
much  as  with  a  view  of  securing  his  personal  safety,  he  deter- 
mined to  anticipate  a  struggle  which  he  felt  must  terminate 
in  the  death  of  either  De  Clameran  or  himself.  "Better  kill 
the  devil,"  said  he,  "than  be  killed  by  him."  In  his  days  of 
poverty,  Raoul  had  often  risked  his  liberty  to  obtain  a  few 
guineas,  and  would  not  have  hesitated  to  make  short  work  of 
a  person  like  De  Clameran.  But  with  money  prudence  had 
come.  He  wished  to  enjoy  his  four  hundred  thousand  francs 
without  being  compromised  by  committing  a  murder  which 
might  be  discovered;  he  therefore  began  to  devise  some  other 
means  of  getting  rid  of  his  dreaded  accomplice.  In  the  mean 
time,  he  thought  it  would  be  a  good  thing  to  thwart  De  Cla- 
meran's  marriage  with  Madeleine.  He  was  sure  that  he  would 
thus  strike  him  to  the  heart,  and  this  was  at  least  a  satisfaction. 
Raoul  was  persuaded  that,  by  openly  siding  with  Madeleine 
and  her  aunt,  he  could  save  them  from  De  Clameran's  clutches. 
Having  fully  resolved  upon  this  course,  he  wrote  a  note  to 
Madame  Fauvel  asking  for  an  interview.  The  poor  woman 
hastened  to  Vesinet  convinced  that  some  new  misfortune  was 
in  store  for  her.  Her  alarm  was  groundless.  She  found 
Raoul  more  tender  and  affectionate  than  he  had  ever  been.  He 
saw  the  necessity  of  reassuring  her,  and  winning  his  old  place 
in  her  forgiving  heart,  before  making  his  disclosures.  He 
succeeded.  The  poor  lady  had  a  smiling  and  happy  look  as 
She  sat  in  an  armchair,  with  Raoul  kneeling  beside  her. 

"I  have  distressed  you  too  long,  my  dear  mother,"  he  said 
in  his  softest  tones ;  "but  I  repent  sincerely ;  now  listen  to  me." 

He  had  not  time  to  say  more;  the  door  was  violently  thrown 


FILE   NUMBER   113  1235 

open,  and  Raoul,  springing  to  his  feet,  was  confronted  by  Mi 
Fauvel.  The  banker  had  a  revolver  in  his  hand,  and  was 
ghastly  pale.  It  was  evident  that  he  was  making  superhuman 
efforts  to  remain  calm,  like  a  judge  whose  duty  it  is  to  justly 
punish    crime. 

"Ah,"  he  exclaimed  with  a  horrible  laugh,  "you  look  sur- 
prised. You  did  not  expect  me?  You  thought  that  my  im- 
becile credulity  assured  you  an  eternal  immunity !"  Raoul  had 
the  courage  to  place  himself  before  Madame  Fauvel,  and  to 
stand  prepared  to  receive  the  expected  bullet.  "I assure  you, 
uncle,"  he  began.  "Enough  !"  interrupted  the  banker  with  an 
angry  gesture,  "let  me  hear  no  more  infamous  falsehoods ! 
End  this  odious  comedy,  of  which  I  am  no  longer  the  dupe." 

"I  swear  to  you — " 

"Spare  yourself  the  trouble  of  denying  anything.  Do  you 
not  see  that  I  know  all?  I  know  who  pawned  my  wife's  dia- 
monds. I  know  who  committed  the  robbery  for  which  an 
innocent  man  was  arrested  and  imprisoned !" 

Madame  Fauvel,  white  with  terror,  fell  upon  her  knees.  At 
last  it  had  come — the  dreadful  day  had  come.  Vainly  had  she 
added  falsehood  to  falsehood;  vainly  had  she  sacrificed  herself 
and  others;  all  was  discovered.  She  saw  that  she  was  lost, 
and  wringing  her  hands,  with  her  face  bathed  in  tears,  she 
moaned:  "Pardon,  Andre!     I  beg  you,  forgive  me!" 

At  these  heart-broken  tones,  the  banker  shook  like  a  leaf. 
This  voice  brought  before  him  the  twenty  years  of  happiness 
which  he  had  owed  to  this  woman  who  had  always  been  the 
mistress  of  his  heart,  whose  slightest  wish  had  been  his  law, 
and  who,  by  a  smile  or  a  frown,  could  make  him  the  happiest 
or  the  most  miserable  of  men.  Could  this  wretched  woman 
crouching  at  his  feet  be  his  beloved  Valentine,  the  pure,  inno- 
cent girl  whom  he  had  found  secluded  in  the  chateau  of  La 
Verberie?  Could  this  be  the  cherished  wife  whom  he  had 
worshiped  for  so  many  years?  In  the  memory  of  his  lost 
happiness  never  to  return  he  seemed  to  forget  the  present,  and 
was  almost  melted  to  forgiveness.  "Unhappy  woman."  he 
murmured,  "unhappy  woman !  What  had  I  done  that  you 
should  thus  deceive  me?  Ah,  my  only  fault  was  loving  you 
too  deeply,  and  letting  you  see  it.  One  wearies  of  everything 
in  this  world,  even  happiness.  Did  pure  domestic  joys  pall 
upon  you  and  weary  you,  driving  you  to  seek  the  excitement 
of  sinful  passion?     Were  you  so  tired  of  the  atmosphere  of 


1236  FILE   NUMBER   113 

respect  and  affection  which  surrounded  you  that  you  must 
needs  risk  your  honor  and  mine  by  braving  public  opinion? 
Oh,  into  what  an  abyss  you  have  fallen,  Valentine!  If  you 
were  wearied  by  my  constant  devotion,  had  the  thought  of 
your  children  no  power  to  restrain  your  evil  passions?" 

M.  Fauvel  spoke  slowly,  with  painful  effort,  as  if  each  word 
choked  him.  Raoul,  who  listened  with  attention,  saw  that  if 
the  banker  knew  some  things,  he  certainly  did  not  know  all. 
He  saw  that  erroneous  information  had  misled  the  unhappy 
man,  and  that  he  was  a  victim  of  false  appearances.  He  deter- 
mined to  convince  him  of  the  mistake  under  which  he  was 
laboring.    "Sir,"  he  began,  "will  you  consent  to  listen — " 

But  the  sound  of  Raoul's  voice  was  sufficient  to  break  the 
charm.  "Silence!"  cried  the  banker  with  an  angry  oath;  "si- 
lence !"  For  some  moments  nothing  was  heard  but  the  sobs  of 
Madame  Fauvel. 

"I  came  here,"  continued  the  banker,  "with  the  intention  of 
surprising  and  killing  you  both.  I  have  surprised  you,  but — 
my  courage,  yes,  my  courage  fails  me — I  can  not  kill  an  un- 
armed man."  Raoul  once  more  tried  to  speak.  "Let  me  finish !" 
interrupted  M.  Fauvel.  "Your  life  is  in  my  hands;  the  law 
excuses  the  vengeance  of  an  outraged  husband,  but  I  refuse  to 
take  advantage  of  it.  I  see  on  your  mantelpiece  a  revolver 
similar  to  mine ;  take  it,  and  defend  yourself." 

"Never!" — "Defend  yourself!"  cried  the  banker,  raising  his 
weapon ;  "if  you  do  not — " 

Seeing  the  barrel  of  M.  Fauvel's  revolver  close  to  his  breast, 
Raoul,  in  self-defense,  seized  his  own  and  prepared  to  fire. 
"Stand  in  that  corner  of  the  room,  and  I  will  stand  in  this," 
continued  the  banker;  "and  when  the  clock  strikes,  which  will 
be  in  a  few  seconds,  we  will  both  fire  together." 

They  took  the  places  designated,  and  stood  perfectly  still. 
But  the  horror  of  the  scene  was  too  much  for  Madame  Fauvel 
to  witness  it  any  longer  without  interposing.  She  understood 
but  one  thing:  her  son  and  her  husband  were  about  to  kill  each 
other  before  her  eyes.  Fright  and  horror  gave  her  strength  to 
rise  and  rush  between  the  two  men. 

"For  God's  sake,  have  mercy,  Andre !"  she  cried,  turning  to 
her  husband  and  wringing  her  hands  with  anguish ;  "let  me  tell 
you  everything;  don't  kill  him." 

M.  Fauvel  mistook  this  burst  of  maternal  love  for  the  plead- 
ings of  a  guilty  wife  defending  her  lover.    He  roughly  seized 


FILE   NUMBER   113  1237 

his  wife  by  the  arm  and  thrust  her  aside :  "Get  out  of  the  way !" 
he  cried.  But  she  would  not  be  repulsed;  rushing  up  to  Raoul, 
she  threw  her  arms  around  him,  and  said  to  her  husband :  "Kill 
me,  and  me  alone;  for  I  alone  am  guilty." 

At  these  words  M.  Fauvel's  rage  knew  no  bounds;  he  delib- 
erately took  aim  at  the  guilty  pair  and  fired.  As  neither  Raoul 
nor  Madame  Fauvel  fell,  the  banker  fired  a  second  time;  then 
a  third.  He  was  preparing  for  a  fourth  shot  when  a  man 
rushed  into  the  room,  snatched  the  revolver  from  the  banker's 
hand,  and,  throwing  him  on  the  sofa,  ran  toward  Madame  Fau- 
vel. This  man  was  M.  Verduret,  who  had  been  warned  by 
Cavaillon,  but  who  did  not  know  that  Nina  had  withdrawn  the 
charges  from  M.  Fauvel's  weapon.  "Thank  Heaven !"  he  ex- 
claimed, "she  is  unhurt." 

But  the  banker  had  already  regained  his  feet.  "Leave  me 
alone,"  he  cried,  struggling  to  get  free ;  "I  will  have  vengeance !" 
M.  Verduret  seized  his  wrists  in  a  viselike  grasp,  and  in  a 
solemn  tone,  so  as  to  give  more  weight  to  his  words,  he  said: 
"Thank  God  you  are  saved  from  committing  a  terrible  crime; 
the  anonymous  letter  deceived  you." 

M.  Fauvel  never  once  thought  of  asking  this  stranger  who 
he  was  and  where  he  came  from.  He  heard  and  understood 
but  one  fact:  the  anonymous  letter  had  lied.  "But  my  wife 
confesses  her  guilt,"  he  stammered.  "Yes,"  replied  M.  Ver- 
duret, "but  not  of  the  crime  you  imagine.  Do  you  know  who 
that  man  is  that  you  wish  to  kill  ?" 

"Her  lover !" 

"No:  her  son!" 

The  presence  of  this  well-informed  stranger  seemed  to  con- 
found Raoul  and  to  frighten  him  more  than  M.  Fauvel's  threats 
had  done.  Yet  he  had  sufficient  presence  of  mind  to  say:  "It 
is  the  truth !" 

The  banker  looked  wildly  from  Raoul  to  M.  Verduret;  then, 
fastening  his  haggard  eyes  on  his  wife,  exclaimed:  "What  you 
tell  me  is  not  possible !  Give  me  proofs !" — "You  shall  have 
proofs,"  replied  M.  Verduret;  "but  first  listen." 

And  rapidly  he  related  the  principal  events  of  the  drama  he 
had  discovered.  The  true  state  of  the  case  was  terribly  dis- 
tressing to  M.  Fauvel,  but  nothing  compared  with  what  he  had 
suspected.  His  throbbing,  yearning  heart  told  him  that  he  still 
loved  his  wife.  Why  should  he  punish  a  fault  committed  so 
very  long  ago,  and  atoned  for  by  twenty  years  of  devotion  and 


1238  FILE    NUMBER   113 

suffering?  For  some  moments  after  M.  Verduret  had  finished 
his  explanation,  M.  Fauvel  remained  silent.  So  many  strange 
events  had  happened,  following  each  other  in  such  quick  suc- 
cession, and  culminating  in  the  shocking  scene  which  had  just 
taken  place,  that  M.  Fauvel  seemed  to  be  too  bewildered  to 
think  clearly.  If  his  heart  counseled  pardon  and  forgetfulness, 
wounded  pride  and  self-respect  demanded  vengeance.  If  Raoul, 
the  baleful  witness,  the  living  proof  of  a  far-off  sin,  were  not 
in  existence,  M.  Fauvel  would  not  have  hesitated.  Gaston  de 
Clameran  was  dead;  he  would  have  held  out  his  arms  to  his 
wife,  saying :  "Come  to  my  heart !  your  sacrifices  for  my  honor 
shall  be  your  absolution;  let  the  sad  past  be  forgotten."  But 
the  sight  of  Raoul  froze  the  words  upon  his  lips. 

"So  this  is  your  son,"  said  he  to  his  wife,  "this  man,  who 
has  plundered  you  and  robbed  me !"  Madame  Fauvel  was  un- 
able to  utter  a  word  in  reply  to  these  reproachful  words.  "Oh !" 
said  M.  Verduret,  "madame  will  tell  you  that  this  young  man 
is  the  son  of  Gaston  de  Clameran;  she  has  never  doubted  it. 
But,  the  truth  is—" 

"What !" 

"That,  in  order  to  swindle  her  more  easily,  he  has  perpetrated 
a  gross  imposture." 

During  the  last  few  minutes  Raoul  had  been  quietly  creeping 
toward  the  door,  hoping  to  escape  while  no  one  was  thinking 
of  him.  But  M.  Verduret,  who  anticipated  his  intention,  was 
watching  him  out  of  the  corner  of  his  eye,  and  stopped  him 
just  as  he  was  about  leaving  the  room.  "Not  so  fast,  my  pretty 
youth,"  he  said,  dragging  him  into  the  middle  of  the  apartment; 
"it  is  not  polite  to  leave  us  so  unceremoniously.  Let  us  have 
a  little  explanation  before  parting!" 

M.  Verduret's  jeering  words  and  mocking  manner  were  a 
revelation  for  Raoul.  "The  merry-andrew !"  he  gasped,  starting 
back  with  an  affrighted  Jook. 

"The  same,  my  friend,"  said  the  stout  man.  "Ah,  now  that 
you  recognize  me,  I  confess  that  the  merry-andrew  and  myself 
are  one  and  the  same;  here  is  proof  of  it."  And  turning  up 
his  sleeve  he  showed  his  bare  arm.  "I  imagine  you  know  the 
villain  that  gave  me  this  little  decoration  that  night  I  was  walk- 
ing along  the  Rue  Bourdaloue.  That  being  the  case,  you  know 
I  have  a  slight  claim  upon  you,  and  shall  expect  you  to  relate 
to  us  your  little  story."  But  Raoul  was  so  terrified  that  he 
could  not  utter  a  word.    "Your  modesty  prevents  your  speak- 


FILE   NUMBER    113  1239 

ing,"  said  M.  Verduret.  "Bravo !  modesty  belongs  to  talent, 
and  for  one  of  your  age  you  certainly  have  displayed  a  talent 
for  knavery." 

M.  Fauvel  listened  without  understanding  a  word  of  what 
was  said.  "Into  what  abyss  of  shame  have  we  fallen !"  he 
groaned. — "Reassure  yourself,  sir,"  replied  M.  Verduret  in  a 
serious  tone.  "After  what  I  have  been  constrained  to  tell  you, 
what  remains  to  be  said  is  a  mere  trifle.  This  is  the  end  of 
the  story.  On  leaving  Mihonne,  who  had  given  him  a  full 
account  of  the  misfortunes  of  Mademoiselle  Valentine  de  la 
Verberie,  De  Clameran  hastened  to  London.  He  had  no  diffi- 
culty in  finding  the  farmer's  wife  to  whom  the  old  comtesse 
had  intrusted  Gaston's  son.  But  here  an  unexpected  disappoint- 
ment greeted  him.  He  learned  that  the  child,  who  was  regis- 
tered on  the  parish  books  as  Raoul  Valentin  Wilson,  had  died 
of  the  croup  when  eighteen  months  old." 

Raoul  tried  to  protest.  '"Did  any  one  dare  say  that?"  he 
commenced. 

"It  was  not  only  stated,  but  proved,  my  pretty  youth,"  replied 
M.  Verduret.  "You  don't  suppose  I  am  a  man  to  trust  to  mere 
gossip;  do  you?"  He  drew  from  his  pocket  several  stamped 
documents,  and  laid  them  on  the  table.  "These  are  the  declara- 
tions of  the  nurse,  her  husband,  and  four  witnesses.  Here  is 
an  extract  from  the  registry  of  births;  this  is  the  certificate  of 
registry  of  death ;  and  all  these  are  authenticated  at  the  French 
Embassy.     Now,  are  you  satisfied,  young  man?" 

"What  next?"  inquired  M.  Fauvel. — "De  Clameran,"  replied 
M.  Verduret,  "finding  that  the  child  was  dead,  supposed  that 
he  could,  in  spite  of  this  disappointment,  obtain  money  from 
Madame  Fauvel;  he  was  mistaken.  His  first  attempt  failed. 
Having  an  inventive  turn  of  mind,  he  determined  that  the  child 
should  come  to  life  again.  Among  his  large  circle  of  rascally 
acquaintance,  he  selected  the  young  fellow  who  stands  before 
you." 

Madame  Fauvel  was  in  a  pitiable  state.  And  yet  she  began 
to  feel  a  ray  of  hope;  her  acute  anxiety  had  so  long  tortured 
her  that  the  truth  was  a  relief.  "Can  this  be  possible?"  she 
murmured,  "can  it  be?" — "What!"  cried  the  banker;  "can  an 
infamous  plot  like  this  be  planned  in  the  present  day?" 

"All  this  is  false !"  said  Raoul  boldly. 

M.  Verduret  turned  to  Raoul  and,  bowing  with  ironical  re- 
spect, said:  "You  desire  proofs,  sir,  do  you?     You  shall  cer- 


1240  FILE   NUMBER   113 

tainly  have  convincing  ones.  I  have  just  left  a  friend  of  mine, 
M.  Palot,  who  brought  me  valuable  information  from  London. 
Now,  my  young  gentleman,  I  will  tell  you  the  little  story  he 
told  me,  and  then  you  can  give  your  opinion  of  it.  In  1847 
Lord  Murray,  a  wealthy  and  generous  nobleman,  had  a  jockey 
named  Spencer,  of  whom  he  was  very  fond.  At  the  Epsom 
races  this  jockey  was  thrown  from  his  horse  and  killed.  Lord 
Murray  grieved  over  the  loss  of  his  favorite,  and,  having  no 
children  of  his  own,  declared  his  intention  of  adopting  Spencer's 
son,  who  was  then  but  four  years  old.  Thus  James  Spencer  was 
brought  up  in  affluence,  as  heir  to  the  immense  wealth  of  the 
noble  lord.  He  was  a  handsome,  intelligent  boy,  and  gave  sat- 
isfaction to  his  protector  until  he  was  sixteen  years  of  age, 
when  he  became  intimate  with  a  worthless  set  of  people,  and 
went  to  the  bad.  Lord  Murray,  who  was  very  indulgent,  par- 
doned many  grave  faults;  but  one  fine  morning  he  discovered 
that  his  adopted  son  had  been  imitating  his  signature  upon 
some  checks.  He  indignantly  dismissed  him  from  his  house, 
and  told  him  never  to  show  his  face  there  again.  James  Spen- 
cer had  been  living  in  London  about  four  years,  managing  to 
support  himself  by  gambling  and  swindling,  when  he  met  De 
Clameran,  who  offered  him  twenty-five  thousand  francs  to  play 
a  part  in  a  little  comedy  which  he  had  himself  arranged." 

"You  are  a  detective !"  interrupted  Raoul,  not  caring  to  hear 
any  more.    The  stout  man  smiled  blandly. 

"At  present,"  he  replied,  "I  am  merely  Prosper  Bertomy's 
friend.  It  depends  entirely  upon  yourself  as  to  which  char- 
acter I  shall  hereafter  appear  in." 

"What  do  you  require  me  to  do?" 

"Where  are  the  three  hundred  and  fifty  thousand  francs  which 
you  have  stolen?" 

The  young  rascal  hesitated  a  moment  and  then  said:  "The 
money  is  here." 

"Very  good.  This  frankness  will  be  of  service  to  you.  I 
know  that  the  money  is  in  this  room,  and  also  that  it  is  at  the 
bottom  of  that  cupboard.  Do  you  intend  to  refund  it?"  Raoul 
saw  that  his  game  was  lost.  He  tremblingly  went  to  the  cup- 
board and  pulled  out  several  rolls  of  bank-notes,  and  an  enor- 
mous package  of  pawnbroker's  tickets. 

"Very  well  done,"  said  M.  Verduret  as  he  carefully  examined 
the  money  and  papers:  "this  is  the  most  sensible  step  you  ever 
took."     Raoul  relied  on  this  moment,  when  everybody's  atten- 


FILE    NUMBER   113  1241 

tion  would  be  absorbed  by  the  money,  to  make  his  escape.  He 
crept  toward  the  door,  gently  opened  it,  slipped  out,  and  locked 
it,  for  the  key  was  on  the  outside. 

"He  has  escaped  !"  cried  M.  Fauvel. 

"Of  course,"  replied  M.  Verduret  without  even  looking  up: 
"I  thought  he  would  have  sense  enough  to  do  that." 

"But  is  he  to  go  unpunished?" 

"My  dear  sir,  would  you  have  this  affair  become  a  public 
scandal?  Do  you  wish  your  wife's  name  to  be  brought  into  a 
case  of  this  nature  at  the  police  court?" 

"Never !" 

"Then  the  best  thing  you  can  do  is  to  let  the  rascal  go. 
Here  are  receipts  for  all  the  articles  which  he  has  pawned,  so 
that  we  should  consider  ourselves  fortunate.  He  has  kept  fifty 
thousand  francs,  but  that  is  all  the  better  for  you.  That  sum 
will  enable  him  to  leave  France,  and  we  shall  never  see  him 
again." 

Like  every  one  else,  M.  Fauvel  yielded  to  M.  Verduret's 
ascendency.  Gradually  he  had  awakened  to  the  true  state  of 
affairs ;  prospective  happiness  no  longer  seemed  impossible,  and 
he  felt  that  he  was  indebted  to  the  man  before  him  for  more 
than  life.  With  earnest  gratitude  he  seized  M.  Verduret's 
hand  as  if  to  carry  it  to  his  lips,  and  said  in  broken  tones : 
"How  can  I  ever  find  words  to  express  how  deeply  I  appreciate 
your  kindness?  How  can  I  ever  repay  the  great  service 
you  have  rendered  me?"  M.  Verduret  reflected  a  moment,  and 
then  replied:  "If  you  consider  yourself  under  any  obligations 
to  me,  sir,  I  have  a  favor  to  ask  of  you." 

"A    favor !     Speak,  sir,  you  have  but  to  name  it." 

"I  will  not  hesitate,  then,  to  explain  myself.  I  am  Prosper's 
friend.  You  can  restore  him  to  his  former  honorable  position. 
You  can  do  so  much  for  him,  sir !  he  loves  Mademoiselle  Made- 
leine—" 

"Madeleine  shall  be  his  wife,  sir,"  interrupted  the  banker; 
"I  give  you  my  word.  And  I  will  so  publicly  exonerate  him 
that  not  a  shadow  of  suspicion  will  ever  rest  upon  his  name." 

The  stout  man  quietly  took  up  his  hat  and  cane,  as  if  he  had 
been  paying  an  ordinary  call.  "You  will  excuse  my  importun- 
ing you,"  said  he,  "but  Madame  Fauvel — " 

"Andre !"  murmured  the  wretched  woman,  "Andre !" 

The  banker  hesitated  a  moment,  then,  following  the  impulse 
of  his  heart,  ran  to  his  wife,  and,  clasping  her  in  his  arms,  said 


1242  FILE   NUMBER    113 

tenderly:  "No,  I  will  not  be  foolish  enough  to  struggle  against 
my  heart.    I  do  not  pardon,  Valentine,  I  forget;  I  forget  all!" 

M.  Verduret  had  nothing  more  to  do  at  Vesinet.  Without 
taking  leave  of  the  banker,  he  unlocked  the  door,  quietly  left 
the  room,  and,  jumping  into  his  cab,  ordered  the  driver  to 
return  to  Paris  and  drive  to  the  Hotel  du  Louvre.  His  mind 
was  filled  with  anxiety.  He  knew  that  Raoul  would  give  him 
no  more  trouble ;  the  young  rogue  was  probably  far  off  by  that 
time.  But  De  Clameran  should  not  escape  unpunished;  and 
how  this  punishment  could  be  brought  about  without  compro- 
mising Madame  Fauvel  was  the  problem  to  be  solved.  M. 
Verduret  thought  over  various  expedients,  but  not  one  could  be 
applied  to  the  present  circumstances.  After  long  thought  he 
decided  that  an  accusation  of  poisoning  must  be  made  at 
Oloron.  He  would  go  there  and  work  upon  "public  opinion," 
so  that,  to  satisfy  the  townspeople,  the  authorities  would  order 
a  post-mortem  examination  of  Gaston's  body.  But  this  mode 
of  proceeding  required  time;  and  De  Clameran  would  cer- 
tainly escape  before  long.  He  was  bemoaning  his  inability  to 
come  to  a  satisfactory  decision,  when  the  cab  stopped  in  front 
of  the  Hotel  du  Louvre.  It  was  almost  dark.  A  crowd  of 
people  was  collected  round  about  the  entrance,  eagerly  dis- 
cussing some  exciting  event  which  seemed  to  have  just  taken 
place. 

"What  has  happened?"  asked  M.  Verduret  of  one  of  the 
crowd. — "The  strangest  thing  you  have  ever  heard  of,"  replied 
the  man;  "yes,  I  saw  it  with  my  own  eyes.  He  first  appeared 
at  that  seventh-story  window;  he  was  only  half-dressed.  Some 
men  tried  to  seize  him;  but,  bah!  with  the  agility  of  a  squirrel, 
he  jumped  out  upon  the  roof,  shrieking:  'Murder!  murder!' 
The  recklessness  of  his  conduct  led  me  to  suppose — "  The 
gossip  stopped  short  in  his  narrative,  very  much  surprised  and 
vexed ;  his  questioner  had  vanished. 

"If  it  should  be  De  Clameran!"  thought  M.  Verduret;  "if 
terror  has  deranged  that  brain,  so  capable  of  working  out  great 
crimes !" 

While  thus  talking  to  himself,  he  elbowed  his  way  into  the 
courtyard  of  the  hotel.  At  the  foot  of  the  principal  staircase 
he  found  M.  Fanferlot  and  three  peculiar  looking  individuals 
waiting  together.  "Well !"  cried  M.  Verduret,  "what  is  the 
matter?"  With  laudable  precision  the  four  men  stood  at  atten- 
tion.    "The  chief!"  said  they.— "Come !"   said  the   stout  man 


FILE   NUMBER    113  1213 

with  an  oath.  "What  has  happened  ?"— 'This  is  what  has  hap- 
pened, sir,"  said  Fanferlot  dejectedly.  T  am  doomed  to  ill 
luck.  You  see  how  it  is;  this  is  the  only  chance  I  ever  had 
of  working  out  a  beautiful  case,  and  puff!  my  criminal  goes 
and  sells  me." 

"Then  it  is  De  Clameran  who — " 

"Of  course  it  is.  When  the  rascal  saw  me  this  morning  he 
scampered  off  like  a  hare.  You  should  have  seen  him  run;  I 
thought  he  would  never  stop  this  side  of  Ivry.  but  not  at  all. 
On  reaching  the  Boulevard  des  Ecoles,  a  sudden  idea  seemed 
to  strike  him,  and  he  made  a  bee-line  for  his  hotel;  I  suppose 
to  secure  his  pile  of  money.  Directly  he  gets  here,  what  does 
he  see?  These  three  friends  of  mine.  The  sight  of  these 
gentlemen  had  the  effect  of  a  sunstroke  upon  him;  he  went 
raving  mad  on  the  spot.' 

"Where  is  he  now?" 

"At  the  Prefecture,  I  suppose.  Some  policemen  handcuffed 
him  and  drove  off  with  him  in  a  cab." 

"Come  with  me." 

M.  Verduret  and  Fanferlot  found  De  Clameran  in  one  of 
the  private  cells  reserved  for  dangerous  prisoners.  He  had  on 
a  strait-waistcoat  and  was  struggling  violently  against  three 
men  who  were  striving  to  hold  him,  while  a  physician  tried 
to  force  him  to  swallow  a  potion.  "Help !"  he  shrieked,  "help, 
for  God's  sake !  Do  you  not  see  my  brother  coming  after  me  ? 
Look !  he  wants  to  poison  me !"  M.  Verduret  took  the  physi- 
cian aside,  and  asked  him  a  few  questions.  "The  wretched 
man  is  in  a  hopeless  state,"  replied  the  doctor ;  "this  species  of 
insanity  is  incurable.  He  thinks  some  one  is  trying  to  poison 
him,  and  nothing  will  persuade  him  to  eat  or  drink  anything; 
he  will  die  of  starvation,  after  having  suffered  all  the  tortures 
of  poison." 

M.  Verduret  shuddered  as  he  left  the  Prefecture.  "Madame 
Fauvel  is  saved,"  he  murmured,  "since  God  has  himself  pun- 
ished De  Clameran !" 

"That  doesn't  help  me  in  the  least,"  grumbled  Fanferlot. 
"The  idea  of  all  my  trouble  and  labor  ending  in  this  way!" 

"True,"  replied  M.  Verduret,  "the  File  Number  113  will  never 
leave  its  portfolio.  But  console  yourself;  before  the  end  of  the 
month  I  will  give  you  a  letter  to  a  friend  of  mine,  and  what 
you  have  lost  in  fame  you  will  gain  in  gold." 

•  •••••••  •)  'Ji  (•! 


1244 


FILE   NUMBER   113 


{\  NE  morning  some  days  later,  M.  Lecoq — the  official  Lecoq, 
^^  who  resembles  the  head  of  a  department — was  walking  up 
and  down  his  private  office,  looking  at  the  clock  at  every  mo- 
ment. At  last,  a  bell  rang,  and  the  faithful  Janouille  ushered 
in  Madame  Nina  and  Prosper  Bertomy.  "Ah,"  said  M.  Lecoq, 
"you  are  punctual,  my  fond  lovers;  that  is  well." 

"We  are  not  lovers,  sir,"  replied  Madame  Gipsy.  "Only  M. 
Verduret's  express  orders  have  brought  us  together  here  to 
meet  him." — "Very  well,"  said  the  celebrated  detective;  "then 
be  good  enough  to  wait  a  few  minutes:  I  will  tell  him  you  are 
here." 

During  the  quarter  of  an  hour  that  Nina  and  Prosper  re- 
mained alone  together,  they  did  not  exchange  a  word.  Finally 
a  door  opened,  and  M.  Verduret  appeared. 

Nina  and  Prosper  eagerly  started  toward  him ;  but  he  checked 
them  by  one  of  those  looks  which  no  one  ever  dared  resist. 
"You  have  come,"  he  said  severely,  "to  hear  the  secret  of  my 
conduct.  I  have  promised,  and  will  keep  my  word,  however 
painful  it  may  be  to  my  feelings.  Listen,  then.  My  best  friend 
is  a  loyal,  honest  fellow,  named  Caldas.  Eighteen  months  ago 
this  friend  was  the  happiest  of  men.  Infatuated  by  a  woman, 
he  lived  for  her  alone,  and,  fool  that  he  was,  imagined  that  as 
she  owed  all  to  him,  she  loved  him." 

"Yes !"  cried  Nina,  "yes,  she  loved  him !" 

"So  be  it.  She  loved  him  so  much  that  one  fine  night  she 
went  off  with  another  man.  In  his  first  moments  of  despair, 
Caldas  wished  to  kill  himself.  Then  he  reflected  that  it  would 
be  wiser  to  live,  and  avenge  himself." 

"But  then—"  faltered  Prosper. 

"Then  Caldas  avenged  himself  in  his  own  way.  He  made 
the  woman  who  deceived  him  recognize  his  immense  supe- 
riority over  his  rival.  Weak,  timid,  and  without  intelligence, 
the  latter'  was  disgraced  and  falling  into  the  abyss,  when  Cal- 
das's  powerful  hand  saved  him.     For  you  have  understood, 


FILE   NUMBER   113  1245 

have  you  not?  The  woman  is  Nina;  the  seducer  is  yourself; 
and  Caldas  is — " 

With  a  quick,  dexterous  movement  he  threw  off  his  wig  and 
whiskers,  and  stood  before  them  the  real,  intelligent  and  proud 
Lecoq. 

"Caldas !"  cried  Nina. 

"No,  not  Caldas,  nor  Verduret  either,  but  Lecoq,  the  detec- 
tive !" 

There  was  a  moment  of  astonished  silence,  then  M.  Lecoq 
turned  to  Prosper  and  said :  "It  is  not  to  me  alone  that  you  owe 
your  salvation.  A  noble  girl  in  confiding  in  me  rendered  my 
task  easy.  I  mean  Mademoiselle  Madeleine;  I  promised  her 
that  M.  Fauvel  should  never  know  anything.  Your  letter  made 
it  impossible  for  me  to  keep  my  promise.    That  is  all." 

He  turned  to  leave  the  room,  but  Nina  stopped  him.  "Cal- 
das," she  murmured,  "I  implore  you  to  have  pity  on  me.  I  am 
so  miserable.  Ah,  if  you  only  knew !  Be  forgiving  to  one  who 
has  always  loved  you,  Caldas  !     Listen — " 

Prosper  departed  from  M.  Lecoq's  office  alone. 


On  the  15th  of  last  month  was  celebrated,  at  the  church  of 
Notre  Dame  de  Lorette,  the  marriage  of  M.  Prosper  Bertomy 
and  Mademoiselle  Madeleine  Fauvel. 

The  banking-house  is  still  in  the  Rue  de  Provence;  but  as 
M.  Fauvel  has  determined  to  retire  from  business,  and  live  in 
the  country,  the  name  of  the  firm  has  been  changed,  and  is 
now:  "Prosper  Bertomy  &  Co." 


THE   END 


THE    LITTLE    OLD    MAN 
OF    BATIGNOLLES 


<Sat>.—  Vol.  IV  Q 


THE    LITTLE    OLD     MAN 
OF    BATIGNOLLES 

A  CHAPTER  OF  THE  MEMOIRS  OF  A  POLICE  AGENT 
J.  B.  CASIMIR  GODEUIL 

THREE  or  four  months  ago,  a  man  of  about  forty,  suitably 
dressed  in  black,  called  at  the  editorial  offices  of  the 
"Petit  Journal." 

He  brought  a  manuscript  in  a  handwriting  which  would  have 
made  the  famous  Brard,  king  of  calligraphers,  faint  for  joy. 

"I  shall  call  again,"  he  told  us,  "in  a  fortnight,  to  find  out 
what  you  think  of  my  work." 

Nobody  having  curiosity  enough  to  unknot  the  string,  the 
manuscript  was  religiously  placed  in  the  pile  of  "Works  to  be 
lead." 

Time  passed. 

I  must  add  that  a  great  many  manuscripts  are  brought  to  the 
"Petit  Journal,"  and  that  the  position  of  a  reader  here  is  not  a 
sinecure. 

The  gentleman,  however,  did  not  appear  again,  and  had  been 
forgotten,  when  one  morning  one  of  our  collaborators,  who  was 
in  charge  of  the  readings,  hurried  to  us  excitedly. 

"Upon  my  word !"  he  exclaimed,  entering,  "I  just  read  some- 
thing truly  extraordinary." 

"Well,  what  is  it?" 

"That  gentleman's  manuscript — you  know,  the  one  all  dressed 
in  black — I  was  completely  carried  away  with  it." 

And  as  we  made  fun  of  his  enthusiasm,  he  whose  profession 
it  is  not  to  get  enthusiastic,  he  threw  the  manuscript  on  the 
table,  saying: 

"Read  it  then !" 

There  was  enough  of  it  to  seriously  puzzle  us.  One  of  us 
took  possession  of  the  manuscript,  and  by  the  end  of  the  week 
it  had  made  the  round  of  the  editorial  office. 

1249 


1250   THE  LITTLE  OLD  MAN  OF  BATIGNOLLES 

And  the  unanimous  opinion  was : 

The  "Petit  Journal"  must  absolutely  publish  it. 

But  here  one  difficulty  presented  itself,  which  no  one  had 
foreseen : 

The  author's  name  was  not  on  the  manuscript.  There  was 
only  a  visiting  card  attached  to  it,  reading:  "J.  B.  Casimir 
Godeuil." 

What  was  to  be  done?  Publish  the  work  without  knowing 
its  author?  That  would  have  been  dangerous.  A  man  must 
accept  responsibility  for  every  line  printed. 

It  was  then  decided  to  search  for  this  too  modest  author,  and 
for  the  next  few  days  the  editors  of  the  "Petit  Journal"  in- 
quired and  sent  for  information  everywhere. 

Nothing.     Nobody  knew  J.  B.  Casimir  Godeuil. 

Then,  out  of  desperation,  were  put  up  those  enigmatic  posters, 
which  for  a  week  mystified  all  Paris,  and,  to  some  extent,  the 
suburbs. 

"Who  can  that  J.  B.  Casimir  Godeuil  be,  who  is  thus  adver- 
tised for?"  people  asked  themselves. 

Some  thought  him  a  prodigal  child,  escaped  from  his  home; 
others  a  missing  heir,  but  the  most  took  him  to  be  an  absconding 
cashier. 

But  our  end  was  attained. 

The  paste  on  the  posters  had  not  yet  dried,  when  M.  J.  B. 
Casimir  Godeuil  himself  appeared,  and  the  "Petit  Journal"  was 
arranging  with  him  for  the  publishing  of  the  tragedy  entitled 
"The  Little  Old  Man  of  Batignolles,"  which  is  the  first  of  the 
series  of  his  memoirs.* 

This  said,  we  shall  let  M.  J.  B.  Casimir  Godeuil  speak.  His 
story  is  preceded  by  the  following  short  preface,  which  we 
thought  it  best  to  preserve,  as  it  shows  what  he  was  and  what 
praiseworthy  purpose  he  had  in  view  in  writing  his  recollections. 

*  Unfortunately  J.  B.  Casimir  Godeuil,  who  had  promised  to  bring  the  continua- 
tion of  his  manuscript,  disappeared  again  completely,  and  all  steps  taken  to  find  him 
have  remained  unsuccessful.  We  have,  nevertheless,  decided  to  publish  his  odd 
narration,  which  contains  one  of  his  most  stirring  tragedies. — Editor's  Note. 


INTRODUCTION 


A  PRISONER  had  just  been  brought  before  the  trial 
judge,  and,  notwithstanding  his  denials,  his  evasions, 
and  an  alibi  which  he  claimed,  was  convicted  of  for- 
gery and  burglary. 

Overwhelmed  by  the  evidence  of  the  charges  I  had  gathered 
against  him,  he  confessed  his  crime,  exclaiming: 

"Oh !  Had  I  known  the  power  of  the  courts  and  the  police, 
and  how  impossible  it  is  to  escape  them,  I  would  have  remained 
an  honest  man." 

It  was  on  hearing  this  that  the  idea  occurred  to  me  to  gather 
together  my  recollections. 

"The  people  must  know !"  I  said  to  myself. 

And  in  publishing  to-day  my  memoirs,  I  hope,  nay,  I  shall 
even  say  I  am  convinced,  that  I  am  accomplishing  a  moral 
work  of  the  highest  utility. 

Is  it  not  being  useful  to  strip  crime  of  its  sinister  romance 
and  expose  it  as  it  is :  cowardly,  ignoble,  base,  repulsive  ? 

Is  it  not  being  useful  to  prove  that  there  are  no  beings  in  the 
world  as  wretched  as  the  madmen  who  have  declared  war  on 
society  ? 

That  is  what  I  claim  to  do. 

I  shall  establish  beyond  a  doubt  that  it  is  one's  whole  inter- 
est— and  I  add,  one's  immediate,  positive,  mathematical,  and 
even  discountable  interest — to  be  honest. 

I  shall  prove  it  as  clear  as  day  that  with  our  social  organiza- 
tion, thanks  to  the  railroads  and  to  the  electric  telegraph, 
escape  is  impossible. 

Punishment  may  be  delayed — but  it  always  comes. 

Without  doubt  there  will  be  some  unfortunate  ones  who  will 
reflect  before  giving  themselves  up  to  crime. 

More  than  one  whom  the  feeble  murmuring  of  conscience 

1251 


1252  INTRODUCTION 

could  not  hold  back  will  be  stopped  by  the  salutary  voice  of 
fear. 

Must  I  now  explain  what  these  recollections  are? 

I  shall  attempt  to  describe  the  struggles,  the  successes,  and 
the  defeats  of  a  handful  of  devoted  men  charged  with  the  main- 
tenance of  safety  in  Paris. 

How  many  are  there  to  keep  in  check  all  the  evildoers  in  a 
capital  which,  with  its  suburbs,  numbers  more  than  three 
million  inhabitants  ? 

There  are  two  hundred. 

It  is  to  them  that  I  dedicate  this  book. 

With  this  much  said,  I  begin. 


THE    LITTLE    OLD    MAN 
OF    BATIGNOLLES 


WHEN  I  had  finished  my  studies  in  order  to  become  a 
health  officer,  a  happy  time  it  was ,  I  was  twenty-three 
years  of  age.  I  lived  in  the  Rue  Monsieur-le-Prince, 
almost  at  the  corner  of  the  Rue  Racine. 

There  I  had  for  thirty  francs  a  month,  service  included,  a 
furnished  room,  which  to-day  would  certainly  be  worth  a  hun- 
dred francs;  it  was  so  spacious  that  I  could  easily  put  my  arms 
in  the  sleeves  of  my  overcoat  without  opening  the  window. 

Since  I  left  early  in  the  morning  to  make  the  calls  for  my 
hospital,  and  since  I  returned  very  late,  because  the  Cafe  Leroy 
had  irresistible  attractions  for  me,  I  scarcely  knew  by  sight  the 
tenants  in  my  house,  peaceable  people  all ;  some  living  on  their 
incomes,  and  some  small  merchants. 

There  was  one,  however,  to  whom,  little  by  little,  I  became 
attached. 

He  was  a  man  of  average  size,  insignificant,  always 
scrupulously  shaved,  who  was  pompously  called  "Monsieur 
Mechinet." 

The  doorkeeper  treated  him  with  a  most  particular  regard, 
and  never  omitted  quickly  to  lift  his  cap  as  he  passed  the  lodge. 

As  M.  Mechinet's  apartment  opened  on  my  landing,  directly 
opposite  the  door  of  my  room,  we  repeatedly  met  face  to  face. 
On  such  occasions  we  saluted  one  another. 

One  evening  he  came  to  ask  me  for  some  matches ;  another 
night  I  borrowed  tobacco  of  him ;  one  morning  it  happened 
that  we  both  left  at  the  same  time,  and  walked  side  by  side  for 
a  little  stretch,  talking. 

Such  were  our  first  relations. 

Without  being  curious  or  mistrusting — one  is  neither  at  the 
age  I  was  then — we  like  to  know  what  to  think  about  people 
to  whom  we  become  attached. 

T253 


1254  THE  LITTLE  OLD  MAN  OF  BATIGNOLLES 

Thus  I  naturally  came  to  observe  my  neighbor's  way  of  liv- 
ing, and  became  interested  in  his  actions  and  gestures. 

He  was  married.  Madame  Caroline  Mechinet,  blonde  and 
fair,  small,  gay  and  plump,  seemed  to  adore  her  husband. 

But  the  husband's  conduct  was  none  too  regular  for  that. 
Frequently  he  decamped  before  daylight,  and  often  the  sun  had 
set  before  I  heard  him  return  to  his  domicile.  At  times  he 
disappeared  for  whole  weeks. 

That  the  pretty  little  Madame  Mechinet  should  tolerate  this 
is  what  I  could  not  understand. 

Puzzled,  I  thought  that  our  concierge,  ordinarily  as  much  a 
babbler  as  a  magpie,  would  give  me  some  explanation. 

Not  so !  Hardly  had  I  pronounced  Mechinet's  name  than, 
without  ceremony,  he  sent  me  about  my  business,  telling  me, 
as  he  rolled  his  eyes,  that  he  was  not  in  the  habit  of  "spying" 
upon  his  tenants. 

This  reception  doubled  my  curiosity  to  such  an  extent  that, 
banishing  all  shame,  I  began  to  watch  my  neighbor. 

I  discovered  things. 

Once  I  saw  him  coming  home  dressed  in  the  latest  fashion, 
his  buttonhole  ornamented  with  five  or  six  decorations ;  the 
next  day  I  noticed  him  on  the  stairway  dressed  in  a  sordid 
blouse,  on  his  head  a  cloth  rag,  which  gave  him  a  sinister  air. 

Nor  was  that  all.  One  beautiful  afternoon,  as  he  was  going 
out,  I  saw  his  wife  accompany  him  to  the  threshold  of  their 
apartment  and  there  kiss  him  passionately,  saying: 

"I  beg  you,  Mechinet,  be  prudent ;  think  of  your  little  wife." 

Be  prudent!  Why?  For  what  purpose?  What  did  that 
mean?     The  wife  must  then  be  an  accomplice. 

It  was  not  long  before  my  astonishment  was  doubled. 

One  night,  as  I  was  sleeping  soundly,  some  one  knocked  sud- 
denly and  rapidly  at  my  door. 

I  arose  and  opened. 

M.  Mechinet  entered,  or  rather  rushed  in,  his  clothing  in  dis- 
order and  torn,  his  necktie  and  the  front  of  his  shirt  torn  off, 
bareheaded,  his  face  covered  with  blood. 

"What  has  happened?"  I  exclaimed,  frightened. 

"Not  so  loud,"  said  he ;  "you  might  be  heard.  Perhaps  it  is 
nothing,  although  I  suffer  devilishly.  I  said  to  myself  that 
you,  being  a  medical  student  would  doubtless  know  how  to 
help  me." 


THE  LITTLE  OLD  MAN  OF  BATIGNOLLES  1256 

Without  saying  a  word,  I  made  him  sit  down,  and  hastened  to 
examine  him  and  to  do  for  him  what  was  necessary. 

Although  he  bled  freely,  the  wound  was  a  slight  one — to  tell 
the  truth,  it  was  only  a  superficial  scratch,  starting  from  the 
left  ear  and  reaching  to  the  corner  of  his  mouth. 

The  dressing  of  the  wound  finished,  "Well,  here  I  am  again 
healthy  and  safe  for  this  time,"  M.  Mechinet  said  to  me.  "Thou- 
sand thanks,  dear  Monsieur  Godeuil.  Above  all,  as  a  favor,  do 
not  speak  to  any  one  of  this  little  accident,  and — good  night." 

"Good  night!"  I  had  little  thought  of  sleeping.  When  I 
remember  all  the  absurd  hypotheses  and  the  romantic  imagina- 
tions which  passed  through  my  brain,  I  can  not  help  laughing. 

In  my  mind,  M.  Mechinet  took  on  fantastic  proportions. 

The  next  day  he  came  to  thank  me  again,  and  invited  me  to 
dinner. 

That  I  was  all  eyes  and  ears  when  I  entered  my  neigh- 
bor's home  may  be  rightly  guessed. 

In  vain  did  I  concentrate  my  whole  attention.  I  could  not 
find  out  anything  of  a  nature  to  dissipate  the  mystery  which 
puzzled  me  so  much. 

However,  from  this  dinner  on,  our  relations  became  closer. 
M.  Mechinet  decidedly  favored  me  with  his  friendship.  Rarely 
a  week  passed  without  his  taking  me  along,  as  he  expressed 
it,  to  eat  soup  with  him,  and  almost  daily,  at  the  time  for 
absinthe,  he  came  to  meet  me  at  the  Cafe  Leroy,  where  we 
played  a  game  of  dominoes. 

Thus  it  was  that  on  a  certain  evening  in  the  month  of  July, 
on  a  Friday,  at  about  five  o'clock,  when  he  was  just  about  to 
beat  me  at  "full  double-six,"  an  ugly-looking  bully  abruptly 
entered,  and,  approaching  him,  murmured  in  his  ears  some 
words  I  could  not  hear. 

M.  Mechinet  rose  suddenly,  looking  troubled. 

"I  am  coming,"  said  he;  "run  and  say  that  I  am  coming." 

The  man  ran  off  as  fast  as  his  legs  could  carry  him,  and  then 
M.  Mechinet  offered  me  his  hand. 

"Excuse  me,"  added  my  old  neighbor,  "duty  before  every- 
thing; we  shall  continue  our  game  to-morrow." 

Consumed  with  curiosity,  I  showed  great  vexation,  saying 
that  I  regretted  very  much  not  accompanying  him. 

"Well,"  grumbled  he,  "why  not?  Do  you  want  to  come? 
Perhaps  it  will  be  interesting." 

For  all  answer,  I  took  my  hat  and  we  left. 


1256  THE  LITTLE  OLD  MAN   OF  BATIGNOLLES 


T  WAS  certainly  far  from  thinking  that  I  was  then  venturing 
•  on  one  of  those  apparently  insignificant  steps  which,  never- 
theless, have  a  deciding  influence  on  one's  whole  life. 

For  once,  I  thought  to  myself,  I  am  holding  the  solution  of 
the  enigma ! 

And  full  of  a  silly  and  childish  satisfaction,  I  trotted,  like 
a  lean  cat,  at  the  side  of  M.  Mechinet. 

I  say  "trotted,"  because  I  had  all  I  could  do  not  to  be  left 
behind. 

He  rushed  along,  down  the  Rue  Racine,  running  against  the 
passers-by,  as  if  his  fortune  depended  on  his  legs. 

Luckily,  on  the  Place  de  l'Odeon  a  cab  came  in  our  way. 

M.  Mechinet  stopped  it,  and,  opening  the  door,  "Get  in,  Mon- 
sieur Godeuil,"  said  he  to  me. 

I  obeyed,  and  he  seated  himself  at  my  side,  after  having 
called  to  the  coachman  in  a  commanding  voice:  "39  Rue  Le- 
cluse,  at  Batignolles,  and  drive  fast !" 

The  distance  drew  from  the  coachman  a  string  of  oaths. 
Nevertheless  he  whipped  up  his  broken-down  horses  and  the 
carriage  rolled  off. 

"Oh!  it  is  to  Batignolles  we  are  going?"  I  asked  with  a 
courtier's  smile. 

But  M.  Mechinet  did  not  answer  me;  I  even  doubt  that  he 
heard  me. 

A  complete  change  took  place  in  him.  He  did  not  seem  ex- 
actly agitated,  but  his  set  lips  and  the  contraction  of  his  heavy, 
brushwood-like  eyebrows  betrayed  a  keen  preoccupation.  His 
look,  lost  in  space,  seemed  to  be  studying  there  the  meaning 
of  some  insolvable  problem. 

He  had  pulled  out  his  snuff-box  and  continually  took  from 
it  enormous  pinches  of  snuff,  which  he  kneaded  between  the 
index  and  thumb,  rolled  into  a  ball,  and  raised  it  to  his  nose; 
but  he  did  not  actually  snuff. 


THE  LITTLE  OLD  MAN  OF  BATIGNOLLES   1257 

It  was  a  habit  which  I  had  observed,  and  it  amused  me  very 
much. 

This  worthy  man,  who  abhorred  tobacco,  always  carried  a 
snuff-box  as  large  as  that  of  a  vaudeville  capitalist. 

If  anything  unforeseen  happened  to  him,  either  agreeable  or 
vexatious,  in  a  trice  he  had  it  out,  and  seemed  to  snuff  furiously. 

Often  the  snuff-box  was  empty,  but  his  gestures  remained  the 
same. 

I  learned  later  that  this  was  a  system  with  him  for  the  pur- 
pose of  concealing  his  impressions  and  of  diverting  the  atten- 
tion of  his  questioners. 

In  the  mean  time  we  rolled  on.  The  cab  easily  passed  up 
the  Rue  de  Clichy;  it  crossed  the  exterior  boulevard,  entered 
the  Rue  de  Lecluse,  and  soon  stopped  at  some  distance  from 
the  address  given. 

It  was  materially  impossible  to  go  farther,  as  the  street  was 
obstructed  by  a  compact  crowd. 

In  front  of  No.  39,  two  or  three  hundred  persons  were 
standing,  their  necks  craned,  eyes  gleaming,  breathless  with 
curiosity,  and  with  difficulty  kept  in  bounds  by  half  a  dozen 
sergents  de  ville,  who  were  everywhere  repeating  in  vain  and 
in  their  roughest  voices:  "Move  on,  gentlemen,  move  on!" 

After  alighting  from  the  carriage,  we  approached,  making 
our  way  with  difficulty  through  the  crowd  of  idlers. 

We  already  had  our  hands  on  the  door  of  No.  39,  when  3 
police  officer  rudely  pushed  us  back. 

"K£ep  back !     You  can  not  pass  !" 

My  companion  eyed  him  from  head  to  foot,  and  straighten- 
ing himself  up,  said: 

"Well,  don't  you  know  me?  I  am  Mechinet,  and  this  young 
man,"  pointing  to  me,  "is  with  me." 

"I  beg  your  pardon !  Excuse  me !"  stammered  the  officer, 
carrying  his  hand  to  his  three-cocked  hat.  "I  did  not  know ; 
please  enter." 

We  entered. 

In  the  hall,  a  powerful  woman,  evidently  the  concierge,  more 
red  than  a  peony,  was  holding  forth  and  gesticulating  in  the 
midst  of  a  group  of  house  tenants. 

"Where  is  it?"  demanded  M.  Mechinet  gruffly. 

"Third  floor,  monsieur,"  she  replied ;  "third  floor,  door  to  the 
right.  Oh  !  my  God !  What  a  misfcrtune.  In  a  house  like 
this.     Such  a  good  man." 


1258  THE  LITTLE  OLD  MAN  OF  BATIGNOLLES 

I  did  not  hear  more.  M.  Mechinet  was  rushing  up  the  stairs, 
and  I  followed  him,  four  steps  at  a  time,  my  heart  thumping. 

On  the  third  floor  the  door  to  the  right  was  open.  We  en- 
tered, went  through  an  anteroom,  a  dining-room,  a  parlor,  and 
finally  reached  a  bedroom. 

If  I  live  a  thousand  years  I  shall  not  forget  the  scene  which 
struck  my  eyes.  Even  at  this  moment  as  I  am  writing,  after 
many  years,  I  still  see  it  down  to  the  smallest  details. 

At  the  fireplace  opposite  the  door  two  men  were  leaning  on 
their  elbows:  a  police  commissary,  wearing  his  scarf  of  office, 
and  an  examining  magistrate. 

At  the  right,  seated  at  a  table,  a  young  man,  the  judge's 
clerk,  was  writing. 

In  the  centre  of  the  room,  on  the  floor,  in  a  pool  of  coagu- 
lated and  black  blood,  lay  the  body  of  an  old  man  with  white 
hair.    He  was  lying  on  his  back,  his  arms  folded  crosswise. 

Terrified,  I  stopped  as  if  nailed  to  the  threshold,  so  nearly 
fainting  that  I  was  compelled  to  lean  against  the  door-frame. 

My  profession  had  accustomed  me  to  death;  I  had  long  ago 
overcome  repugnance  to  the  amphitheatre,  but  this  was  the  first 
rime  that  I  found  myself  face  to  face  with  a  crime. 

For  it  was  evident  that  an  abominable  crime  had  been  com- 
mitted. 

Less  sensitive  than  I,  my  neighbor  entered  with  a  firm  step. 

"Oh,  it  is  you,  Mechinet,"  said  the  police  commissary ;  "I  am 
very  sorry  to  have  troubled  you." 

"Why?" 

"Because  we  shall  not  need  your  services.  We  know  the 
guilty  one;  I  have  given  orders;  by  this  time  he  must  have 
been  arrested." 

How  strange ! 

From  M.  Mechinet's  gesture  one  might  have  believed  that 
this  assurance  vexed  him.  He  pulled  out  his  snuff-box,  took 
two  or  three  of  his  fantastic  pinches,  and  said: 

"Ah!  the  guilty  one  is  known?" 

It  was  the  examining  magistrate  who  answered : 

"Yes,  and  known  in  a  certain  and  positive  manner;  yes,  M. 
Mechinet,  the  crime  once  committed,  the  assassin  escaped,  be- 
lieving that  his  victim  had  ceased  living.  He  was  mistaken. 
Providence  was  watching;  this  unfortunate  old  man  was  still 
breathing.  Gathering  all  his  energy,  he  dipped  one  of  his 
fingers  in  the  blood  which  was  flowing  in  streams  from  his 


THE  LITTLE  OLD  MAN  OF  BATIGNOLLES   1259 


wound,  and  there,  on  the  floor,  he  wrote  in  his  blood  his  mur- 
derer's name.     Now  look  for  yourself." 

Then  I  perceived  what  at  first  I  had  not  seen. 

On  the  inlaid  floor,  in  large,  badly  shaped,  but  legible  letters, 
was  written  in  blood :  Monis. 

"Well?"  asked  M.  Mechinet. 

"That,"  answered  the  police  commissary,  "is  the  beginning 
cf  the  name  of  a  nephew  of  the  poor  man ;  of  a  nephew  for 
whom  he  had  an  affection,  and  whose  name  is  Monistrol." 

"The  devil !"  exclaimed  my  neighbor. 

"I  can  not  suppose,"  continued  the  investigating  magistrate, 
"that  the  wretch  would  attempt  denying.  The  five  letters  are 
an  overwhelming  accusation.  Moreover,  who  would  profit  by 
this  cowardly  crime?  He  alone,  as  sole  heir  of  this  old  man, 
who,  they  say,  leaves  a  large  fortune.  There  is  more.  It  was 
last  evening  that  the  murder  was  committed.  Well,  last  even- 
ing none  other  but  his  nephew  called  on  this  poor  old  man. 
The  concierge  saw  him  enter  the  house  at  about  nine  o'clock 
and  leave  again  a  little  before  midnight." 

"It  is  clear,"  said  M.  Mechinet  approvingly ;  "it  is  very  clear, 
this  Monistrol  is  nothing  but  an  idiot."  And,  shrugging  his 
shoulders,  asked: 

"But  did  he  steal  anything,  break  some  piece  of  furniture, 
anything  to  give  us  an  idea  as  to  the  motive  for  the  crime?" 

"Up  to  now  nothing  seems  to  have  been  disturbed,"  answered 
the  commissary.  "As  you  said,  the  wretch  is  not  clever;  as 
soon  as  he  finds  himself  discovered,  he  will  confess." 

Whereupon  the  police  commissary  and  M.  Mechinet  with- 
drew to  the  window,  conversing  in  low  tones,  while  the  judge 
gave  some  instructions  to  his  clerk. 


HAD  wanted  to  know  exactly  what  my  enigmatic  neighbor 
*■      was  doing.     Now  I  knew  it.     Now  everything  was  ex- 
plained.   The  looseness  of  his  life,  his  absences,  his  late  home 
comings,  his  sudden  disappearances,  his  young  wife's  fears  and 


1260  THE  LITTLE  OLD  MAN  OF  BATIGNOLLES 

complicity;  the  wound  I  had  cured.  But  what  did  I  care  now 
about  that  discovery? 

I  examined  with  curiosity  everything  around  me. 

From  where  I  was  standing,  leaning  against  the  door-frame, 
my  eye  took  in  the  entire  apartment. 

Nothing,  absolutely  nothing,  evidenced  a  scene  of  murder. 
On  the  contrary,  everything  betokened  comfort,  and  at  the  same 
time  habits  parsimonious  and  methodical. 

Everything  was  in  its  place;  there  was  not  one  wrong  fold 
in  the  curtains;  the  wood  of  the  furniture  was  brilliantly  pol- 
ished, showing  daily  care. 

It  seemed  evident  that  the  conjectures  of  the  examining  mag- 
istrate and  of  the  police  commissary  were  correct,  and  that  the 
poor  old  man  had  been  murdered  the  evening  before,  when  he 
was  about  to  go  to  bed. 

In  fact,  the  bed  was  open,  and  on  the  blanket  lay  a  shirt  and 
a  neckcloth. 

On  the  table,  at  the  head  of  the  bed,  I  noticed  a  glass  of 
sugared  water,  a  box  of  safety  matches,  and  an  evening  paper, 
the  "Patrie." 

On  one  corner  of  the  mantelpiece  a  candlestick  was  shining 
brightly,  a  nice  big,  solid  copper  candlestick.  But  the  candle 
which  had  illuminated  the  crime  was  burned  out;  the  murderer 
had  escaped  without  extinguishing  it,  and  it  had  burned  down 
to  the  end,  blackening  the  alabaster  save-all  in  which  it  was 
placed. 

I  noticed  all  these  details  at  a  glance,  without  any  effort, 
without  my  will  having  anything  to  do  with  it.  My  eye  had 
become  a  photographic  objective;  the  stage  of  the  murder  had 
portrayed  itself  in  my  mind,  as  on  a  prepared  plate,  with  such 
precision  that  no  circumstance  was  lacking,  and  with  such  depth 
that  to-day,  even,  I  can  sketch  the  apartment  of  the  "little  old 
man  of  Batignolles"  without  omitting  anything,  not  even  a 
cork,  partly  covered  with  green  wax,  which  lay  on  the  floor 
under  the  chair  of  the  judge's  clerk. 

It  was  an  extraordinary  faculty,  which  had  been  bestowed 
upon  me — my  chief  faculty,  which  as  yet  I  had  not  had  occasion 
to  exercise  and  which  all  at  once  revealed  itself  to  me. 

I  was  then  too  agitated  to  analyze  my  impressions.  I  had 
but  one  obstinate,  burning,  irresistible  desire:  to  get  close  to 
the  body,  which  was  lying  two  yards  from  me. 

At  first  I  struggled  against  the  temptation.     But  fatality  had 


THE  LITTLE  OLD  MAN  OF  BATIGNOLLES  1261 

something  to  do  with  it.  I  approached.  Had  my  presence  been 
remembered?    I  do  not  believe  it. 

At  any  rate,  nobody  paid  any  attention  to  me.  M.  Mechinet 
and  the  police  commissary  were  still  talking  near  the  window; 
the  clerk  was  reading  his  report  in  an  undertone  to  the  inves- 
tigating magistrate. 

Thus  nothing  prevented  me  from  carrying  out  my  intention. 
And,  besides,  I  must  confess  I  was  possessed  with  some  kind 
of  a  fever,  which  rendered  me  insensible  to  exterior  circum- 
stances and  absolutely  isolated  me.  So  much  so  that  I  dared 
to  kneel  close  to  the  body,  in  order  to  see  better. 

Far  from  expecting  any  one  to  call  out:  "What  are  you 
doing  there?"  I  acted  slowly  and  deliberately,  like  a  man  who, 
having  received  a  mission,  executes  it. 

The  unfortunate  old  man  seemed  to  me  to  have  been  between 
seventy  and  seventy-five  years  old.  He  was  small  and  very  thin, 
but  solid  and  built  to  pass  the  hundred-year  mark.  He  still 
had  considerable  hair,  yellowish  white  and  curly,  on  the  nape 
of  the  neck.  His  gray  beard,  strong  and  thick,  looked  as  if 
he  had  not  been  shaven  for  five  or  six  days;  it  must  have 
grown  after  his  death.  This  circumstance  did  not  surprise  me, 
as  I  had  often  noticed  it  with  our  subjects  in  the  amphi- 
theatres. 

What  did  surprise  me  was  the  expression  of  the  face.  It 
was  calm;  I  should  even  say,  smiling.  His  lips  were  parted, 
as  for  a  friendly  greeting.  Death  must  have  occurred  then 
with  terrible  suddenness  to  preserve  such  a  kindly  expression ! 
That  was  the  first  idea  which  came  to  my  mind. 

Yes,  but  how  reconcile  these  two  irreconcilable  circum- 
stances: a  sudden  death  and  those  five  letters — Monis — which 
I  saw  in  lines  of  blood  on  the  floor?  In  order  to  write  them, 
what  effort  must  it  have  cost  a  dying  man !  Only  the  hope  of 
revenge  could  have  given  him  so  much  energy.  And  how  great 
must  his  rage  have  been  to  feel  himself  expiring  before  being 
able  to  trace  the  entire  name  of  his  murderer!  And  yet  the 
face  of  the  dead  seemed  to  smile  at  one. 

The  poor  old  man  had  been  struck  in  the  throat,  and  the 
weapon  had  gone  right  through  the  neck.  The  instrument  must 
have  been  a  dagger,  or  perhaps  one  of  those  terrible  Catalan 
knives,  as  broad  as  the  hand,  which  cut  on  both  sides  and  are 
as  pointed  as  a  needle. 

Never  in  my  life  before  had  I  been  agitated  by  such  strange 


1262  THE  LITTLE  OLD  MAN  OF  BATIGNOLLES 

sensations.  My  temples  throbbed  with  extraordinary  violence, 
and  my  heart  swelled  as  if  it  would  break.  What  was  I  about 
to  discover? 

Driven  by  a  mysterious  and  irresistible  force,  which  anni- 
hilated my  will-power,  I  took  between  my  hands,  for  the  pur- 
pose of  examining  them,  the  stiff  and  icy  hands  of  the  body. 

The  right  hand  was  clean;  it  was  one  of  the  fingers  of  the 
left  hand,  the  index,  which  was  all  blood-stained. 

What !  it  was  with  the  left  hand  that  the  old  man  had  written  ? 
Impossible ! 

Seized  with  a  kind  of  dizziness,  with  haggard  eyes,  my  hair 
standing  on  end,  paler  than  the  dead  lying  at  my  feet,  I  rose 
with  a  terrible  cry: 

"Great  God !" 

At  this  cry  all  the  others  jumped  up,  surprised,  frightened. 

"What  is  it?"  they  asked  me  all  together.  "What  has  hap- 
pened ?" 

I  tried  to  answer,  but  the  emotion  was  strangling  me.  AH 
I  could  do  was  to  show  them  the  dead  man's  hands,  stammering : 

"There !    There !" 

Quick  as  lightning,  M.  Mechinet  fell  on  his  knees  beside  the 
body.  What  I  had  seen  he  saw,  and  my  impression  was  also 
his,  for,  quickly  rising,  he  said : 

"It  was  not  this  poor  old  man  who  traced  the  letters  there." 

As  the  judge  and  the  commissary  looked  at  him  with  open 
mouths,  he  explained  to  them  the  circumstance  of  the  left 
hand  alone  being  blood-stained. 

"And  to  think  that  I  had  not  paid  any  attention  to  that," 
repeated  the  distressed  commissary  over  and  over  again. 

M.  Mechinet  was  taking  snuff  furiously. 

"So  it  is,"  he  said,  "the  things  that  are  not  seen  are  those 
that  are  near  enough  to  put  the  eyes  out.  But  no  matter.  Now 
the  situation  is  devilishly  changed.  Since  it  is  not  the  old 
man  himself  who  wrote,  it  must  be  the  person  who  killed 
him." 

"Evidently,"  approved  the  commissary. 

"Now,"  continued  my  neighbor,  "can  any  one  imagine  a  mur- 
derer stupid  enough  to  denounce  himself  by  writing  his  own 
name  beside  the  body  of  his  victim?  No;  is  it  not  so?  Now, 
conclude — " 

The  judge  had  become  anxious. 

"It  is  clear,"  he  said,  "appearances  have  deceived  us.    Moni- 


THE  LITTLE  OLD  MAN  OF  BATIGNOLLES   1263 

strol  is  not  the  guilty  one.  Who  is  it?  It  is  your  business, 
M.  Mechinet,  to  discover  him." 

He  stopped;  a  police  officer  had  entered,  and,  addressing  the 
commissary,  said : 

"Your  orders  have  been  carried  out,  sir.  Monistrol  has  been 
arrested  and  locked  up.     He  confessed  everything." 


T  T  is  impossible  to  describe  our  astonishment.  What !  While 
•*■  we  were  there,  exerting  ourselves  to  find  proofs  of  Moni- 
strol's  innocence,  he  acknowledges  himself  guilty? 

M.  Mechinet  was  the  first  to  recover. 

Rapidly  he  raised  his  fingers  from  the  snuff-box  to  his  nose 
five  or  six  times,  and  advancing  toward  the  officer,  said: 

"Either  you  are  mistaken,  or  you  are  deceiving  us ;  one  or  the 
other." 

"I'll  take  an  oath,  M.  Mechinet." 

"Hold  your  tongue.  You  either  misunderstood  what  Moni- 
strol said  or  got  intoxicated  by  the  hope  of  astonishing  us  with 
the  announcement  that  the  affair  was  settled." 

The  officer,  up  to  then  humble  and  respectful,  now  became 
refractory. 

"Excuse  me,"  he  interrupted,  "I  am  neither  an  idiot  nor  a 
liar,  and  I  know  what  I  am  talking  about." 

The  discussion  came  so  near  being  a  quarrel  that  the  investi- 
gating judge  thought  best  to  interfere. 

"Calm  yourself,  Monsieur  Mechinet,"  he  said,  "and  before 
expressing  an  opinion,  wait  to  be  informed." 

Then  turning  toward  the  officer,  he  continued: 

"And  you,  my  friend,  tell  us  what  you  know,  and  give  us 
reasons  for  your  assurance." 

Thus  sustained,  the  officer  crushed  M.  Mechinet  with  an 
ironical  glance,  and  with  a  very  marked  trace  of  conceit  he 
began: 

"Well,  this  is  what  happened:  Monsieur  the  Judge  and  Mon- 
sieur the   Commissary,   both   here   present,   instructed  us — In- 


1264  THE  LITTLE  OLD  MAN  OF  BATIGNOLLES 

spector  Goulard,  my  colleague  Poltin,  and  myself — to  arrest 
Monistrol,  dealer  in  imitation  jewelry,  living  at  75  Rue  Vivi- 
enne,  the  said  Monistrol  being  accused  of  the  murder  of  his 
uncle." 

"Exactly  so,"  approved  the  commissary  in  a  low  voice. 

"Thereupon,"  continued  the  officer,  "we  took  a  cab  and  had 
him  drive  us  to  the  address  given.  We  arrived  and  found  M. 
Monistrol  in  the  back  of  his  shop,  about  to  sit  down  to  dinner 
with  his  wife,  a  woman  of  twenty-five  or  thirty  years,  and  very 
beautiful. 

"Seeing  the  three  of  us  stand  like  a  string  of  onions,  our 
man  got  up.  'What  do  you  want?'  he  asked  us.  Sergeant 
Goulard  drew  from  his  pocket  the  warrant  and  answered:  'In 
the  name  of  the  law,  I  arrest  you !'  " 

Here  M.  Mechinet  behaved  as  if  he  were  on  a  gridiron. 

"Could  you  not  hurry  up?"  he  said  to  the  officer. 

But  the  latter,  as  if  he  had  not  heard,  continued  in  the  same 
calm  tone: 

"I  have  arrested  many  people  during  my  life.  Well !  I  never 
saw  any  of  them  go  to  pieces  like  this  one. 

"  'You  are  joking,'  he  said  to  us,  'or  you  are  making  a  mis- 
take.' 

"  'No,  we  are  not  mistaken !' 

"  'But,  after  all,  what  do  you  arrest  me  for  ?' 

"Goulard  shrugged  his  shoulders. 

"  'Don't  act  like  a  child,'  he  said,  'what  about  your  uncle  ? 
The  body  has  been  found,  and  we  have  overwhelming  proofs 
against  you.' 

"Oh!  that  rascal,  what  a  disagreeable  shock!  He  tottered 
and  finally  dropped  on  a  chair,  sobbing  and  stammering  I  can 
not  tell  what  answer. 

"Goulard,  seeing  him  thus,  shook  him  by  the  coat  collar  and 
said: 

"  'Believe  me,  the  shortest  way  is  to  confess  everything.' 

"The  man  looked  at  us  stupidly  and  murmured: 

"  'Well,  yes,  I  confess  everything.'  " 

"Well  maneuvred,  Goulard,"  said  the  commissary  approvingly. 

The  officer  looked  triumphant. 

"It  was  now  a  matter  of  cutting  short  our  stay  in  the  shop," 
he  continued.  "We  had  been  instructed  to  avoid  all  commotion, 
and  some  idlers  were  already  crowding  around.  Goulard  seized 
the  prisoner  by  the  arm,  shouting  to  him:  'Come  on,  let  us 


THE  LITTLE  OLD  MAN  OF  BATIGNOLLES   1265 

start ;  they  are  waiting  for  us  at  headquarters.'  Monistrol  man- 
aged to  get  on  his  shaking  legs,  and  in  the  voice  of  a  man 
taking  his  courage  in  both  hands,  said:  'Let  us  go.' 

"We  were  thinking  that  the  worst  was  over ;  we  did  not  count 
on  the  wife. 

"Up  to  that  moment  she  had  remained  in  an  armchair,  as  in 
a  faint,  without  breathing  a  word,  without  seeming  even  to 
understand  what  was  going  on. 

"But  when  she  saw  that  we  were  taking  away  her  husband, 
she  sprang  up  like  a  lioness,  and  throwing  herself  in  front  of 
the  door,  shouted:  'You  shall  not  pass.' 

"On  my  word  of  honor  she  was  superb;  but  Goulard,  who 
had  seen  others  before,  said  to  her:  'Come,  come,  little  woman, 
don't  let  us  get  angry;  your  husband  will  be  brought  back.' 

"However,  far  from  giving  way  to  us,  she  clung  more  firmly 
to  the  door-frame,  swearing  that  her  husband  was  innocent; 
declaring  that  if  he  was  taken  to  prison  she  would  follow  him, 
at  times  threatening  us  and  crushing  us  with  invectives,  and 
then  again  entreating  in  her  sweetest  voice. 

"When  she  understood  that  nothing  would  prevent  us  from 
doing  our  duty,  she  let  go  the  door,  and,  throwing  herself  on 
her  husband's  neck,  groaned:  'Oh,  dearest  beloved,  is  it  pos- 
sible that  you  are  accused  of  a  crime  ?  You — you !  Please  tell 
them,  these  men,  that  you  are  innocent.' 

"In  truth,  we  were  all  affected,  except  the  man,  who  pushed 
his  poor  wife  back  so  brutally  that  she  fell  in  a  heap  in  a 
corner  of  the  back  shop. 

"Fortunately  that  was  the  end. 

"The  woman  had  fainted;  we  took  advantage  of  it  to  stow 
the  husband  away  in  the  cab  that  had  brought  us. 

"To  stow  away  is  the  right  word,  because  he  had  become  like 
an  inanimate  thing;  he  could  no  longer  stand  up;  he  had  to 
be  carried.  To  omit  nothing,  I  should  add  that  his  dog,  a  kind 
of  black  cur,  wanted  actually  to  jump  into  the  carriage  with 
us,  and  that  we  had  the  greatest  trouble  to  get  rid  of  it. 

"On  the  way,  as  by  right,  Goulard  tried  to  entertain  our 
prisoner  and  to  make  him  blab.  But  it  was  impossible  to  draw 
one  word  from  him.  It  was  only  when  we  arrived  at  police 
headquarters  that  he  seemed  to  come  to  his  senses.  When  he 
was  duly  installed  in  one  of  the  'close  confinement'  cells,  he 
threw  himself  headlong  on  the  bed,  repeating:  'What  have  I 
done  to  you,  my  God !    What  have  I  done  to  you !' 


1266  THE  LITTLE  OLD  MAN  OF  BATIGNOLLES 

"At  this  moment  Goulard  approached  him,  and  for  the  sec- 
ond time  asked :  'Well,  do  you  confess  your  guilt  ?'  Monistrol 
motioned  with  his  head:  'Yes,  yes.'  Then  in  a  hoarse  voice 
said :  'I  beg  you,  leave  me  alone.' 

"That  is  what  we  did,  taking  care,  however,  to  place  a  keeper 
on  watch  at  the  window  of  the  cell,  in  case  the  fellow  should 
attempt  suicide. 

"Goulard  and  Poltin  remained  down  there,  and  I,  here 
I  am." 

"That  is  precise,"  grumbled  the  commissary;  "it  could  not 
be  more  precise." 

That  was  also  the  judge's  opinion,  for  he  murmured: 

"How  can  we,  after  all  this,  doubt  Monistrol's  guilt?" 

As  for  me,  though  I  was  confounded,  my  convictions  were 
still  firm.  I  was  just  about  to  open  my  mouth  to  venture  an 
objection,  when  M.  Mechinet  forestalled  me. 

"All  that  is  well  and  good,"  exclaimed  he.  "Only  if  we 
admit  that  Monistrol  is  the  murderer,  we  are  forced  also  to 
admit  that  it  was  he  who  wrote  his  name  there  on  the  floor — 
and — well,  that's  a  hard  nut." 

"Bosh !"  interrupted  the  commissary,  "since  the  accused  con- 
fessed, what  is  the  use  of  bothering  about  a  circumstance  which 
will  be  explained  at  the  trial?" 

But  my  neighbor's  remark  had  again  roused  perplexities  in 
the  mind  of  the  judge,  and  without  committing  himself,  he 
said: 

"I  am  going  to  the  Prefecture.  I  want  to  examine  Monistrol 
this  very  evening." 

And  after  telling  the  commissary  to  be  sure  and  fulfil  all 
formalities  and  to  await  the  arrival  of  the  physicians  called 
for  the  autopsy  of  the  body,  he  left,  followed  by  his  clerk  and 
by  the  officer  who  had  come  to  inform  us  of  the  successful 
arrest. 

"Provided  these  devils  of  doctors  do  not  keep  me  waiting 
too  long,"  growled  the  commissary,  who  was  thinking  of  his 
dinner. 

Neither  M.  Mechinet  nor  I  answered  him.  We  remained 
standing,  facing  one  another,  evidently  beset  by  the  same 
thought. 

"After  all,"  murmured  my  neighbor,  "perhaps  it  was  the  old 
man  who  wrote— "—"With  the  left  hand,  then  ?"  Is  that  possi- 
ble?    Without  considering  that  this   poor  fellow   must   have 


THE  LITTLE  OLD  MAN  OF  BATIGNOLLES   1267 

died  instantly." — "Are  you  certain  of  it?" — "Judging  by  his 
wound  I  would  take  an  oath  on  it.  Besides,  the  physicians  will 
come;  they  will  tell  you  whether  I  am  right  or  wrong." 

With  veritable  frenzy  M.  Mechinet  pretended  to  take  snuff. 

"Perhaps  there  is  some  mystery  beneath  this,"  said  he ;  "that 
remains  to  be  seen." 

"It  is  an  examination  to  be  gone  over  again." — "Be  it  so,  let 
us  do  it  over;  and  to  begin,  let  us  examine  the  concierge." 

Running  to  the  staircase,  M.  Mechinet  leaned  over  the 
balustrade,  calling:  "Concierge!  Hey!  Concierge!  Come 
up,   please." 


■\X7HILE  waiting  for  the  concierge  to  come  up,  M.  Mechinet 
vv  proceeded  with  a  rapid  and  able  examination  of  the 
scene  of  the  crime. 

It  was  principally  the  lock  of  the  main  door  to  the  apartment 
which  attracted  his  attention ;  it  was  intact,  and  the  key 
turned  without  difficulty.  This  circumstance  absolutely  dis- 
carded the  thought  that  an  evil-doer,  a  stranger,  had  entered 
during  the  night  by  means  of  false  keys. 

For  my  part,  I  had  involuntarily,  or  rather  inspired  by  the 
astonishing  instinct  which  had  revealed  itself  in  me,  picked 
up  the  cork,  partly  covered  with  green  wax,  which  I  had 
noticed  on  the  floor. 

It  had  been  used,  and  on  the  side  where  the  wax  was 
showed  traces  of  the  corkscrew;  but  on  the  other  end  could 
be  seen  a  kind  of  deepish  notch,  evidently  produced  by  some 
sharp  and  pointed  instrument. 

Suspecting  the  importance  of  my  discovery,  I  communicated 
it  to  M.  Mechinet,  and  he  could  not  avoid  an  exclamation  of 
joy. 

"At  last,"  he  exclaimed,  "at  last  we  have  a  clue !  This  cork, 
it's  the  murderer  who  dropped  it  here;  he  stuck  in  it  the 
brittle  point  of  the  weapon  he  used.  The  conclusion  is,  that 
the  instrument  of  the  murder  is  a  dagger  with  a  fixed  handle 


1268  THE  LITTLE  OLD  MAN  OF  BATIGNOLLES 

and  not  one  of  those  knives  which  shut  up.     With  this  cork, 
I  am  certain  to  reach  the  guilty  one,  no  matter  who  he  is !" 

The  police  commissary  was  just  finishing  his  task  in  the 
room,  M.  Mechinet  and  I  had  remained  in  the  parlor,  when 
we  were  interrupted  by  the  noise  of  heavy  breathing. 

Almost  immediately  appeared  the  powerful  woman  I  had 
noticed  holding  forth  in  the  hall  in  the  midst  of  the  tenants. 

It  was  the  concierge,  if  possible  redder  than  at  the  time 
of  our  arrival. 

"In  what  way  can  I  serve  you,  monsieur?"  she  asked  of  M. 
Mechinet. 

"Take  a  seat,  madame,"  he  answered. 

"But,  monsieur,  I  have  people  downstairs." 

"They  will  wait  for  you.     I  tell  you  to  sit  down." 

Nonpulsed  by  M.  Mechinet's  tone,  she  obeyed. 

Then  looking  straight  at  her  with  his  terrible,  small,  gray 
eyes,  he  began : 

"I  need  certain  information,  and  I'm  going  to  question  you. 
In  your  interest,  I  advise  you  to  answer  straightforwardly. 
Now,  first  of  all,  what  is  the  name  of  this  poor  fellow  who 
was  murdered?" 

"His  name  was  Pigoreau,  kind  sir,  but  he  was  mostly  known 
by  the  name  of  Antenor,  which  he  had  formerly  taken  as  more 
suitable  to  his  business." 

"Did  he  live  in  this  house  a  long  time?" 

"The  last  eight  years." 

"Where  did  he  reside  before?" 

"Rue  Richelieu,  where  he  had  his  store;  he  had  been  a  hair- 
dresser, and  it  was  in  that  business  that  he  made  his  money." 

"He  was  then  considered  rich?" 

"I  heard  him  say  to  his  niece  that  he  would  not  let  his 
throat  be  cut  for  a  million." 

As  to  this,  it  must  have  been  known  to  the  investigating 
magistrate,  as  the  papers  of  the  poor  old  man  had  been  included 
in  the  inventory  made. 

"Now,"  M.  Mechinet  continued,  "what  kind  of  a  man  was 
this  M.  Pigoreau,  called  Antenor?" 

"Oh!  the  cream  of  men,  my  dear,  kind  sir,"  answered  the 
concierge.  "It  is  true  he  was  cantankerous,  queer,  as  miserly 
as  possible,  but  he  was  not  proud.  And  so  funny  with  all  that. 
One  could  have  spent  whole  nights  listening  to  him,  when  he 
was  in  the  right  mood.    And  the  number  of  stories  he  knew! 


THE  LITTLE  OLD  MAN  OF  BATIGNOLLES   1269 

Just  think,  a  former  hairdresser,  who,  as  he  said,  had  dressed 
the  hair  of  the  most  beautiful  women  in  Paris !" 

"How  did  he  live  ?" 

"As  everybody  else;  as  people  do  who  have  an  income,  you 
know,  and  who  yet  cling  to  their  money." 

"Can  you  give  me  some  particulars?" 

"Oh!  As  to  that,  I  think  so,  since  it  was  I  who  looked 
after  his  rooms,  and  that  was  no  trouble  at  all  for  me,  because 
he  did  almost  everything  himself — swept,  dusted,  and  polished. 
Yes,  it  was  his  hobby.  Well,  every  day  at  noon,  I  brought 
him  up  a  cup  of  chocolate.  He  drank  it;  on  top  of  that  he 
took  a  large  glass  of  water;  that  was  his  breakfast.  Then 
he  dressed  and  that  took  him  until  two  o'clock,  for  he  was 
a  dandy,  and  careful  of  his  person,  more  so  than  a  newly 
married  woman.  As  soon  as  he  was  dressed,  he  went  out  to 
take  a  walk  through  Paris.  At  six  o'clock  he  went  to  dinner  in 
a  private  boarding-house,  the  Mademoiselles  Gomet,  in  the  Rue 
de  las  Paix.  After  dinner  he  used  to  go  to  the  Cafe  Guerbois 
for  his  demitasse  and  to  play  his  usual  game,  and  at  eleven  he 
came  home  to  go  to  bed.  On  the  whole,  the  poor  fellow  had 
only  one  fault;  he  was  fond  of  the  other  sex.  I  even  told  him 
often:  'At  your  age,  are  you  not  ashamed  of  yourself?'  But 
no  one  is  perfect,  and  after  all  it  could  be  easily  understood 
of  a  former  perfumer,  who  in  his  life  had  had  a  great  many 
good  fortunes." 

An  obsequious  smile  strayed  over  the  lips  of  the  powerful 
concierge,  but  nothing  could  cheer  up  M.  Mechinet. 

"Did  M.  Pigoreau  receive  many  calls?"  he  asked. 

"Very  few.  I  have  hardly  seen  anybody  call  on  him  except 
his  nephew,  M.  Monistrol,  whom  he  invited  every  Sunday  to 
dinner  at  Lathuile's." 

"And  how  did  they  get  along  together,  the  uncle  and  the 
nephew  ?" 

"Like  two  fingers  of  the  same  hand." 

"Did  they  ever  have  any  disputes?" 

"Never,  except  that  they  were  always  wrangling  about 
Madame  Clara." 

"Who  is  that  Madame  Clara?" 

"Well,  M.  Monistrol's  wife,  a  superb  creature.  The  de- 
ceased, old  Antenor,  could  not  bear  her.  He  said  that  his 
nephew  loved  that  woman  too  much;  that  she  was  leading  him 
by  the  end  of  his  nose,  and  that  she  was  fooling  him  in  every 


1270  THE  LITTLE  OLD  MAN  OF  BATIGNOLLES 

way.  He  claimed  that  she  did  not  love  her  husband;  that  she 
was  too  high  and  mighty  for  her  position,  and  that  finally  she 
would  do  something  foolish.  Madame  Clara  and  her  uncle 
even  had  a  falling  out  at  the  end  of  last  year.  She  wanted  the 
good  fellow  to  lend  a  hundred  thousand  francs  to  M.  Monistrol, 
to  enable  him  to  buy  out  a  jeweler's  stock  at  the  Palais  Royal. 
But  he  refused,  saying  that  after  his  death  they  could  do  with 
his  money  whatever  they  wanted,  but  that  until  then,  since 
he  had  earned  it,  he  intended  to  keep  and  enjoy  it." 

I  thought  that  M.  Mechinet  would  dwell  on  this  circum- 
stance, which  seemed  to  me  very  important.  But  no,  in  vain 
did  I  increase  my  signals;  he  continued: 

"It  remains  now  to  be  told  by  whom  the  crime  was  first 
discovered." 

"By  me,  my  kind  monsieur,  by  me,"  moaned  the  concierge. 
"Oh !  it  is  frightful !  Just  imagine,  this  morning,  exactly  at 
twelve,  I  brought  up  to  old  Antenor  his  chocolate,  as  usual. 
As  I  do  the  cleaning,  I  have  a  key  to  the  apartment.  I  opened, 
I  entered,  and  what  did  I  see ?    Oh !  my  God  !•' 

And  she  began  to  scream  loudly. 

"This  grief  proves  that  you  have  a  good  heart,  madame," 
gravely  said  M.  Mechinet.  "Only,  as  I  am  in  a  great  hurry, 
please  try  to  overcome  it.  What  did  you  think,  seeing  your 
tenant  murdered?" 

"I  said  to  any  one  who  wanted  to  hear:  'It  is  his  nephew, 
the  scoundrel,  who  has  done  it  to  inherit.'  " 

"What  makes  you  so  positive?  Because  after  all  to  accuse 
a  man  of  so  great  a  crime,  is  to  drive  him  to  the  scaffold." 

"But,  monsieur,  who  else  would  it  be?  M.  Monistrol  came 
to  see  his  uncle  last  evening,  and  when  he  left  it  was  nearly 
midnight.  Besides,  he  nearly  always  speaks  to  me,  but  never 
said  a  word  to  me  that  night,  neither  when  he  came,  nor  when 
he  left.  And  from  that  moment  up  to  the  time  I  discovered 
everything,  I  am  sure  nobody  went  up  to  M.  Antenor's  apart- 
ment." 

I  admit  this  evidence  confused  me.  I  would  not  have  thought 
of  continuing  the  examination.  Fortunately,  M.  Mechinet's  ex- 
perience was  great,  and  he  was  thoroughly  master  of  the  diffi- 
cult art  of  drawing  the  whole  truth  from  witnesses. 

"Then,  madame,"  he  insisted,  "you  are  certain  that  Monistrol 
came  yesterday  evening?" 

"I  am  certain." 


THE  LITTLE  OLD  MAN  OF  BATIGNOLLES   1271 

"Did  you  surely  see  him  and  recognize  him?" 

"Ah !  wait.  I  did  not  look  him  in  the  face.  He  passed 
quickly,  trying  to  hide  himself,  like  the  scoundrel  he  is,  and 
the  hallway  is  badly  illuminated." 

At  this  reply,  of  such  incalculable  importance,  I  jumped  up 
and,  approaching  the  concierge,  exclaimed: 

"If  it  is  so,  how  dare  you  affirm  that  you  recognized  M. 
Monistrol  ?" 

She  looked  me  over  from  head  to  foot,  and  answered  with  an 
ironical  smile : 

"If  I  did  not  see  the  master's  face,  I  did  see  the  dog's  nose. 
As  I  always  pet  him,  he  came  into  my  lodge,  and  I  was  just 
going  to  give  him  a  bone  from  a  leg  of  mutton  when  his  mas- 
ter whistled  for  him." 

I  looked  at  M.  Mechinet,  anxious  to  know  what  he  thought 
of  this,  but  his  face  faithfully  kept  the  secret  of  his  impres- 
sions. 

He  only  added: 

"Of  what  breed  is  M.  Monistrol's  dog?" 

"It  is  a  loulou,  such  as  the  drovers  used  formerly,  all  black, 
with  a  white  spot  over  the  ear;  they  call  him  "Pluton." 

M.  Mechinet  rose. 

"You  may  retire,"  he  said  to  the  concierge;  "I  know  all  I 
want." 

And  when  she  had  left,  he  remarked : 

"It  seems  to  me  impossible  that  the  nephew  is  not  the  guilty 
one." 

During  the  time  this  long  examination  was  taking  place,  the 
physicians  had  come.  When  they  finished  the  autopsy  they 
reached  the  following  conclusion: 

"M.  Pigoreau's  death  had  certainly  been  instantaneous."  So 
it  was  not  he  who  had  lined  out  the  five  letters,  Monis,  which 
we  saw  on  the  floor  near  the  body. 

So  I  was  not  mistaken. 

"But  if  it  was  not  he,"  exclaimed  M.  Mechinet,  "who  was 
it  then?  Monistrol — that  is  what  nobody  will  ever  succeed  in 
putting  into  my  brain." 

And  the  commissary,  happy  at  being  free  to  go  to  dinner  at 
last,  made  fun  of  M.  Mechinet's  perplexities — ridiculous  per- 
plexities, since  Monistrol  had  confessed.  But  M.  Mechinet 
said: 

"Perhaps  I  am  really  nothing  but  an  idiot ;  the  future  will  tell. 

Gab. — Vol.  IV  r 


1272  THE  LITTLE  OLD  MAN  OF  BATIGNOLLES 

In  the  mean  time,  come,  by  dear  Monsieur  Godeuil,  come  with 
me  to  Police  Headquarters." 


IN  like  manner,  as  in  going  to  Batignolles,  we  took  a  cab 
*■    also  to  go  to  Police  Headquarters. 

M.  Mechinet's  preoccupation  was  great.  His  fingers  con- 
tinually traveled  from  the  empty  snuff-box  to  his  nose,  and  I 
heard  him  grumbling  between  his  teeth: 

"I  shall  assure  myself  of  the  truth  of  this !  I  must  find  out 
the  truth  of  this." 

Then  he  took  from  his  pocket  the  cork  which  I  had  given 
him,  and  turned  it  over  and  over  like  a  monkey  picking  a  nut, 
and  murmured: 

"This  is  evidence,  however;  there  must  be  something  gained 
by  this  green  wax." 

Buried  in  my  corner,  I  did  not  breathe.  My  position  was 
certainly  one  of  the  strangest,  but  I  did  not  give  it  a  thought. 
Whatever  intelligence  I  had  was  absorbed  in  this  affair;  in  my 
mind  I  went  over  its  various  and  contradictory  elements,  and 
exhausted  myself  in  trying  to  penetrate  the  secret  of  the  trag- 
edy, a  secret  of  which  I  had  a  presentiment. 

When  our  carriage  stopped,  it  was  night — dark. 

The  Quai  des  Orfevres  was  deserted  and  quiet;  not  a  sound, 
not  a  passer-by.  The  stores  in  the  neighborhood,  few  and  far 
between,  were  closed.  All  the  life  of  the  district  had  hidden 
itself  in  the  little  restaurant  which  almost  forms  the  corner  of 
the  Rue  de  Jerusalem,  behind  the  red  curtains,  on  which  were 
outlined  the  shadows  of  the  patrons. 

"Will  they  let  you  see  the  accused?"  I  asked  M.  Mechinet. 

"Certainly,"  he  answered.  "Am  I  not  charged  with  the  fol- 
lowing up  of  this  affair?  Is  it  not  necessary,  in  view  of  un- 
foreseen requirements  at  the  inquest,  that  I  be  allowed  to  ex- 
amine the  prisoner  at  any  hour  of  the  day  or  night?" 

And  with  a  quick  step  he  entered  under  the  arch,  saying 
to  me: 


THE  LITTLE  OLD  MAN  OF  BATIGNOLLES   1273 

"Come,  come,  we  have  no  time  to  lose." 

I  did  not  require  any  encouragement  from  him.  I  followed, 
agitated  by  indescribable  emotions  and  trembling  with  vague 
curiosity. 

It  was  the  first  time  I  had  ever  crossed  the  threshold  of  the 
Police  Headquarters,  and  God  knows  what  my  prejudices  were 
then. 

There,  I  said  to  myself,  not  without  a  certain  terror,  there 
is  the  secret  of  Paris! 

I  was  so  lost  in  thought,  that,  forgetting  to  look  where  I 
was  going,  I  almost  fell. 

The  shock  brought  me  back  to  a  sense  of  the  situation. 

We  were  going  along  an  immense  passageway,  with  damp 
walls  and  an  uneven  pavement.  Soon  my  companion  entered  a 
small  room  where  two  men  were  playing  cards,  while  three  or 
four  others,  stretched  on  cots,  were  smoking  pipes.  M.  Mechi- 
net  exchanged  a  few  words  with  them — I  could  not  hear,  for 
I  had  remained  outside.  Then  he  came  out  again,  and  we  con- 
tinued our  walk. 

After  crossing  a  court  and  entering  another  passageway,  we 
soon  came  before  an  iron  gate  with  heavy  bolts  and  a  formi- 
dable lock. 

At  a  word  from  M.  Mechinet,  a  watchman  opened  this  gate 
for  us ;  at  the  right  we  passed  a  spacious  room,  where  it  seemed 
to  me  I  saw  policemen  and  Paris  guards;  finally  we  climbed 
up  a  very  steep  stairway. 

At  the  top  of  the  stairs,  at  the  entrance  to  a  narrow  passage 
with  a  number  of  small  doors,  was  seated  a  stout  man  with  a 
jovial  face,  that  certainly  had  nothing  of  the  classical  jailer 
about  it. 

As  soon  as  he  noticed  my  companion,  he  exclaimed : 

"Eh !  it  is  M.  Mechinet.  Upon  my  word,  I  was  expecting 
you.  I  bet  you  came  for  the  murderer  of  the  little  old  man 
of  Batignolles." 

"Precisely.    Is  there  anything  new  ?" 

"No." 

"But  the  investigating  judge  must  have  come." 

"He  has  just  gone." 

"Well?" 

"He  did  not  stay  more  than  three  minutes  with  the  accused, 
and  when  he  left  he  seemed  very  much  satisfied.  At  the  bot- 
tom of  the  stairs  he  met  the  governor,  and  said  to  him:  "This 


1274  THE  LITTLE  OLD   MAN  OF  BATIGNOLLES 

is   a   settled   case;   the   murderer   has    not   even   attempted   to 
deny." 

M.  Mechinet  jumped  about  three  feet;  but  the  jailer  did  not 
notice  it,  and  continued: 

"But "then,  that  did  not  surprise  me.  At  a  mere  glance  at 
the  individual  as  they  brought  him  I  said:  'Here  is  one  who 
will  not  know  how  to  hold  out.'  " 

"And  what  is  he  doing  now  ?" 

"He  moans.  I  have  been  instructed  to  watch  him,  for  fear 
he  should  commit  suicide,  and  as  is  my  duty,  I  do  watch  him, 
but  it  is  mere  waste  of  time.  He  is  another  one  of  those  fellows 
who  care  more  for  their  own  skin  than  for  that  of  others." 

"Let  us  go  and  see  him,"  interrupted  M.  Mechinet;  "and 
above  all,  no  noise." 

At  once  all  three  advanced  on  tiptoe  till  we  reached  a  solid 
oak  door,  through  which  had  been  cut  a  little  barred  window 
about  a  man's  height  from  the  ground. 

Through  this  little  window  could  be  seen  everything  that 
occurred  in  the  cell,  which  was  illuminated  by  a  paltry  gas- 
burner. 

The  jailer  glanced  in  first,  M.  Mechinet  then  looked,  and  at 
last  my  turn  came. 

On  a  narrow  iron  couch,  covered  with  a  gray  woolen  blanket 
with  yellow  stripes,  I  perceived  a  man  lying  flat,  his  head  hid- 
den between  his  partly  folded  arms. 

He  was  crying;  the  smothered  sound  of  his  sobs  reached  me, 
and  from  time  to  time  a  convulsive  trembling  shook  him  from 
head  to  foot. 

"Open  now,"  ordered  M.  Mechinet  of  the  watchman. 

He  obeyed,  and  we  entered. 

At  the  sound  of  the  grating  key,  the  prisoner  had  raised 
himself  and,  sitting  on  his  pallet,  his  legs  and  arms  hanging, 
his  head  inclined  on  his  chest,  he  looked  at  us  stupidly. 

He  was  a  man  of  thirty-five  or  thirty-eight  years  of  age ;  his 
build  a  little  above  the  average,  but  robust,  with  an  apoplectic 
neck  sunk  between  two  broad  shoulders.  He  was  ugly ;  small- 
pox had  disfigured  him,  and  his  long,  straight  nose  and  reced- 
ing forehead  gave  him  somewhat  the  stupid  look  of  a  sheep. 
However  his  blue  eyes  were  very  beautiful,  and  his  teeth  were 
of  remarkable  whiteness. 

"Well !  M.  Monistrol,"  began  M.  Mechinet,  "we  are  grieving, 
are  we?" 


THE  LITTLE  OLD  MAN  OF  BATIGNOLLES  1275 

As  the  unfortunate  man  did  not  answer,  he  continued: 

"I  admit  that  the  situation  is  not  enlivening.  Nevertheless, 
if  I  were  in  your  place,  I  would  prove  that  I  am  a  man.  I 
would  have  common  sense,  and  try  to  prove  my  innocence." 

"I  am  not  innocent." 

This  time  there  could  not  be  any  mistake,  nor  could  the  in- 
telligence of  the  officer  be  doubted ;  it  was  from  the  very  mouth 
of  the  accused  that  we  gathered  the  terrible  confession. 

"What !"  exclaimed  M.  Mechinet,  "it  was  you  who — " 

The  man  stood  up,  staggering  on  his  legs,  his  eyes  bloodshot, 
his  mouth  foaming,  prey  to  a  veritable  attack  of  rage. 

"Yes,  it  was  I,"  he  interrupted;  "I  alone.  How  many  times 
will  I  have  to  repeat  it?  Already,  a  while  ago,  a  judge  came; 
I  confessed  everything  and  signed  my  confession.  What  more 
do  you  ask?  Go  on,  I  know  what  awaits  me,  and  I  am  not 
afraid.  I  killed,  I  must  be  killed !  Well,  cut  my  head  off,  the 
sooner  the  better." 

Somewhat  stunned  at  first,  M.  Mechinet  soon  recovered. 

"One  moment.  You  know,"  he  said,  "they  do  not  cut  peo- 
ple's heads  off  like  that.  First  they  must  prove  that  they  are 
guilty;  after  that  the  courts  admit  certain  errors,  certain  fatal- 
ities, if  you  will,  and  it  is  for  this  very  reason  that  they  recog- 
nize 'extenuating  circumstances.' " 

An  inarticulate  moan  was  Monistrol's  only  answer.  M.  Me- 
chinet continued: 

"Did  you  have  a  terrible  grudge  against  your  uncle?" 

"Oh;  no." 

"Then  why?" 

"To  inherit;  my  affairs  were  in  bad  shape — you  may  make 
inquiry.  I  needed  money ;  my  uncle,  who  was  very  rich,  refused 
me  some." 

"I  understand;  you  hoped  to  escape  from  justice?" 

"I  was  hoping  to." 

Until  then  I  had  been  surprised  at  the  way  M.  Mechinet- was 
conducting  this  rapid  examination,  but  now  it  became  clear  to 
me.  I  guessed  rightly  what  followed ;  I  saw  what  trap  he  was 
laying  for  the  accused. 

"Another  thing,"  he  continued  suddenly,  "where  did  you  b«y 
the  revolver  you  used  in  committing  the  murder?" 

No  surprise  appeared  on  Monistrol's  face. 

"I  had  it  in  my  possession  for  a  long  time,"  he  answered. 

"What  did  you  do  with  it  after  the  crime?" 


1276  THE  LITTLE  OLD  MAN  OF  BATIGNOLLES 

"I  threw  it  outside  on  the  boulevard." 

"All  right,"  spoke  M.  Mechinet  gravely,  "we  will  make  search 
and  will  surely  find  it." 

After  a  moment  of  silence  he  added: 

"What  I  can  not  explain  to  myself  is,  why  is  it  that  you  had 
your  dog  follow  you?" 

"What !     How !     My  dog?" 

"Yes,  Pluton.     The  concierge  recognized  him." 

Monistrol's  fists  moved  convulsively;  he  opened  his  mouth  as 
if  to  answer,  but  a  sudden  idea  crossing  his  mind,  he  threw 
himself  back  on  his  bed,  and  said  in  a  tone  of  firm  determina- 
tion: 

"You  have  tortured  me  enough;  you  shall  not  draw  another 
word  from  me." 

It  was  clear  that  to  insist  would  be  taking  trouble  for 
nothing. 

We  then  withdrew. 

Once  outside  on  the  quay,  grasping  M.  Mechinet's  arm,  I 
said: 

"You  heard  it,  that  unfortunate  man  does  not  even  know  how 
his  uncle  died.    Is  it  possible  to  still  doubt  his  innocence?" 

But  he  was  a  terrible  skeptic,  that  old  detective. 

"Who  knows?"  he  answered.  "I  have  seen  some  famous 
actors  in  my  life.  But  we  have  had  enough  of  it  for  to-day. 
This  evening  I  will  take  you  to  eat  soup  with  me.  To-morrow 
it  will  be  daylight,  and  we  shall  see." 


IT  was  not  far  from  ten  o'clock  when  M.  Mechinet,  whom  I 
*   was  still  accompanying,  rang  at  the  door  of  his  apartment. 

"I  never  carry  any  latch-key,"  he  told  me.  "In  our  blessed 
business  you  can  never  know  what  may  happen.  There  are 
many  rascals  who  have  a  grudge  against  me,  and  even  if  I  am 
not  always  careful  for  myself,  I  must  be  so  for  my  wife." 

My  worthy  neighbor's  explanation  was  superfluous.  I  had 
understood.    I  even  observed  that  he  rang  in  a  peculiar  way, 


THE  LITTLE  OLD  MAN  OF  BATIGNOLLES   1277 

which  must  have  been  an  agreed  signal  between  his  wife  and 
himself. 

It  was  the  amiable  Madame  Mechinet  who  opened  the  door. 

With  a  quick  movement,  as  graceful  as  a  kitten,  she  threw 
herself  on  her  husband's  neck,  exclaiming: 

"Here  you  are  at  last !  I  do  not  know  why,  but  I  was  almost 
worried." 

But  she  stopped  suddenly;  she  had  just  noticed  me.  Her 
joyous  expression  darkened,  and  she  drew  back.  Addressing 
both  me  and  her  husband : 

"What !"  she  continued,  "you  come  from  the  cafe  at  this 
hour?    That  is  not  common  sense!" 

M.  Mechinet's  lips  wore  the  indulgent  smile  of  the  man  who 
is  sure  of  being  loved,  who  knows  how  to  appease  by  a  word 
the  quarrel  picked  with  him. 

"Do  not  scold  us,  Caroline,"  he  answered ;  by  this  "us" 
associating  me  with  his  case.  "We  do  not  come  from  the  cafe, 
and  neither  have  we  lost  our  time.  They  sent  for  me  for  an 
affair ;  for  a  murder  committed  at  Batignolles." 

With  a  suspicious  look  the  young  woman  examined  us — 
first  her  husband  and  then  me ;  when  she  had  persuaded  her- 
self that  she  was  not  being  deceived,  she  said  only : 

"Ah !" 

But  it  would  take  a  whole  page  to  give  an  inventory  of  all 
that  was  contained  in  that  brief  exclamation. 

It  was  addressed  to  M.  Mechinet,  and  clearly  signified: 

"What  ?  you  confided  in  this  young  man  !  You  have  revealed 
to  him  your  position;  you  have  initiated  him  into  our  secrets?" 

Thus  I  interpreted  that  eloquent  "Ah!"  My  worthy  neigh- 
bor, too,  must  have  interpreted  it  as  I  did,  for  he  answered: 

"Well,  yes.  Where  is  the  wrong  of  it?  I  may  have  to  dread 
the  vengeance  of  wretches  whom  I  give  up  to  justice,  but  what 
have  I  to  fear  from  honest  people?  Do  you  imagine  perhaps 
that  I  hide  myself;  that  I  am  ashamed  of  my  trade?" 

"You  misunderstood  me,  my  friend,"  objected  the  young 
woman. 

M.  Mechinet  did  not  even  hear  her. 

He  had  just  mounted — I  learned  this  detail  later — on  a  favor- 
ite hobby  that  always  carried  the  day. 

"Upon  my  word,"  he  continued,  "you  have  some  peculiar 
ideas,  madame,  my  wife.  What !  I  one  of  the  sentinels 
of  civilization !     I,  who  assure  society's  safety  at  the  price  of 


1278  THE  LITTLE  OLD  MAN  OF  BATIGNOLLES 

my  rest  and  at  the  risk  of  my  life,  and  should  I  blush  for  it? 
That  would  be  far  too  amusing.  You  will  tell  me  that  against 
us  of  the  police  there  exist  a  number  of  absurd  prejudices 
left  behind  by  the  past.  What  do  I  care?  Yes,  I  know  that 
there  are  some  sensitive  gentlemen  who  look  down  on  us. 
But  sacrebleau !  How  I  should  like  to  see  their  faces  if  to- 
morrow my  colleagues  and  I  should  go  on  a  strike,  leaving 
the  streets  free  to  the  army  of  rascals  whom  we  hold  in  check." 

Accustomed  without  doubt  to  explosions  of  this  kind,  Ma- 
dame Mechinet  did  not  say  a  word;  she  was  right  in  doing  so, 
for  my  good  neighbor,  meeting  with  no  contradiction,  calmed 
himself  as  if  by  magic. 

"But  enough  of  this,"  he  said  to  his  wife.  "There  is  now 
a  matter  of  far  greater  importance.  We  have  not  had  any 
dinner  yet ;  we  are  dying  of  hunger ;  have  you  anything  to 
give  us  for  supper?" 

What  happened  that  night  must  have  happened  too  often  for 
Madame  Mechinet  to  be  caught  unprepared. 

"In  five  minutes  you  gentlemen  will  be  served,"  she  an- 
swered with  the  most  amiable  smile. 

In  fact,  a  moment  afterward  we  sat  down  at  table  before  a 
fine  cut  of  cold  beef,  served  by  Madame  Mechinet,  who  did  not 
stop  filling  our  glasses  with  excellent  Macon  wine. 

And  while  my  worthy  neighbor  was  conscientiously  plying 
his  fork  I,  looking  at  that  peaceable  home,  which  was  his, 
that  pretty,  attentive  little  wife,  which  was  his,  kept  asking 
myself  whether  I  really  saw  oefore  me  one  of  those  "savage" 
police  agents  who  have  been  the  heroes  of  so  many  absurd 
stories. 

However,  hunger  soon  satisfied,  M.  Mechinet  started  to  tell 
his  wife  about  our  expedition.  And  he  did  not  tell  her  about 
it  lightly,  but  with  the  most  minute  details.  She  had  taken  a 
seat  beside  him,  and  by  the  way  she  listened  and  looked  under- 
standing^, asking  for  explanations  when  she  had  not  well 
understood,  one  could  recognize  in  her  a  plain  "Egeria,"  accus- 
tomed to  be  consulted,  and  having  a  deliberative  vote. 

When  M.  Mechinet  had  finished,  she  said  to  him : 

"You  have  made  a  great  mistake,  an  irreparable  mistake." 

"Where?" 

"It  is  not  to  Police  Headquarters  you  should  have  gon«, 
abandoning  Batignolles." 

"But  Monistrol?" 


THE  LITTLE  OLD  MAN   OF  BATIGNOLLES   1279 

"Yes,  you  wanted  to  examine  him.  What  advantage  did  you 
get  from  that?" 

"It  was  of  use  to  me,  my  dear  friend." 

"For  nothing.  It  was  to  the  Rue  Vivienne  that  you  should 
have  hurried,  to  the  wife.  You  would  have  surprised  her  in 
a  natural  agitation  caused  by  her  husband's  arrest,  and  if  she  is 
his  accomplice,  as  we  must  suppose,  with  a  little  skill  you 
would  have  made  her  confess." 

At  these  words  I  jumped  from  my  chair. 

"What !  madame,"  I  exclaimed,  "do  you  believe  Monistrol 
guilty?" 

After  a  moment's  hesitation,  she  answered: 

"Yes." 

Then  she  added  very  vivaciously: 

"But  I  am  sure,  do  you  hear,  absolutely  sure,  that  the  mur- 
der was  conceived  by  the  woman.  Of  twenty  crimes  com- 
mitted by  men,  fifteen  have  been  conceived,  planned  and  in- 
spired by  woman.  Ask  Mechinet.  The  concierge's  deposition 
ought  to  have  enlightened  you.  Who  is  that  Madame  Moni- 
strol ?  They  told  you  a  remarkably  beautiful  person,  coquettish, 
ambitious,  affected  with  covetousness,  and  who  was  leading  her 
husband  by  the  end  of  his  nose.  Now  what  was  her  position? 
Wretched,  tight,  precarious.  She  suffered  from  it,  and  the 
proof  of  it  is  that  she  asked  her  uncle  to  loan  her  husband  a 
hundred  thousand  francs.  He  refused  them  to  her,  thus  shat- 
tering her  hopes.  Do  you  not  think  she  had  a  deadly  grudge 
against  him  ?  And  when  she  kept  seeing  him  in  good  health  and 
sturdy  as  an  oak,  she  must  have  said  to  herself  fatally:  'He 
will  live  a  hundred  years ;  by  the  time  he  leaves  us  his  inheri- 
tance we  won't  have  any  teeth  left  to  munch  it,  and  who  knows 
even  whether  he  will  not  bury  us!'  Is  it  so  very  far  from  this 
point  to  the  conception  of  a  crime?  And  the  resolution  once 
taken  in  her  mind,  she  must  have  prepared  her  husband  a  long 
time  before,  she  must  have  accustomed  him  to  the  thought  of 
murder,  she  must  have  put,  so  to  say,  the  knife  in  his  hand. 
And  he,  one  day,  threatened  with  bankruptcy,  crazed  by  his 
wife's  lamentations,  delivered  the  blow." 

"All  that  is  logical,"  approved  M.  Mechinet,  "very  logical, 
without  a  doubt,  but  what  becomes  of  the  circumstances  brought 
to  light  by  us?" 

"Then,  madame,"  I  said,  "you  believe  Monistrol  stupid  enough 
to  denounce  himself  by  writing  down  his  name  ?" 


1280   THE  LITTLE  OLD  MAN  OF  BATIGNOLLES 

She  slightly  shrugged  her  shoulders  and  answered: 

"Is  thai  stupidity?  As  for  me,  I  maintain  that  it  is  not.  Is 
not  that  point  your  strongest  argument  in  favor  of  his  inno- 
cence?" 

This  reasoning  was  so  specious  that  for  a  moment  I  remained 
perplexed.     Then  recovering,  I  said,  insisting: 

"But  he  confesses  his  guilt,  madame?" 

"An  excellent  method  of  his  for  getting  the  authorities  to 
prove  him  innocent." 

"Oh!" 

"You  yourself  are  proof  of  its  efficacy,  dear  M.  Godeuil." 

"Eh !  madame,  the  unfortunate  does  not  even  know  how  his 
uncle  was  killed !" 

"I  beg  your  pardon ;  he  seemed  not  to  know  it,  which  is  not 
the  same  thing." 

The  discussion  was  becoming  animated,  and  would  have 
lasted  much  longer,  had  not  M.  Mechinet  put  an  end  to  it. 

"Come,  come,"  he  simply  said  to  his  wife,  "you  are  too  roman- 
tic this  evening." 

And  addressing  me,  he  continued: 

"As  for  you,  I  shall  come  and  get  you  to-morrow,  and  we 
shall  go  together  to  call  on  Madame  Monistrol.  And  now,  as 
I  am  dying  for  sleep,  good  night." 

He  may  have  slept.     As  for  me,  I  could  not  close  my  eyes. 

A  secret  voice  within  me  seemed  to  say  that  Monistrol  was 
innocent. 

My  imagination  painted  with  painful  liveliness  the  tortures 
of  that  unfortunate  man,  alone  in  his  prison  cell. 

But  why  had  he  confessed? 


TX7"HAT  I   then  lacked — I   have  had  occasion  to  realize  it 
hundreds  of  times  since — was  experience,  business  prac- 
tise, and  chiefly  an  exact  knowledge  of  the  means  of  action 
and  of  police  investigation. 

I   felt   vaguely   that  this   particular   investigation   had  been 


THE  LITTLE  OLD  MAN  OF  BATIGNOLLES   1281 

conducted  wrongly,  or  rather  superficially,  but  I  would  have 
been  embarrassed  to  say  why,  and  especially  to  say  what  should 
have  been  done. 

None  the  less  I  was  passionately  interested  in  Monistrol. 

It  seemed  to  me  that  his  cause  was  also  mine,  and  it  was 
only  natural — my  young  vanity  was  at  stake.  Was  it  not  one 
of  my  own  remarks  that  had  raised  the  first  doubts  as  to  the 
guilt  of  this  unfortunate  man? 

I  owed  it  to  myself,  I  said,  to  prove  his  innocence. 

Unfortunately  the  discussions  of  the  evening  troubled  me  to 
such  an  extent  that  I  did  not  know  precisely  on  which  fact 
to  build  up  my  system. 

And,  as  always  happens  when  the  mind  is  for  too  long  a 
time  applied  to  tb>  solution  of  a  problem,  my  thoughts  became 
tangled,  like  a  skein  in  the  hands  of  a  child;  I  could  no  longer 
see  clearly;  it  was  chaos. 

Buried  in  my  armchair,  I  was  torturing  my  brain,  when,  at 
about  nine  o'clock  in  the  morning,  M.  Mechinet,  faithful  to  his 
promise  of  the  evening  before,  came  for  me. 

"Come,  let  us  go,"  he  said,  shaking  me  suddenly,  for  I  had 
not  heard  him  enter.     "Let  us  start!" 

"I  am  with  you,"  I  said,  getting  up. 

We  descended  hurriedly,  and  I  noticed  then  that  my  worthy 
neighbor  was  more  carefully  dressed  than  usual. 

He  had  succeeded  in  giving  himself  that  easy  and  well-to-do 
appearance  which  more  than  anything  else  impresses  the  Paris- 
ian shopkeeper. 

His  cheerfulness  was  that  of  a  man  sure  of  himself,  march- 
ing toward  certain  victory. 

We  were  soon  in  the  street,  and  while  walking  he  asked 
me: 

"Well,  what  do  you  think  of  my  wife?  I  pass  for  a  clever 
man  at  police  headquarters,  and  yet  I  consult  her — even  Mo- 
liere  consulted  his  maid — and  often  I  find  it  to  my  advantage. 
She  has  one  weakness :  for  her,  unreasonable  crimes  do  not  ex- 
ist, and  her  imagination  endows  all  scoundrels  with  diabolical 
plots.  But  as  I  have  exactly  the  opposite  fault,  as  I  perhaps 
am  a  little  too  much  matter-of-fact,  it  rarely  happens  that  from 
our  consultation  the  truth  does  not  result  somehow." 

"What !"  I  exclaimed,  "you  think  to  have  solved  the  mystery 
of  fhe  Monistrol  case !" 

He  stopped  short,  drew  out  his  snuff-box,  inhaled  three  or 


1282   THE  LITTLE  OLD  MAN  OF  BATIGNOLLES 

four  of  his  imaginary  pinches,  and  in  a  tone  of  quiet  vanity, 
answered : 

"I  have  at  least  the  means  of  solving  it." 

In  the  mean  time  we  reached  the  upper  end  of  the  Rue 
Vivienne,  not  far  from  Monistrol's  business  place. 

"Now  look  out,"  said  M.  Mechinet  to  me.  "Follow  me,  and 
whatever  happens  do  not  be  surprised." 

He  did  well  to  warn  me.  Without  the  warning  I  would  have 
been  surprised  at  seeing  him  suddenly  enter  the  store  of  an 
umbrella  dealer. 

Stiff  and  grave,  like  an  Englishman,  he  made  them  show  him 
everything  there  was  in  the  shop,  found  nothing  suitable,  and 
finally  inquired  whether  it  was  not  possible  for  them  to  manu- 
facture for  him  an  umbrella  according  to  a  model  which  he 
would  furnish. 

They  answered  that  it  would  be  the  easiest  thing  in  the 
world,  and  he  left,  saying  he  would  return  the  day  following. 

And  most  assuredly  the  half  hour  he  spent  in  this  store  was 
not  wasted. 

While  examining  the  objects  submitted  to  him,  he  had  art- 
fully drawn  from  the  dealers  all  they  knew  about  the  Moni- 
strol  couple. 

Upon  the  whole,  it  was  not  a  difficult  task,  as  the  affair 
of  the  "little  old  man  of  Batignolles"  and  the  arrest  of  the 
imitation  jeweler  had  deeply  stirred  the  district  and  were  the 
subject  of  all  conversation. 

"There,  you  see,"  he  said  to  me,  when  we  were  outside,  "how 
exact  information  is  obtained.  As  soon  as  the  people  know 
with  whom  they  are  dealing,  they  pose,  make  long  phrases, 
and  then  good-by  to  strict  truth." 

This  comedy  was  repeated  by  Mr.  Mechinet  in  seven  or  eight 
stores  of  the  neighborhood. 

In  one  of  them,  where  the  proprietors  were  disagreeable  and 
not  much  inclined  to  talk,  he  even  made  a  purchase  amounting 
to  twenty  francs. 

But  after  two  hours  of  such  practise,  which  amused  me  very 
much,  we  had  gaged  public  opinion.  We  knew  exactly  what 
was  thought  of  M.  and  Mme.  Monistrol  in  the  neighborhood, 
where  they  had  lived  since  their  marriage,  that  is,  for  the 
past  four  years. 

As  regards  the  husband,  there  was  but  one  opinion — he 
was  the  most  gentle  and  best  of  men,  obliging,  honest,  intelligent, 


THE  LITTLE  OLD  MAN  OF  BATIGNOLLES    1283 

and  hardworking.  If  he  had  not  made  a  success  in  his  business 
it  was  because  luck  does  not  always  favor  those  who  most 
deserve  it.  He  did  wrong  in  taking  a  shop  doomed  to  bank- 
ruptcy, for,  in  the  past  fifteen  years,  four  merchants  had  failed 
there. 

Everybody  knew  and  said  that  he  adored  his  wife,  but  this 
great  love  had  not  exceeded  the  proper  limits,  and  therefore 
no  ridicule  resulted  for  him. 

Nobody  could  believe  in  his  guilt. 

His  arrest,  they  said,  must  be  a  mistake  made  by  the  police. 

As  to  Madame  Monistrol,  opinion  was  divided. 

Some  thought  she  was  too  stylish  for  her  means;  others 
claimed  that  a  stylish  dress  was  one  of  the  requirements,  one 
of  the  necessities,  of  a  business  dealing  in  luxuries. 

In  general,  they  were  convinced  that  she  loved  her  husband 
very  much.  For  instance,  they  were  unanimous  in  praising 
her  modesty,  the  more  meritorious,  because  she  was  remark- 
ably beautiful,  and  because  she  was  besieged  by  many  admirers. 
But  never  had  she  given  any  occasion  to  be  talked  about,  never 
had  her  immaculate  reputation  been  glanced  at  by  the  lightest 
suspicion. 

I  noticed  that  this  especially  bewildered  M.  Mechinet. 

"It  is  surprising,"  he  said  to  me,  "not  one  scandal,  not 
one  slander,  not  one  calumny.  Oh !  this  is  not  what  Caroline 
thought.  According  to  her,  we  were  to  find  one  of  those  lady 
shopkeepers,  who  occupy  the  principal  place  in  the  office,  who 
display  their  beauty  much  more  than  their  merchandise,  and 
who  banish  to  the  back  shop  their  husband — a  blind  idiot,  or 
an  indecent  obliging  scoundrel.     But  not  at  all." 

I  did  not  answer;  I  was  not  less  disconcerted  than  my 
neighbor. 

We  were  now  far  from  the  evidence  the  concierge  of  the  Rue 
le  Cluse  had  given;  so  greatly  varies  the  point  of  view  accord- 
ing to  the  location.  What  at  Batignolles  is  considered  to  be  a 
blamable  coquetry,  is  in  the  Rue  Vivienne  nothing  more 
than  an  unreasonable   requirement  of  position. 

But  we  had  already  employed  too  much  time  for  our  in- 
vestigations to  stop  and  exchange  impressions  and  to  discuss 
our  conjectures. 

"Now,"  said  M.  Mechinet.  "before  entering  the  place,  let 
us   study   its   approaches." 

And  trained  in  carrying  out  discreet  investigations  in  the 


1284   THE  LITTLE  OLD  MAN  OF  BATIGNOLLES 

midst  of  Paris  bustle,  he  motioned  to  me  to  follow  him  under 
a  carriage  entrance,  exactly  opposite  Monistrol's  store. 

It  was  a  modest  shop,  almost  poor,  compared  with  those 
around  it.  The  front  needed  badly  a  painter's  brush.  Above, 
in  letters  which  were  formerly  gilt,  now  smoky  and  blackened, 
Monistrol's  name  was  displayed.  On  the  plate-glass  windows 
could  be  read:  "Gold  and  Imitation." 

Alas!  it  was  principally  imitation  that  was  glistening  in  the 
show  window.  On  the  rods  were  hanging  many  plated  chains, 
sets  of  jet  jewelry,  diadems  studded  with  rhinestones,  then 
imitation  coral  necklaces  and  brooches  and  rings;  and  cuff 
buttons  set  with  imitation  stones  in  all  colors. 

All  in  all,  a  poor  display,  it  could  never  tempt  gimlet  thieves. 

"Let  us  enter,"  I  said  to  M.  Mechinet. 

He  was  less  impatient  than  I,  or  knew  better  how  to  keep 
back  his  impatience,  for  he  stopped  me  by  the  arm,  saying: 

"One  moment.  I  should  like  at  least  to  catch  a  glimpse  of 
Madame  Monistrol." 

In  vain  did  we  continue  to  stand  for  more  than  twenty 
minutes  on  our  observation  post;  the  shop  remained  empty, 
Madame  Monistrol  did  not  appear. 

"Come,  Monsieur  Godeuil,  let  us  venture,"  exclaimed  my 
worthy  neighbor  at  last,  "we  have  been  standing  in  one  place 
long  enough." 


|  N  order  to  reach  Monistrol's  store  we  had  only  to  cross  the 
street. 

At  the  noise  of  the  door  opening,  a  little  servant  girl,  from 
fifteen  to  sixteen  years  old,  dirty  and  ill  combed,  came  out  of 
the  back  shop. 

"What  can  I  serve  the  gentlemen  with?"  she  asked. 

"Madame  Monistrol?" 

"She  is  there,  gentlemen;  I  am  going  to  notify  her,  because 
you  see — " 

M.  Mechinet  did  not  give  her  time  to  finish.    With  a  move- 


THE  LITTLE  OLD  MAN  OF  BATIGNOLLES   1285 

ment,  rather  brutal,  I  must  confess,  he  pushed  her  out  of  the 
way  and  entered  the  back  shop  saying: 

"All  right,  since  she  is  there,  I  am  going  to  speak  to  her." 

As  for  me,  I  walked  on  the  heels  of  my  worthy  neighbor, 
convinced  that  we  would  not  leave  without  knowing  the  solution 
of  the  riddle. 

That  back  shop  was  a  miserable  room,  serving  at  the  same 
time  as  parlor,  dining-room,  and  bedroom.  Disorder  reigned 
supreme ;  moreover  there  was  that  incoherence  we  notice  in 
the  house  of  the  poor  who  endeavor  to  appear  rich. 

In  the  back  there  was  a  bed  with  blue  damask  curtains  and 
with  pillows  adorned  with  lace ;  in  front  of  the  mantelpiece 
stood  a  table  all  covered  with  the  remains  of  a  more  than  modest 
breakfast. 

In  a  large  armchair  was  seated,  or  rather  lying,  a  very  blond 
young  woman,  who  was  holding  in  her  hand  a  sheet  of  stamped 
paper. 

It  was  Madame  Monistrol. 

Surely  in  telling  us  of  her  beauty,  all  the  neighbors  had 
come  far  below  the  reality.     I  was  dazzled. 

Only  one  circumstance  displeased  me.  She  was  in  full  mourn- 
ing, and  wore  a  crape  dress,  slightly  decollete,  which  fitted  her 
marvelously. 

This  showed  too  much  presence  of  mind  for  so  great  a  sor- 
row. Her  attire  seemed  to  me  to  be  the  contrivance  of  an 
actress  dressing  herself  for  the  role  she  is  to  play. 

As  we  entered,  she  stood  up,  like  a  frightened  doe,  and 
with  a  voice  which  seemed  to  be  broken  by  tears,  she  asked: 

"What  do  you  want,  gentlemen?" 

M.  Mechinet  had  also  observed  what  I  had  noticed. 

"Madame,"  he  answered  roughly,  "I  was  sent  by  the  Court; 
I  am  a  police  agent." 

Hearing  this,  she  fell  back  into  her  armchair  with  a  moan 
that  would  have  touched  a  tiger. 

Then,  all  at  once,  seized  by  some  kind  of  enthusiasm,  with 
sparkling  eyes  and  trembling  lips,  she  exclaimed: 

"So  you  have  come  to  arrest  me.  God  bless  you.  See !  I  am 
ready,  take  me.  Thus  I  shall  rejoin  that  honest  man,  arrested 
by  you  last  evening.  Whatever  be  his  fate,  I  want  to  share  it. 
He  is  as  innocent  as  I  am.  No  matter !  If  he  is  to  be  the 
victim  of  an  error  of  human  justice,  it  shall  be  for  me  a  la*t 
joy  to  die  with  him." 


1286   THE  LITTLE  OLD  MAN  OF  BATIGNOLLES 

She  was  interrupted  by  a  low  growl  coming  from  one  of  the 
corners  of  the  back  shop. 

I  looked,  and  saw  a  black  dog,  with  bristling  hair  and  blood- 
shot eyes,  showing  his  teeth,  and  ready  to  jump  on  us. 

"Be  quiet,  Pluton !"  called  Madame  Monistrol ;  "go  and  lie 
down ;  these  gentlemen  do  not  want  to  hurt  me." 

Slowly  and  without  ceasing  to  glare  at  us  furiously,  the  dog 
took  refuge  under  the  bed. 

"You  are  right  to  say  that  we  do  not  want  to  hurt  you,  ma- 
dame,"  continued  M.  Mechinet,  "we  did  not  come  to  arrest  you." 

If  she  heard,  she  did  not  show  it. 

"This  morning  already,"  she  said,  "I  received  this  paper  here, 
commanding  me  to  appear  later  in  the  day,  at  three  o'clock,  at 
the  court-house,  in  the  office  of  the  investigating  judge.  What 
do  they  want  of  me  ?  my  God !     What  do  they  want  of  me  ?" 

"To  obtain  explanations  which  will  prove,  I  hope,  your  hus- 
band's innocence.  So,  madame,  do  not  consider  me  an  enemy. 
What  I  want  is  to  get  at  the  truth." 

He  produced  his  snuff-box,  hastily  poked  his  fingers  therein, 
and  in  a  solemn  tone,  which  I  did  not  recognize  in  him,  he 
resumed : 

"It  is  to  tell  you,  madame,  of  what  importance  will  be  your 
answers  to  the  questions  which  I  shall  have  the  honor  of  ask- 
ing you.    Will  it  be  convenient  for  you  to  answer  me  frankly  ?" 

For  a  long  time  she  rested  her  large  blue  eyes,  drowned  in 
tears,  on  my  worthy  neighbor,  and  in  a  tone  of  painful  resig- 
nation she  said: 

"Question  me,  monsieur." 

For  the  third  time  I  repeat  it,  I  was  absolutely  without  ex- 
perience ;  I  was  troubled  over  the  manner  in  which  M.  Mechinet 
had  begun  this  examination. 

It  seemed  to  me  that  he  betrayed  his  perplexity,  and  that, 
instead  of  pursuing  an  aim  established  in  advance,  he  was  deliv- 
ering his  blows  at  random. 

Ah !  if  I  were  allowed  to  act !    Ah !  if  I  had  dared. 

He,  impenetrable,  had  seated  himself  opposite  Madame 
Monistrol. 

"You  must  know,  madame,"  he  began,  "that  it  was  the  night 
before  last,  at  eleven  o'clock,  that  M.  Pigoreau,  called  Antenor, 
vour  husband's  uncle,  was  murdered." 

"Alas !" 

"Where  was  M.  Monistrol  at  that  hour?" 


THE  LITTLE  OLD  MAN  OF  BATIGNOLLES    1287 

"My  God !  that  is  fatality." 

M.  Mechinet  did  not  wince. 

"I  am  asking  you,  madame,"  he  insisted,  "where  your  hus- 
band spent  the  evening  of  the  day  before  yesterday?" 

The  young  woman  needed  time  to  answer,  because  she  sobbed 
so  that  it  seemed  to  choke  her.  Finally  mastering  herself,  she 
moaned : 

"The  day  before  yesterday  my  husband  spent  the  evening  out 
of  the  house." 

"Do  you  know  where  he  was?" 

"Oh !  as  to  that,  yes.  One  of  our  workmen,  who  lives  in 
Montrouge,  had  to  deliver  for  us  a  set  of  false  pearls,  and  did 
not  deliver  it.  We  were  taking  the  risk  of  being  obliged  to 
keep  the  order  on  our  account,  which  would  have  been  a  dis- 
aster, as  we  are  not  rich.  That  is  why,  at  dinner,  my  husband 
told  me :  'I  am  going  to  see  that  fellow.'  And,  in  fact,  toward 
nine  o'clock,  he  went  out,  and  I  even  went  with  him  as  far  as 
the  omnibus,  where  he  got  in  in  my  presence,  Rue  Richelieu." 

I  was  breathing  more  easily.  This,  perhaps,  was  an  alibi 
after  all. 

M.  Mechinet  had  the  same  thought,  and,  more  gently,  he 
resumed : 

"If  it  is  so,  your  workman  will  be  able  to  affirm  that  he  saw 
M.  Monistrol  at  his  house  at  eleven  o'clock." 

"Alas !  no." 

"How?    Why?" 

"Because  he  had  gone  out.    My  husband  did  not  see  him." 

"That  is  indeed  fatal.  But  it  may  be  that  the  concierge 
noticed  M.  Monistrol." 

"Our  workman  lives  in  a  house  where  there  is  no  concierge." 

That  may  have  been  the  truth;  it  was  certainly  a  terrible 
charge  against  the  unfortunate  prisoner. 

"And  at  what  time  did  your  husband  return?"  continued 
M.  Mechinet. 

"A  little  after  midnight." 

"Did  you  not  find  that  he  was  absent  a  very  long  time?" 

"Oh !  yes.  And  I  even  reproved  him  for  it.  He  told  me  as 
an  excuse  that  he  had  taken  the  longest  way,  that  he  had  saun- 
tered on  the  road,  and  that  he  had  stopped  in  a  cafe  to  drink 
a  glass  of  beer." 

"How  did  he  look  when  he  came  home?" 

"It  seemed  to  me  that  he  was  vexed;  but  that  was  natural." 


1288  THE  LITTLE  OLD  MAN  OF  BATIGNOLLES 

"What  clothes  did  he  wear?" 

"The  same  he  had  on  when  he  was  arrested." 

"You  did  not  observe  in  him  anything  out  of  the  ordinary?" 

"Nothing." 

Standing  a  little  behind  M.  Mechinet,  I  could,  at  my  leisure, 
observe  Madame  Monistrol's  face  and  catch  the  most  fleeting 
signs  of  her  emotion. 

She  seemed  overwhelmed  by  an  immense  grief,  large  tears 
rolled  down  her  pale  cheeks;  nevertheless,  it  seemed  to  me  at 
times  that  I  could  discover  in  the  depth  of  her  large  blue  eyes 
something  like  a  flash  of  joy. 

Is  it  possible  that  she  is  guilty?  And  as  this  thought,  which 
had  already  come  to  me  before,  presented  itself  more  obstinately, 
I  quickly  stepped  forward,  and  in  a  rough  tone  asked  her: 

"But  you,  madame,  where  were  you  on  that  fatal  evening  at 
the  time  your  husband  went  uselessly  to  Montrouge,  to  look  for 
his  workman?" 

She  cast  on  me  a  long  look,  full  of  stupor,  and  softly 
answered : 

"I  was  here,  monsieur;  witnesses  will  confirm  it  to  you." 

"Witnesses !" 

"Yes,  monsieur.  It  was  so  hot  that  evening  that  I  had  a 
longing  for  ice-cream,  but  it  vexed  me  to  eat  it  alone.  So  I 
sent  my  maid  to  invite  my  neighbors,  Madame  Dorstrich,  the 
bootmaker's  wife,  whose  store  is  next  to  ours,  and  Madame 
Rivaille,  the  glove  manufacturer,  opposite  us.  These  two  ladies 
accepted  my  invitation  and  remained  here  until  half-past  eleven. 
Ask  them,  they  will  tell  you.  In  the  midst  of  such  cruel  trials 
that  I  am  suffering,  this  accidental  circumstance  is  a  blessing 
from  God." 

Was  it  really  an  accidental  circumstance? 

That  is  what  we  were  asking  ourselves,  M.  Mechinet  and  I, 
with  glances  more  rapid  than  a  flash. 

When  chance  is  so  intelligent  as  that,  when  it  serves  a  cause 
so  directly,  it  is  very  hard  not  to  suspect  that  it  had  been  some- 
what prepared  and  led  on. 

But  the  moment  was  badly  chosen  for  this  discovery  of  our 
bottom  thoughts. 

"You  have  never  been  suspected,  you,  madame,"  imprudently 
stated  M.  Mechinet.  "The  worst  that  may  be  supposed  is  that 
your  husband  perhaps  told  you  something  of  the  crime  before 
he  committed  it." 


THE  LITTLE  OLD  MAN  OF  BATIGNOLLES   1289 

"Monsieur — if  you  knew  us." 

"Wait.  Your  business  is  not  going  very  well,  we  were  told; 
you  were  embarrassed." 

"Momentarily,  yes;  in  fact — " 

"Your  husband  must  have  been  unhappy  and  worried  about 
this  precarious  conditior  He  must  have  suffered  especially  for 
you,  whom  he  adores;  for  you  who  are  so  young  and  beautiful; 
for  you,  more  than  for  himself,  he  must  have  ardently  desired 
the  enjoyments  of  luxury  and  the  satisfactions  of  self-esteem, 
procured  by  wealth." 

"Monsieur,  I  repeat  it,  my  husband  is  innocent." 
With  an  air  of  reflection,  M.  Mechinet  seemed  to  fill  his  nose 
with  tobacco ;  then  all  at  once  he  said : 

"Then,  by  thunder!  how  do  you  explain  his  confessions?  An 
innocent  man  does  not  declare  himself  to  be  guilty  at  the  mere 
mentioning  of  the  crime  of  which  he  is  suspected;  that  is  rare, 
madame;  that  is  prodigious!" 

A  fugitive  blush  appeared  on  the  cheeks  of  the  young  woman. 
Up  to  then  her  look  had  been  straight  and  clear;  now  for  the 
first  time  it  became  troubled  and  unsteady 

"I  suppose,"  she  answered  in  an  indistinct  voice  and  with 
increased  tears,  "I  believe  that  my  husband,  seized  by  fright  and 
stupor  at  finding  himself  accused  of  so  great  a  crime,  lost  his 
head." 

M.  Mechinet  shook  his  head. 

"If  absolutely  necessary,"  he  said,  "a  passing  delirium  might 
be  admitted ;  but  this  morning,  after  a  whole  long  night  of 
reflection.  M.  Monistrol  persists  in  his  first  confessions." 

Was  this  true?  Was  my  worthy  neighbor  talking  at  random, 
or  else  had  he  before  coming  to  get  me  been  at  the  prison  to 
get  news? 

However  it  was,  the  young  woman  seemed  almost  to  faint; 
hiding  her  head  between  her  hands,  she  murmured : 
"Lord  God !  My  poor  husband  has  become  insane." 
Convinced  now  that  I  was  assisting  at  a  comedy,  and  that  the 
great  despair  of  this  young  woman  was  nothing  but  falsehood, 
I  was  asking  myself  whether  for  certain  reasons  which  were 
escaping  me  she  had  not  shaped  the  terrible  determination 
taken  by  her  husband ;  and  whether,  he  being  innocent,  she  did 
not  know  the  real  guilty  one. 

But  M.  Mechinet  did  not  have  the  air  of  a  man  looking  so 
far  ahead. 


1290  THE  LITTLE  OLD  MAN  OF  BATIGNOLLES 

After  having  given  the  young  woman  a  few  words  of  consola- 
tion too  common  to  compromise  him  in  any  way,  he  gave  her 
to  understand  that  she  would  forestall  many  prejudices  by  allow- 
ing a  minute  and  strict  search  through  her  domicile. 

This  opening  she  seized  with  an  eagerness  which  was  not 
feigned. 

"Search,  gentlemen  !"  she  told  us ;  "examine,  search  every- 
where. It  is  a  service  which  you  will  render  me.  And  it  will 
not  take  long.  We  have  in  our  name  nothing  but  the  back- 
shop  where  we  are,  our  maid's  room  on  the  sixth  floor,  and  a 
little  cellar.    Here  are  the  keys  for  everything." 

To  my  great  surprise,  M.  Mechinet  accepted ;  he  seemed  to 
be  starting  on  one  of  the  most  exact  and  painstaking  inves- 
tigations. 

What  was  his  object?  It  was  not  possible  that  he  did  not 
have  in  view  some  secret  aim,  as  his  researches  evidently  had 
to  end  in  nothing. 

As  soon  as  he  had  apparently  finished  he  said : 

"There  remains  the  cellar  to  be  explored." 

"I  am  going  to  take  you  down,  monsieur,"  said  Madame 
Monistrol. 

And  immediately  taking  a  burning  candle,  she  made  us  cross 
a  yard  into  which  a  door  led  from  the  back-shop,  and  took  us 
across  a  very  slippery  stairway  to  a  door  which  she  opened, 
saying : 

"Here  it  is — enter,  gentlemen." 

I  began  to  understand. 

My  worthy  neighbor  examined  the  cellar  with  a  ready  and 
trained  look.  It  was  miserably  kept,  and  more  miserably  fitted 
out.  In  one  corner  was  standing  a  small  barrel  of  beer,  and 
immediately  opposite,  fastened  on  blocks,  was  a  barrel  of  wine, 
with  a  wooden  tap  to  draw  it.  On  the  right  side,  on  iron  rods, 
were  lined  up  about  fifty  filled  bottles.  These  bottles  M.  Mechi- 
net did  not  lose  sight  of,  and  found  occasion  to  move  them  one 
by  one. 

And  what  I  saw  he  noticed :  not  one  of  them  was  sealed  with 
green  wax. 

Thus  the  cork  picked  up  by  me,  and  which  served  to  protect 
the  point  of  the  murderer's  weapon,  did  not  come  from  the 
Monistrols'  cellar. 

"Decidedly,"  M.  Mechinet  said,  affecting  some  disappoint- 
ment, "I  do  not  find  anything;  we  can  go  up  again." 


THE  LITTLE  OLD  MAN  OF  BATIGNOLLES   1291 

We  did  so,  but  not  in  the  same  order  in  which  we  descended, 
for  in  returning  I  was  the  first. 

Thus  it  was  I  who  opened  the  door  of  the  back-shop.  Imme- 
diately the  dog  of  the  Monistrol  couple  sprang  at  me.  barking 
so  furiously  that  I  jumped  back. 

"The  devil !  Your  dog  is  vicious,"  M.  Mechinet  said  to  the 
young  woman. 

She  had  already  called  him  off  with  a  gesture  of  her  hand. 

"Certainly  not,  he  is  not  vicious,"  she  said,  "but  he  is  a 
good  watchdog.  We  are  jewelers,  exposed  more  than  other? 
to  thieves;  we  have  trained  him." 

Involuntarily,  as  one  always  does  after  having  been  threat- 
ened by  a  dog,  I  called  him  by  his  name,  which  I  knew : 

"Pluton!  Pluton!" 

But  instead  of  coming  near  me,  he  retreated  growling,  show- 
ing his  sharp  teeth. 

"Oh,  it  is  useless  for  you  to  call  him,"  thoughtlessly  said  Ma- 
dame Monistrol.    "He  will  not  obev  vou." 

"Indeed!    And  why?" 

"Ah !  because  he  is  faithful,  as  all  of  his  breed ;  he  know- 
only  his  master  and  me." 

This  sentence  apparently  did  not  mean  anything.  For  me  it 
was  like  a  flash  of  light.     And  without  reflecting  I  asked: 

"Where  then,  madame,  was  that  faithful  dog  the  evening  of 
the  crime?" 

The  effect  produced  on  her  by  this  direct  question  was  such 
that  she  almost  dropped  the  candlestick  she  was  still  holding. 

"I  do  not  know,"  she  stammered;  "I  do  not  remember." 

"Perhaps  he  followed  your  husband." 

"In  fact,  yes,  it  seems  to  me  now  I  remember." 

"He  must  then  have  been  trained  to  follow  carriages,  since 
you  told  us  that  you  went  with  your  husband  as  far  as  the 
Omnibus." 

She  remained  silent,  and  I  was  going  to  continue  when  M 
Mechinet  interrupted   me.     Far  from  taking  advantage  of  the 
young  woman's  troubled  condition,  he  seemed  to  assume   the 
task  of  reassuring  her,  and  after  having  urged  her  to  obey  the 
summons  of  the  investigating  judge,  he  led  me  out. 

Then  when  we  were  outside  he  said: 

"Are  you  losing  your  head?" 

The  reproach  hurt  me. 

"Is  it  losing  one's  head,"  I  said,  "to  find  the  solution  of  the 


1292   THE  LITTLE  OLD  MAN  OF  BATIGNOLLES 

problem?  Now  I  have  it,  that  solution.  Monistrol's  dog  shall 
guide  us  to  the  truth." 

My  hastiness  made  my  worthy  neighbor  smile,  and  in  a 
fatherly  tone  he  said  to  me: 

"You  are  right,  and  I  have  well  understood  you.  Only  if 
Madame  Monistrol  has  penetrated  into  your  suspicions,  the  dog 
before  this  evening  will  be  dead  or  will  have  disappeared." 


T  HAD  committed  an  enormous  imprudence,  it  was  true. 
•*■  Nevertheless,  I  had  found  the  weak  point ;  that  point  by 
which  the  most  solid  system  of  defense  may  be  broken  down. 

I,  voluntary  recruit,  had  seen  clearly  where  the  old  stager 
was  losing  himself,  groping  about.  Any  other  would,  perhaps, 
have  been  jealous  and  would  have  had  a  grudge  against  me. 
But  not  he. 

He  did  not  think  of  anything  else  but  of  profiting  by  my  for- 
tunate discovery;  and,  as  he  said,  everything  was  easy  enough 
now,  since  the  investigation  rested  on  a  positive  point  of 
departure. 

We  entered  a  neighboring  restaurant  to  deliberate  while 
lunching. 

The  problem,  which  an  hour  before  seemed  unsolvable,  now 
stood  as  follows : 

It  had  been  proved  to  us,  as  much  as  could  be  by  evidence, 
that  Monistrol  was  innocent.  Why  had  he  confessed  to  being 
guilty?  We  thought  we  could  guess  why,  but  that  was  not  the 
question  of  the  moment.  We  were  equally  certain  that  Madame 
Monistrol  had  not  budged  from  her  home  the  night  of  the 
murder.  But  everything  tended  to  show  that  she  was  morally 
an  accomplice  to  the  crime ;  that  she  had  known  of  it,  even  if 
she  did  not  advise  and  prepare  it,  and  that,  on  the  other  hand, 
she  knew  the  murderer  very  well. 

Who  was  he,  that  murderer? 

A  man  whom  Monistrol's  dog  obeyed  as  well  as  his  master, 
since  he  had  him  follow  him  when  he  went  to  the  Batignolles. 


THE  LITTLE  OLD  MAN  OF  BATIGNOLLES  1295 

Therefore,  it  was  an  intimate  friend  of  the  Monistrol  house- 
hold. He  must  have  hated  the  husband,  however,  since  he  had 
arranged  everything  with  an  infernal  skill,  so  that  the  sus- 
picion of  the  crime  should  fall  on  that  unfortunate. 

On  the  other  hand,  he  must  have  been  very  dear  to  the 
woman,  since,  .knowing  him,  she  did  not  give  him  up,  and 
without  hesitation  sacrificed  to  him  her  husband. 

Well! 

Oh !  my  God !  The  conclusion  was  all  in  a  definite  shape. 
The  murderer  could  only  be  a  miserable  hypocrite,  who  had 
taken  advantage  of  the  husband's  affection  and  confidence  to 
take  possession  of  the  wife. 

In  short,  Madame  Monistrol,  belieing  her  reputation,  certainly 
had  a  lover,  and  that  lover  necessarily  was  the  culprit. 

All  filled  by  this  certitude,  I  was  torturing  my  mind  to  think 
of  some  infallible  stratagem  which  would  lead  us  to  this  wretch. 

"And  this,"  I  said  to  M.  Mechinet,  "is  how  I  think  we  ought 
to  operate.  Madame  Monistrol  and  the  murderer  must  have 
agreed  that  after  the  crime  they  would  not  see  each  other  for 
some  time;  this  is  the  most  elementary  prudence.  But  you 
may  believe  that  it  will  not  be  long  before  impatience  will 
conquer  the  woman,  and  that  she  will  want  to  see  her  accom- 
plice. Now  place  near  her  an  observer  who  will  follow  her 
everywhere,  and  before  twice  forty-eight  hours  have  passed  the 
affair  will  be  settled." 

Furiously  fumbling  after  his  empty  snuff-box,  M.  Mechinet 
remained  a  moment  without  answering,  mumbling  between  his 
teeth  I  know  not  what  unintelligible  words. 

Then  suddenly,  leaning  toward  me,  he  said: 

"That  isn't  it.  You  have  the  professional  genius,  that  is 
certain,  but  it  is  practise  that  you  lack.  Fortunately,  I  am 
here.  What!  a  phrase  regarding  the  crime  puts  you  on  the 
trail,  and  you  do  not  follow  it." 

"How  is  that?" 

"That  faithful  dog  must  be  made  use  of." 

"I  do  not  quite  catch  on." 

"Then  know  how  to  wait.  Madame  Monistrol  will  go  out  at 
about  two  o'clock,  in  order  to  be  at  the  court-house  at  three; 
the  little  maid  will  be  alone  in  the  shop.  You  will  see.  I  only 
tell  you  that." 

I  insisted  in  vain;  he  did  not  want  to  say  anything  more, 
taking  revenge  for  his  defeat  by  this  innocent  spite.     Willing 


1294  THE  LITTLE  OLD  MAN  OF  BATIGNOLLES 

or  unwilling,  I  had  to  follow  him  to  the  nearest  cafe,  where 
he  forced  me  to  play  dominoes. 

Preoccupied  as  I  was,  I  played  badly,  and  he,  without  shame, 
was  taking  advantage  of  it  to  beat  me,  when  the  clock  struck 
two. 

"Up,  men  of  the  post,"  he  said  to  me,  letting  go  of  his  dice. 

He  paid,  we  went  out,  and  a  moment  later  we  were  again 
on  duty  under  the  carriage  entrance  from  which  we  had  before 
studied  the  front  of  the  Monistrol  store. 

We  had  not  been  there  ten  minutes,  when  Madame  Monistrol 
appeared  in  the  door  of  her  shop,  dressed  in  black,  with  a  long 
crape  veil,  like  a  widow. 

"A  pretty  dress  to  go  to  an  examination,"  mumbled  M. 
Mechinet. 

She  gave  a  few  instructions  to  her  little  maid,  and  soon  left. 

My  companion  patiently  waited  for  five  long  minutes,  and 
when  he  thought  the  young  woman  was  already  far  away,  he 
9aid  to  me : 

"It  is  time." 

And  for  the  second  time  we  entered  the  jewelry  store. 

The  little  maid  was  there  alone,  sitting  in  the  office,  for 
pastime  nibbling  some  pieces  of  sugar  stolen  from  her  mistress. 

As  soon  as  we  appeared  she  recognized  us,  and  reddening 
and  somewhat  frightened,  she  stood  up.  But  without  giving 
her  time  to  open  her  mouth,  M.  Mechinet  asked: 

"Where  is  Madame  Monistrol?" 

"Gone  out,  monsieur." 

"You  are  deceiving  me.     She  is  there  in  the  back  shop." 

"I  swear  to  you,  gentlemen,  that  she  is  not.    Look  in,  please." 

With  the  most  disappointed  looks,  M.  Mechinet  was  striking 
his  forehead,  repeating: 

"How  disagreeable.  My  God  !  how  distressed  that  poor  Ma- 
dame Monistrol  will  be."  And  as  the  little  maid  was  looking 
at  him  with  her  mouth  wide  open  and  with  big,  astonished 
eyes,  he  continued : 

"But,  in  fact,  you,  my  pretty  girl,  you  can  perhaps  take  the 
place  of  your  mistress.  I  came  back  because  I  lost  the  address 
of  the  gentleman  on  whom  she  asked  me  to  call." 

"What  gentleman?" 

"You  know.  Monsieur — well,  I  have  forgotten  his  name  now. 
Monsieur — upon  my  word !  you  know,  only  him — that  gentle- 
man whom  your  devilish  dog  obeys  so  well." 


THE  LITTLE  OLD  MAN  OF  BATIGNOLLES   1295 

"Oh!  M.  Victor?" 

"That's  just  it.    What  is  that  gentleman  doing?" 
"He  is  a  jeweler's  workman;  he  is  a  great  friend  of  mon- 
sieur;   they    were    working    together    when    monsieur    was    a 
jeweler's   workman,   before   becoming  proprietor,   and   that   is 
why  he  can  do  anything  he  wants  with  Pluton." 

"Then  you  can  tell  me  where  this  M.  Victor  resides?" 
"Certainly.     He  lives  in  the  Rue  du  Roi-Dore,  No.  23." 
She  seemed  so  happy,  the  poor  girl,  to  be  so  well  informed; 
but  as  for  me,  I  suffered  in  hearing  her  so  unwittingly  de- 
nounce her  mistress. 

M.  Mechinet,  more  hardened,  did  not  have  any  such  scruples. 
And  even  after  we  had  obtained  our  information,  he  ended 
the  scene  with  a  sad  joke. 

As  I  opened  the  door  for  us  to  go  out,  he  said  to  the  young 
girl: 

"Thanks  to  you.  You  have  just  rendered  a  great  service  to 
Madame  Monistrol,  and  she  will  be  very  pleased." 


AS  soon  as  I  was  on  the  sidewalk  I  had  but  one  thought: 
and  that  was  to  shake  out  our  legs  and  to  run  to  the  Rue 
idu  Roi-Dore  and  arrest  this  Victor,  evidently  the  real  culprit 

One  word  from  M.  Mechinet  fell  on  my  enthusiasm  like  a 
shower-bath. 

"And  the  court,"  he  said  to  me.  "Without  a  warrant  by  the 
investigating  judge  I  can  not  do  anything.  It  is  to  the  court- 
house that  we  must  run." 

"But  we  shall  meet  there  Madame  Monistrol,  and  if  she  sees 
us  she  will  have  her  accomplice  warned." 

"Be  it  so,"  answered  M.  Mechinet,  with  a  badly  disguised 
bitterness.  "Be  it  so,  the  culprit  will  escape  and  formality  will 
have  been  saved.  However,  I  shall  prevent  that  danger.  Let 
ns  walk,  let  us  walk  faster." 

And,  in  fact,  the  hope  of  success  gave  him  deer  legs.  Reach- 
ing the  court-house,  he  jumped,  four  steps  at  a  time,  up  the 

Gab. — Vol.  IV  Q 


1296  THE  LITTLE  OLD  MAN  OF  BATIGNOLLES 

steep  stairway  leading  to  the  floor  on  which  were  the  judges 
of  investigation,  and,  addressing  the  chief  bailiff,  he  inquired 
whether  the  magistrate  in  charge  of  the  case  of  the  "little  old 
man  of  Batignolles"  was  in  his  room. 

"He  is  there,"  answered  the  bailiff,  "with  a  witness,  a  young 
lady  in  black." 

"It  is  she!"  said  my  companion  to  me.  Then  to  the  bailiff: 
"You  know  me,"  he  continued.  "Quick,  give  me  something  to 
write  on,  a  few  words  which  you  will  take  to  the  judge." 

The  bailiff  went  off  with  the  note,  dragging  his  boots  along 
the  dusty  floor,  and  was  not  long  in  returning  with  the  an- 
nouncement that  the  judge  was  awaiting  us  in  No.  9. 

In  order  to  see  M.  Mechinet,  the  magistrate  had  left  Madame 
Monistrol  in  his  office,  under  his  clerk's  guard,  and  had  bor- 
rowed the  room  of  one  of  his  colleagues. 

"What  has  happened?"  he  asked  in  a  tone  which  enabled  me 
to  measure  the  abyss  separating  a  judge  from  a  poor  detective. 

Briefly  and  clearly  M.  Mechinet  described  the  steps  taken  by 
us,  their  results  and  our  hopes. 

Must  we  say  it  ?  The  magistrate  did  not  at  all  seem  to  share 
our  convictions. 

"But  since  Monistrol  confesses,"  he  repeated  with  an  obsti- 
nacy which  was  exasperating  to  me. 

However,  after  many  explanations,  he  said : 

"At  any  rate,  I  am  going  to  sign  a  warrant." 

The  valuable  paper  once  in  his  possession,  M.  Mechinet  es- 
caped so  quickly  that  I  nearly  fell  in  precipitating  myself  after 
him  down  the  stairs.  I  do  not  know  whether  it  took  us  a 
quarter  of  an  hour  to  reach  the  Rue  du  Roi-Dore.  But  once 
there :  "Attention,"  said  M.  Mechinet  to  me. 

And  it  was  with  the  most  composed  air  that  he  entered  in 
the  narrow  passageway  of  the  house  bearing  No.  23. 

"M.  Victor?"  he  asked  of  the  concierge. 

"On  the  fourth  floor,  the  right-hand  door  in  the  hallway." 

"Is  he  at  home?" 

"Yes." 

M.  Mechinet  took  a  step  toward  the  staircase,  but  seemed 
to  change  his  mind,  and  said  to  the  concierge: 

"I  must  make  a  present  of  a  good  bottle  of  wine  to  that 
dear  Victor.  With  which  wine-merchant  does  he  deal  in  this 
neighborhood  ?" 

"With  the  one  opposite." 


THE  LITTLE  OLD  MAN  OF  BATIGNOLLES   1297 

We  were  there  in  a  trice,  and  in  the  tone  of  a  customer 
M.  Mechinet  ordered: 

"One  bottle,  please,  and  of  good  wine — of  that  with  the  green 
seal." 

Ah !  upon  my  word !  That  thought  would  never  have  come 
to  me  at  that  time.    And  yet  it  was  very  simple. 

When  the  bottle  was  brought,  my  companion  exhibited  the 
cork  found  at  the  home  of  M.  Pigoreau,  called  Antenor,  and 
we  easily  identified  the  wax. 

To  our  moral  certainty  was  now  added  a  material  certainty, 
and  with  a  firm  hand  M.  Mechinet  knocked  at  Victor's  door. 

"Come  in,"  cried  a  pleasant-sounding  voice. 

The  key  was  in  the  door;  we  entered,  and  in  a  very  neat 
room  I  perceived  a  man  of  about  thirty,  slender,  pale,  and 
blond,  who  was  working  in  front  of  a  bench. 

Our  presence  did  not  seem  to  trouble  him. 

"What  do  you  want  ?"  he  politely  asked. 

M.  Mechinet  advanced  toward  him,  and,  taking  him  by  the 
arm,  said: 

"In  the  name  of  the  law,  I  arrest  you." 

The  man  became  livid,  but  did  not  lower  his  eyes. 

"Are  you  making  fun  of  me?"  he  said  with  an  insolent  air. 
"What  have  I  done?" 

M.  Mechinet  shrugged  his  shoulders. 

"Do  not  act  like  a  child,"  he  answered;  "your  account  is 
settled.  You  were  seen  coming  out  from  old  man  Antenor's 
home,  and  in  my  pocket  I  have  a  cork  which  you  made  use 
of  to  prevent  your  dagger  from  losing  its  point." 

It  was  like  a  blow  of  a  fist  in  the  neck  of  the  wretch.  Over- 
whelmed, he  dropped  on  his  chair,  stammering: 

"I  am  innocent." 

"You  will  tell  that  to  the  judge,"  said  M.  Mechinet  good- 
naturedly  ;  "but  I  am  afraid  that  he  will  not  believe  you.  Your 
accomplice,  the  Monistrol  woman,  has  confessed  everything." 

As  if  moved  by  a  spring,  Victor  jumped  up. 

"That  is  impossible !"  he  exclaimed.  "She  did  not  know  any- 
thing about  it." 

"Then  you  did  the  business  all  alone?  Very  well.  There  is 
at  least  that  much  confessed." 

Then  addressing  me  in  a  tone  of  a  man  knowing  what  he  is 
talking  about,  M.  Mechinet  continued: 

"Will  you  please  look  in  the  drawers,  my  dear   Monsieur 


1298  THE  LITTLE  OLD  MAN  OF  BATIGNOLLES 

Godeuil;  you  will  probably  find  there  the  dagger  of  this  pretty 
fellow,  and  certainly  also  the  love-letters  and  the  picture  of  his 
sweetheart." 

A  flash  of  rage  shone  in  the  murderer's  eyes,  and  he  was 
gnashing  his  teeth,  but  M.  Mechinet's  broad  shoulders  and  iron 
grip  extinguished  in  him  every  desire  for  resistance. 

I  found  in  a  drawer  of  the  bureau  all  the  articles  my  com- 
panion had  mentioned.  And  twenty  minutes  later,  Victor,  "duly 
packed  in,"  as  the  expression  goes,  in  a  cab,  between  M.  Me- 
chinet  and  myself,  was  driving  toward  Police  Headquarters. 

"What,"  I  said  to  myself,  astonished  by  the  simplicity  of  the 
thing,  "that  is  all  there  is  to  the  arrest  of  a  murderer;  of  a 
man  destined  for  the  scaffold !" 

Later  I  had  occasion  to  learn  at  my  expense  which  of  crim- 
inals is  the  most  terrible. 

This  one,  as  soon  as  he  found  himself  in  the  police  cell,  see- 
ing that  he  was  lost,  gave  up  and  told  us  all  the  details  of 
his  crime. 

He  knew  for  a  long  time,  he  said,  the  old  man  Pigoreau,  and 
was  known  by  him.  His  object  in  killing  him  was  principally 
to  cause  the  punishment  of  the  crime  to  fall  on  Monistrol.  That 
is  why  he  dressed  himself  up  like  Monistrol  and  had  Pluton 
follow  him.  The  old  man  once  murdered,  he  had  had  the  ter- 
rible courage  to  dip  in  the  blood  a  finger  of  the  body,  to  trace 
these  five  letters,  Monis,  which  almost  caused  an  innocent  man 
to  be  lost. 

"And  that  had  been  so  nicely  arranged,"  he  said  to  us  with 
cynic  bragging.  "If  I  had  succeeded,  I  would  have  killed  two 
birds  with  the  same  stone.  I  would  have  been  rid  of  my  friend 
Monistrol,  whom  I  hate  and  of  whom  I  am  jealous,  and  I  would 
have  enriched  the  woman  I  love." 

It  was,  in  fact,  simple  and  terrible. 

"Unfortunately,  my  boy,"  M.  Mechinet  objected,  "you  lost 
your  head  at  the  last  moment.  Well,  one  is  never  perfect.  It 
was  the  left  hand  of  the  body  which  you  dipped  in  the  blood." 

With  a  jump,  Victor  stood  up. 

"What!"  he  exclaimed,  "is  that  what  betrayed  me?" 

"Exactly." 

With  a  gesture  of  a  misunderstood  genius,  the  wretch  raised 
his  arm  toward  heaven. 

"That  is  for  being  an  artist,"  he  exclaimed. 

And  looking  us  over  with  an  air  of  pity,  he  added : 


THE  LITTLE  OLD  MAN  OF  BATIGNOLLES   1299 

"  Old  man  Pigoreau  was  left-handed  !  " 

Thus  it  was  due  to  a.  mistake  made  in  the  investigation  that 
the  culprit  was  discovered  so  promptly. 

The  day  following"  Monistrol  was  released. 

And  when  the  investigating  judge  reproached  him  for  his 
untrue  confession,  which  had  exposed  the  courts  to  a  terrible 
error,  he  could  not  obtain  any  other  answer  than  : 

"  I  love  my  wife,  and  wanted  to'sacrifice  myself  for  her.  I 
thought  she  was  guilty." 

Was  she  guilty?  I  would  have  taken  an  oath  on  it.  She  was 
arrested,  but  was  acquitted  by  the  same  judgment  which  sen- 
tenced Victor  to  forced  labor  for  life. 

M.  and  Mme.  Monistrol  to-day  keep  an  ill-reputed  wine- 
shop on  theVincennes  Road.  Their  uncle's  inheritance  has 
long  ago  disappeared  ;  they  live  in  terrible  misery. 


THE  END 


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